“Let me go then.”

“No.” Scott turned away so he didn’t have to look at the hurt on her face. “You’ve caused enough damage already.”

27

NATALIE

Scott’s father had been a high-ranking executive at an advertising agency. Scott would often brag about this, as though his dad’s achievements were his own. “You should’ve heard some of the bonuses he got, Nat.”

I hated when he spoke like this, as though money was all that mattered, especially because I knew what would follow… He’d start complaining about our lot, about how neither of us was particularly successful, and somehow it would all become my fault.

I think Scott’s upbringing had a lot to do with his ability to switch on the charm when he needed it. His father would host dinners twice or sometimes three times a week, inviting potential clients over to their large home, where Scott’s mother would put on a magnificent spread and they’d eat and drink until the early hours.

Scott was often summoned from bed as a mascot of sorts. Apparently he was good at impressions back then; he’d make the whole room erupt with laughter whenever he did an impression of one of the clients, or his dad, or anybody else they asked him to.

I often wish I could go back in time and warn them all. Don’t do this. Don’t teach him how to pretend. He’s going to become far too good at it.

He was good at making people like him. He’d analyse what kind of person they wanted him to be, then he’d simply become that person. With my dad he was respectful and sombre. At school he was professional and approachable.

Once, at my work Christmas party, Scott got talking to one of my colleagues about football. Scott never watches football. But suddenly he was enthusiastic about the sport, being vague enough so my colleague didn’t notice Scott wasn’t really saying anything.

As far as I know, he never let the mask slip with anybody else. Anybody apart from me.

I remember we were at dinner one evening and Scott started flirting with the waitress. He told her that I was his sister and started asking her about how she’d styled her hair so well, and the woman had smiled and bantered and I’d sat there, not giving a damn, honestly not caring. Let him cheat on me if he wanted; it wasn’t like I was innocent there.

Let him target somebody else, let him hurt somebody else.

A cruel thought, perhaps, wishing my hell on another person. But by then I was sick of him. This dinner was a few weeks before The Event, the turning point in our marriage, where his abuse escalated and became outright sadistic. That evening was the starting point; he was evolving into the monster who would make me wish I was dead.

As we were leaving the restaurant, he gripped my forearm. It was on the borderline at first. It could’ve been affection. But then his fingers got tighter, digging into my skin, until he was crushing my bone.