Stuart James - Apartment 6

On the ground floor, she reached the bathroom at the back of the kitchen. Meagan took a deep breath, inhaled and let out a sigh. She could be herself again, if only for a short while.

She ran the shower, removed her nightgown and stood under the hot water.

Once finished and dried, she wrapped her hair in a clean towel and got dressed.

Meagan hosed the shower clean, first getting rid of the suds from the tiled wall, making sure every hair disappeared down the plughole. Then she stood the shampoo bottle in line with the shower gel, hung the flannel back on the hook, and placed the used towel in the laundry basket.

Meagan looked down; a wet footprint marked the bathroom mat.

Panicking, she went to the kitchen, removing several sheets of the thick tissue from the roll above the sink. Some sheets of kitchen paper were hanging down. She wrapped them back onto the roll, making sure it looked neat.

In the bathroom, she got onto her knees and patted the water stain on the bathroom mat, absorbing every drop of moisture. Most of it disappeared into the kitchen roll. Meagan thought about setting up a hair dryer. But it was too risky. She kept dabbing until the stain on the bathroom mat had completely gone.

She stood back, making sure it couldn’t be seen, her eyes sweeping over the spot where the water had been.

Meagan pulled herself together and stared at her reflection. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips, dark brown eyes and silky shoulder-length black hair. But she may as well have looked double her age for how she felt about herself. Her husband had taken every drop of confidence away and flushed it down the loo, draining her of self-belief with his constant cruel jibes, sarcasm, his sneers and continuous insults whenever she said something until she couldn’t feel any worse about herself.

She looked deep at the woman she’d become, feeling deflated, pitiful, inadequate. Then she reached for her make-up bag. She applied a small amount of foundation and blusher and finished with deep red lipstick.

She quickly threw on a white blouse and knee-length tartan skirt, deciding to carry her black boots to the front door so as not to make any noise.

Meagan was creeping along the hall when she heard a voice from the kitchen.

‘Where are you going?’

She froze, her heart racing, an anxiety knot rising in the pit of her stomach. ‘I’m meeting a friend for coffee.’ Her face flushed as she struggled to meet her husband’s eyes. She watched him wiping the counter with a dishcloth. He looked up.

‘Would you care to explain the mark on the worktop?’

Meagan dropped the boots she was holding, moving towards where her husband stood. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll take care of it.’

‘But you didn’t, did you? That’s my point. I had a late night last night; a few boys turned up I hadn’t seen for ages. I’m hungover, Meagan, and now I have to deal with this.’ He raised his voice. ‘It’s not really on, Meagan, is it? Do you see where I’m coming from here?’

She reached for the cloth, and her husband whipped it from her hands.

‘I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.’

‘Sorry, sorry, that’s it? Are you, Meagan? Are you really? You know how hard it is for me, surely?’

‘Yes, I know Rob, I get it. Honestly, I’m sorry.’

Rob stepped forward, running his hand along her face. Her body was shaking with fear. She could see how he adored the feeling of being in control; the way he made her wince, the authority he demanded and the respect she gave back.

Meagan blinked, she flinched, pulling her head back as Rob looked into her eyes. He waited for a minute, enjoying the faces she pulled and how she grimaced, then dropped the cloth on the floor by her feet.

‘I’m going back upstairs. By the way, I’m hungry. You’re not going out.’ He left Meagan standing alone in the kitchen.

Once her husband was out of sight, Meagan picked up her phone from the kitchen worktop, tapped in the name Sarah, and sent a text.

I can’t come. Rob is sick. Sorry. Another time.

She stared at the text, thinking how shitty a mate she was, letting Sarah down: one of her oldest friends. A reply came back a few seconds later.

Oh Meagan, I’m already halfway there. Can’t you meet for an hour? I’m sure Rob can sleep off whatever is wrong with him. I’ve been looking forward to the catch-up.

Meagan looked at the phone, bouncing it in her left hand, contemplating the result of meeting Sarah and going against her husband’s orders.

She tapped a message back.

Okay, I’ll be there for ten as arranged. See you then.

Sarah responded with a thumbs-up emoji.

Meagan made some coffee, toasted two slices of bread and loaded up a tray. Once upstairs, she was pleased to find the bedroom door open. Rob was out for the count, sleeping off his hangover. She watched him breathe in and out.

How I’d love to pour this coffee over your fucking head, smother you with the cushion and watch as you struggle to take your last breath. Your final vision of this world would be me, ripping the life from your body until your face drained and your eyes rolled back – you evil bastard.

She placed the tray on the cabinet beside the bed, then moved slowly out of the room.

Downstairs, Meagan quickly glanced in the mirror hanging in the hall. She edged her way to the front door, pulled her boots on her feet then eased the door open. She tiptoed along the communal hall, quickly descending the two flights of stairs.

Outside, the bright sunshine caused her to squint. She realised she needed her shades. Too late now: I can’t risk going back and waking my husband.

The King’s Road was already bustling with families, couples and tourists peering at maps, pointing, phones held in the air, recording the great London life. She suddenly felt sadness, watching these people, smiles on their faces, light hearts, happiness, conversation. How she wished this was her. She pictured Rob standing beside her, linking arms, walking along the street, him on the outside, unable to draw his eyes away, letting Meagan know she meant something, she mattered.

Meagan imagined her husband taking an interest in her conversation, asking about her day, how she felt, what she’d like to do at the weekend.

She fought to clear her head; this was her time: she needed to relax and enjoy herself. She pushed open the door to the coffee shop. The bell sounding above the door caused her to jump. Sarah had already arrived and was standing in the queue.

Meagan fought past the crowd of people, steering her body away from a smartly-dressed guy gripping more cups than his fingers allowed. A young woman wiped a table down to her left side, looking up and offering a welcoming smile.

The smell of coffee was overpowering. The shelves at the back of the counter packed with bean jars. Steam emanated from machines, coughing and spurting with more noise than Meagan could bear. People at tables were tapping on laptops and talking on phones. The staff were shouting out people’s names and lining up cardboard cups on the counter.

Meagan felt dizzy. Panic washed over her body and she held onto the side rail, dropping to her knees.

Sarah came running over. ‘Meagan, what’s up, lovely? This wasn’t how I pictured us greeting.’ She laughed, helping her friend to stand. ‘Are you okay? Did you fall, hun?’

Meagan took a deep breath, held her head up and composed herself. ‘I’m okay. Wow, not sure what happened. I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Can we go outside?’

‘Sure. Look, I’ll walk you out and bring the coffees over. Still a large latte, three sweeteners?’

‘You got it, yes.’

Meagan was pleased to find the garden quiet; the chill in the air kept the crowd inside. She sat, waiting for Sarah, worried that Rob would wake, come and find her, grab her hair and pull her across the table in front of everyone.