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‘What?’
‘You. You and your fucking “tie me up” bullshit. You and your other guys. Guys who’ve done that to you. Every time I shut my eyes, there they are. Lined up. And I can’t, Icannotget them out of my head, Rachel. You put them there. Bunch of fuckingcreeps.’
‘But, Michael, no! There was no “line of guys”. It was just one or two boyfriends, that’s all. Just … nothing serious.’
‘That is not thepoint, Rachel. Jesus Christ. That is not the point.’
‘Then what is the point?’
‘The point is …you. You’re the point. I thought I knew you. I thought I knew who you were. That golden girl in the pharmacy. That girl with the lustre, the class, the elegance. The girl who’d been waiting for her prince.’
‘Waiting for her—? Oh, come on, Michael. You know that’s bullshit. You know it is. You knew I’d had other boyfriends. Loads of boyfriends. I mean, Jesus Christ, when you saw me in the pharmacy that first time, I was a total mess. I had a hangover, and I was waiting for the morning-after pill, for God’s sake.’
She saw a muscle twitch in his cheek as he assimilated this reminder into his rewriting of their story. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should have seen what I was getting into right there and then.’
‘What you weregetting into?’
‘Yeah. Damaged goods.’
Rachel felt a punch to the back of her gut at these words and the burn of bile at the base of her throat. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Yeah. I guess I was duped by the English accent. Fooled into thinking it somehow equated with class.Yet again.’
Yet again. He meant Lucy.
‘I never, ever told you I was classy. Not ever. I fucked you on our first date. What on earth made you think I was classy?’
He flinched at her language. ‘That’s a really good question, Rachel. A really good question.’
He’d been pacing the room during this exchange, but he stopped then and glanced at Rachel. ‘Bend over.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I said, bend over.’ He took a step towards the bed.
Rachel inched away from him towards the bedhead. ‘Michael—’
‘Turn around. Get on all fours.’
‘But—’
‘Do it, Rachel. Do. It.’
Rachel did as she was told. Maybe, she thought, maybe this would fix things. If she just let him do it to her this way. Just this once. He’d get over whatever weird insecurities he’d been nurturing since that night in the Seychelles. Maybe it would blot out the ‘line of men’ he’d allowed to take residence inside his head. Maybe it would get them back on track. Because, Rachel realised, very strongly and with a pathetic sense of shame, all she wanted was for things to be back on track. Back to normal. Back to morning hugs and late-night dinners in wine bars and hand-in-hand walks down the riverside and Michael breathing into her hair and telling her she was beautiful, that she was divine, that she was out of his league in every way.
Slowly, silently, she turned around and put herself on to all fours.
What happened next was hard and fast and brutal. He tugged on her hair so hard that it made her wince. He gripped her hips with fingers sharp enough to leave small, finger-shaped bruises the next day. Afterwards, when he was done, he pushed her roughly to one side and stalked to the bathroom.
‘Well,’ he called through to her over the sound of the taprunning in the sink. ‘I can see why you like that kind of thing now. Rough sex. Isn’t that what they call it? Maybe you can dig that stuff out of your suitcase, Rachel. For next time. Yeah?’
She listened out for a hint of softness in his voice. A hint of playfulness. But there was none.
