Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘He did you a favour, you know,’ I said one evening. I felt I was taking my life in my hands. She still wasn’t over him, not by a long way. But sooner or later, I was going to have to start saying what I really believed.

‘Oh yeah. Breaking my heart. That’s been really good for me,’ she slurred. ‘Like I totally needed something to push me into the family tradition of drinking like a fish.’

I squared my shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘That’s your choice. And it’s a pretty spineless reaction, if you ask me. I think you’re better than that. Stronger than that. You prove it every day when you walk on that set stone-cold sober. This drinking at home, it’s nothing but self-indulgence.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be my friend.’ Her sulky mouth pouted even further.

‘Who else is going to tell you the truth? Joshu did you a favour. There’s the superficial thing of making you the victim in the eyes of the media, which is a whole lot better than them treating you like a villain.’ I waited for her to acknowledge I had a point.

Realising I was waiting in vain, I ploughed on. ‘He treated you like shit, Scarlett. You deserve better than that. But better wasn’t going to come along while Joshu was around, strutting his stuff. You’ve said yourself a thousand times, he was a crap dad. Well, the truth is, he was an even worse husband. You keep telling me about the grand plan. About making something of yourself. Face it, Scarlett, that was never going to happen while Joshu was still around. He’s on a downward spiral. You want to keep moving up, you’re better off without him.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’ Her tone was surly, but she put the bottle back in the fridge without refilling her glass.

‘I know. That doesn’t make it any less true. You’re better off without him.’

The uncomfortable aspect to the whole business was that the more I dished out advice to Scarlett, the less I seemed able to apply it to my own life.

To me, it didn’t make much practical difference whether I was out at the hacienda or in my own home. Apart from the interviewing aspect of my job, I could work anywhere with a door I could close on the outside world. Now Joshu’s sound equipment was gone, the glorified shed he’d used in the back garden was free. So on the mornings when I woke up in Scarlett’s spare room, I would take my laptop out there and plug my earphones in to transcribe my interviews. If Scarlett was filming, I’d head back to my own house after lunch and stay there for a day or two. It was all pretty random, and I soon realised that, however much it might suit me, it didn’t suit Pete.

It started with him picking holes in everything I did. The vegetables I’d bought were past their best, the meat wasn’t good enough quality, the wine was a lousy year. The house was too warm or too cold. Then it got more personal. Apparently I needed a haircut or a pedicure or a whole new wardrobe. In bed, I was too demanding, too passive or too critical of his performance. Never mind walking on eggshells. I felt as if I was encased in them from head to toe. I felt anxious and apprehensive all the time I was with him. And of course, when someone you love constantly finds fault, it’s hard not to feel at fault.

Looking back at it now, I can see it was all about power and control. Pete could only see my friendship with Scarlett in terms of himself. Every evening I spent with her was, in his eyes, undermining our relationship. Why would I rather be with someone he despised when I could be sitting alone at home waiting for him to possibly show up? But at the time, I was bending over backwards to see his point of view. He worked hard and when he had free time, he wanted to spend it with me. That was an advance on a lot of the men I’d tried to have relationships with over the years. And he was still capable of moments of tenderness and humour, moments that transcended the unpleasantness and convinced me that yes, it was all my fault.

But once I’d established a work routine out at Scarlett’s, Pete’s aggression began to escalate. If I wasn’t around when he was free and wanted to be with me, he would send snotty texts. I’d told him he was welcome at the hacienda, but he sneered at the idea. ‘Why would I want to spend my nights in a witches’ coven?’ was one of his responses. ‘You witches did your voodoo on Joshu. I’m not giving you the chance to do it on me.’

All of that I could put up with. I actually felt sorry for him. There must be a reason why someone who could be so loving it was almost smothering could also be that harsh. And the only reason I could think of was damage. Which meant I forgave him, time and time again. In my head I scolded myself for being so lacking in compassion.

It’s what abused women – and children – do all the time. They find a mechanism to blame themselves, partly because they’re innately kind and partly because that’s what the abuser inculcates in them as the appropriate response. I blamed myself for Pete’s anger.

But when he started shouting at me every time I didn’t match up to his impossible standards, I came to my senses. I’m a lucky woman, you see. I was brought up in a house where the adults respected each other. And they brought me up to respect myself. And I knew that Pete had crossed a line. Whatever history he was working out here had taken him too far. I tried to explain this to him, but he wouldn’t listen. He just kept on yelling. I belonged to him and I was going to have to learn how to behave. I was going to stop hanging around with those lesbian bitches. I was going to have to toe the line. Or else. It was scary. I really thought he was going to hit me. I’d never felt like that in my adult life.

I walked out. I walked out of my own house and got in my car and drove away. Of course I went to the hacienda. It was the easiest option. I’d already complained to Scarlett and Leanne about Pete’s unreasonable behaviour. If I’d gone to any of my other friends, I’d have had to explain the whole story, and I didn’t have the energy for that. One night, I thought. I’ll stay for one night and I’ll go back in the morning. I knew Pete was due in the studio the next day. Even if he stayed all night, he’d have to be gone by ten at the latest.

Scarlett was depressingly unsurprised to see me. ‘I could see this coming,’ she said. ‘He’s a bully, that one. Surly bastard, and all. I remember that time I dropped you off and he was waiting on the doorstep. Face like a slapped arse.’

‘Are you finishing with him?’ Leanne asked, putting the kettle on. We were trying to wean Scarlett – and ourselves – off the Prosecco and back on to the great Northern panacea of Yorkshire tea.

I could feel tears welling up. ‘I don’t want to. But I can’t put up with this.’

‘It’s like he wants you behind bars, waiting for him to come home and free you,’ Scarlett said.

‘Prisoner of love,’ Leanne intoned. ‘You could sell your story to a magazine.’

‘I don’t want to have a story.’ I like being a ghost. Insubstantial. Transparent. Anonymous.

‘Not like me, then,’ Scarlett said with a chuckle. ‘Fuck him, Steph. You’re worth a dozen of him. Just like you’re always telling me. You won’t find Mr Right with Mr Totally Fucking Wrong blocking the light.’

I wasn’t scared about going back the next morning. I thought Pete would have come to his senses and calmed down. But Scarlett was concerned. ‘You’ve led a sheltered life, you have,’ she said. ‘Where I grew up, toerags like Pete were ten a penny. Think they own you. Think you were put on the planet for their benefit. Tossers like him, they don’t let go easily. You’ve got to be prepared for it to get worse before it gets better.’