I dust the blusher on my cheeks and hope that it’s enough. I wash my hands in the sink, the residual foundation on the back of my hand running into the drain, then I inspect my face again as I dry my hands. I have my mask on again. My white privilege, my hundred-pound Christian Louboutin lipstick and Moschino dress, coupled with my white Blahnik shoes. Who wouldn’t want to be me?

I didn’t choose any of these things myself. I have a personal shopper who consults with R. She has a luxury boutique in the city and keeps a clothes rail just for me at the back. I can choose from that rail, but that’s hardly a choice at all. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the things I have; it’s just what comes with it. Most people would give anything to have everything that I have. At least they think they would.

I take several deep breaths with my eye on the clock – ten seconds of deep breathing before I go downstairs to meet R – we are going out. He likes to be seen out with me, likes people to know how much he has. I am nothing but a possession to him. He owns me.

I grab the gold hoop earrings he took out of the safe and told me to wear today. I head towards the stairs.

At the top of the stairs I hear R talking to someone. I can’t tell who at this point, but I am glad of it – he behaves much better in front of other people.

I brace myself for a social interaction; they are always hard. The more I speak to people the more lost I feel, the further inside the lies. Do I even know who I am anymore? Always acting, always pretending to be someone I am not. I must pretend to be the doting wife, the perfect woman. I must make him look good. If anyone even gets a whiff of the monster he is inside, without him wanting them to, then I have to face his wrath. Something I am more than accustomed to. This is me. This is my life. To be a mark of his success, his virility, his desirability, his power.

I gulp in a breath before treading on the first step down. I must keep my composure. I put my earrings in as I take each step – it gives me an excuse not to make eye contact – but I glance up and see them there. I’m tense anyway, I’m always tense, but seeing the police at the door knots my spine immediately. I recognise them. They are the ones who tried to help me. Did they find me? I thought I had got away without anyone knowing who I was. I mustn’t let R know that I know who they are. I hope they play along.