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Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. VIOLET
  3. VIOLET
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

I remember the dusty roads, lined with people walking barefoot, laden with packages and baggage. Skinny cows and goats weaving in and out of the traffic. Horns blaring in the blazing sun … and Michael, gripping on to the seat, shouting in my ear, telling me to slow down, to be careful. I was careful though, Michael, I wasn’t the one who got caught coming out of someone else’s room after an all-day, all-night party, fuelled by potent cocktails and too much coke. He thought I’d been asleep, but I’d woken in the night, mouth parched and head pounding – and I’d gone to the kitchen, hoping that the party-goers were long gone, and I could down some water in peace. Ignoring the mess of the place, knowing we’d lose the deposit on the small apartment that we’d rented together for the month. It had been a blissful month, for me, at least. I didn’t sense that Michael had grown bored of me … or perhaps he hadn’t – perhaps he was just another man, lured away by the siren’s call when his mind wasn’t working at its full capacity.

He didn’t know I’d seen him sneaking out of the bedroom and into the living room. I’d gone through at midday, after a few hours of fitful sleep, and I’d tried to act like everything was normal.

‘Man, that was some night,’ he’d said. ‘I must’ve passed out.’

Sure, he did. After spending a few hours with that whore, Melissa. The bikini-clad Aussie with the too-white teeth and the too-even tan, and the voice that cut right through me.

If I’d had the chance, it would’ve been Melissa who had the accident – but she took off as soon as she woke up that day and I never saw her again. I think about her sometimes – I hear a voice, or I see a flash of expensively highlighted hair, and I think it’s her, but it isn’t.

I saw someone I thought was her when we were on the motorbike that day. My head snapped around, watching her disappear into the crowd, and I lost control, just for a moment.

But then I righted myself, and it was all going to be OK, until Michael shouted into my ear, ‘Watch what you’re doing, you stupid fucking bitch.’