The door opened, and for the first time she saw where Fergus kept his keys. A length of sturdy chain was wrapped around his waist beneath his clothes, the keys no more than a few inches from the junction of the chain. If she disabled him, she would have to drag him and lift him up to use the keys in the lock.

Fuck, she thought. Bastard son of all the fucks she had never given before.

Fergus grinned and raised the bottle in one hand, and a pair of plastic cups in the other.

‘Found it!’ he announced needlessly. ‘You took your dress off. Why would you do that?’ Fergus stared at the crumpled heap on the floor.

‘I was just getting comfortable, like you said,’ she smiled. Her efforts felt feeble and poorly acted. ‘I wanted to hang it, but there’s nowhere in here to do that. Perhaps you could look after the dress for me … afterwards.’

Turning her face slightly sideways, she gave him a look from beneath her eyelashes. It was grotesque, the faux flattery of a man to make him think she wanted him when she was preparing to get him drunk then smash a bottle over his skull. But somehow, he was oblivious to the fact that her smile was a snarl, and that her soft words were the worst lines of dialogue ever constructed.

‘I’ll do that,’ he said, matching the soft tones of her voice with his own. ‘Afterwards.’

Sitting down next to her on the bed, he filled one of the plastic cups with a generous measure of whisky, keeping the other empty. He passed her the full cup.

‘Shall I pour yours, then?’ she offered sweetly.

‘Oh no, I don’t drink at all. I just wanted to be able to hold a glass so we could toast one another. I take too much medication to be able to drink alcohol. I’m afraid to say your husband isn’t in the best shape at the moment. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with that, though. So much about our physical self is in being fulfilled and happy. You know that, right, with all the yoga and Pilates you do? I really admire that about you. Being in touch with your body. Perhaps you can show me some exercises. It might help me.’

‘You don’t drink at all,’ Elspeth repeatedly slowly.

‘No. Too many painkillers in my system. You enjoy that, though. Don’t feel as if you shouldn’t drink just because I can’t.’

He kept the whisky bottle firmly in his hand and away from her reach. Elspeth stared into the depths of the full plastic cup. This was the decision, then. Fight him and maybe die. Or drink herself into a state of unconsciousness and live another day when he’d finished doing what he wanted to her. Her choice.