She knew exactly what blue-eyed Kelly looked like, with her highlighted hair styled in a messy bob that framed her stupid face that she airbrushed with Snapchat filters. The cute bunny ears and nose didn’t make Billie smile, because while Kelly was pissing about on social media, smiling coyly into the camera, Stan was banged up. It had been shockingly easy to find the proverbial Manchester bunny-boiler. She wasn’t shy and from the looks of things enjoyed splashing her face and story all over Facebook and Twitter. No, it seemed like Kelly had recovered from her ordeal and was making a thoroughly good job out of a bad situation.
Inhaling deeply to trap the bubbling rage that was rising in her chest, Billie held her breath then exhaled slowly. It did the trick, that and turning down the heater – it was getting too hot inside the car which did nothing for her temper. Then Billie got on with the letter. She was far too early and had no desire to queue up with the other visitors, so instead concentrated on Stan’s words.
Kelly and I chatted easily on the way to her flat which was about two miles from the gym. There was a nice pub on the corner and I’d been in a few times, so when she asked if I fancied a drink I said yes. I didn’t intend to stay so long, or end up in her bed but I did. Like I said, I wasn’t that fussed about seeing her again but she pursued me. It was easy sex, no relationship required, or so I thought. But things changed. It was like she eased herself into my life, with stealth. That’s the best way to describe it.
I would find her bits and bobs in my house, like a marker reminding me of her existence, I suppose. She’d be waiting on the drive when I got home with a bag of ingredients to cook dinner, or turn up at the yard for impromptu lunchtime picnics at my desk. Me-time gym sessions turned into her being my training buddy and then, before I knew it, she’d met Mum and Darren. That was genuinely a fluke because no way had I even entertained the idea of introducing her, but she was in the car when Mum rang to say the shower was leaking and water was coming through the kitchen ceiling, so I shot straight round. Before I knew it, Kelly had added both of them on Facebook and when she miraculously bumped into Mum in town, they ended up having lunch.
The thing was, on the face of it, she seemed like a nice girl. She had a good job as a dental nurse, a rented flat of her own, a newish car and yes, she was good-looking with a great body and, at first, a great sense of humour. Gradually, she began to grow on me and I let her into my life bit by bit. I remembered that I liked being with someone, waking up next to a warm body in the morning. I wasn’t in love with her or anything like that, but she made it so easy to like her when, in fact, that was probably all part of her game. I thought I was so clever, playing along, filling my boots in every way possible.
Up until this point I really believed I could keep her at arm’s length, feeding her titbits of what seemed to make her happy, occupying a few hours in the evening and at weekends with sex and a shit chick-flick. At the same time, she kept me well fed, did the odd load of washing, changed the sheets and looked good when we went out. You might think that was shallow, but I swear she did all the running and what red-blooded bloke would refuse a three-course meal and sex on tap?
Sorry, that might seem like too much information, but I have to tell it how it was so you understand.
It was the rugby thing that really pissed me off, like she’d crossed an invisible line. I’d told her not to come to the match on Sunday because as you know, just like training night, it was a religion that afterwards all the lads hit the pub. It never bothered you. You loved your Sunday lie-ins and who wants to stand in the freezing cold and watch their boyfriend get covered in mud?
So when she turned up on the sideline, I saw red. No way was I going to let her muscle her way in and when I told her afterwards I’d give her a call in the week, she stormed off in a sulk. Not that I was bothered, I was glad. But when I got home later that evening she was waiting on the step, crying her eyes out. She looked a right state, panda eyes and black stuff running down her cheeks. I did feel a bit tight, so I took her inside and let’s just say that once I assured her that I didn’t mean to sound harsh and she wasn’t dumped, we made up.
Thinking back, that’s when the erratic behaviour began. It was like a switch would go off in her head because one minute she’d be fine and then boom! The smallest thing would set her off. Totally inconsequential comments turned into a bloody parliamentary inquiry and I know women are touchy about the size of their arse but Christ, saying your pants look tight doesn’t warrant a meltdown and the skinny jeans being torn into shreds.
You could see the darkness arrive. It started in her eyes and then washed across her face. I knew from the set of her jaw and the thin line of her lips that the anger was building and a monster was about to be unleashed.
I was about six months in by this stage. Maybe I was getting complacent or used to her sulks that more often than not would be blamed on hormones and her dad, because she seemed to have real issues with him. From the bits she fed me, he was a narcissist and she’d struggled with self-esteem throughout her childhood as a result of his behaviour towards her and her mum. I bought it hook, line, and sinker. Why wouldn’t I believe her? I never actually met him so didn’t get the opportunity to see for myself. But I wasn’t arsed. I didn’t want to be around a bloke like that.
Billie sighed and shook her head. Typical Stan. Typical bloke. This was him all over, too easy going, very easily pleased and sex mad. She would’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much, if she wasn’t so angry with him but sad at the same time. Billie didn’t want to imagine Kelly cooking dinner in the kitchen she’d once painted cranberry-crunch red, then hated it and spent days going over it in magnolia.
Dragging her mind away from other tortuous scenarios she focused on the beautifully formed handwriting before her. There was something about it that screamed intelligence and Billie was sure that a graphologist would confirm this and many other personality traits, none of them bad.
Stan doesn’t have it in him, she thought. He could be a prize pillock, a bit vain, body obsessed, couldn’t tell a joke to save his life, was a prankster, a total scruff around the house, and had the natural ability to spend money like it was going out of fashion. But he worked and played hard and could afford it after building up his businesses, so who cared? Most of all, Stan was kind to his family. He adored them, and was a good mate to those in his circle. That’s why it was so incredible to be sitting outside a prison reading the words of a convicted rapist.
Anyway, after the trouser-tearing tantrum came the jealousy. I’m not going to detail every single instance, but I was considering getting one of those collar things they give you at hospital for whiplash, because that would’ve kept my head still and stopped my roving eyes supposedly ogling other women! Seriously, Billie, it was beyond a joke and I was scared of being too polite to waitresses or anyone under the age of thirty. Actually, that’s wrong, because she even accused me of fancying been-round-the-block-twice Tracey. You remember her, the landlady at the Dog and Duck? She’s addicted to leopard-skin and miniskirts and must be well past fifty!
I never lock my phone. There’s no need: I have no secrets. But I caught her a few times reading through my texts and emails. She made light of it, saying she was checking she was the only girl in my life, which is why I was so bloody careful to delete your messages, or so I thought. I’ll come back to that later, because I reckon that when you got in touch it was the catalyst that sent her completely doolally. You popping up out of the blue sealed my fate.