At the beginning, when she asked about ex-girlfriends I mentioned your name but didn’t go into details, I just told her we’d lived together, it didn’t work out and you’d gone abroad. I know she will have tried to find you on Facebook because she freely admitted she’d checked out all my female friends, so it must have pissed her off that she couldn’t snoop on you. Your dislike of social media served you well, and to this day I’d be surprised if she knows what you look like because the only photo I kept of you was the mermaid one. Do you remember it? I took it in Acapulco. You’d been swimming and fell asleep on the sand. Your hair was almost waist-length (you loved those extensions that cost me a bloody fortune) and it was wrapped around your body so it looked like you were naked. I kept it in the back of my wallet. It’s my favourite photo of you ever and I said you were my sleeping mermaid. After you left, I’d look at it now and then and wish you’d swim back to me, across the Mediterranean, along the Atlantic coast, then brave the Celtic and Irish Seas until you reached Liverpool. Then you’d swim up the Mersey, then the ship canal to Manchester and when you reached Salford Quays I’d be waiting with a big net and drag you ashore, then keep you in the bath forever. Sorry, I’m letting my imagination run riot, but there’s plenty of time for that in here.
You’re probably wondering what happened to the other photos of you. Please don’t get upset when I tell you this because you have to understand it was a form of self-protection. It was the only way to deal with our break-up once I knew you really had left. It wasn’t done in a rage or out of spite, more a sensible choice. You see, I removed you from every single device I had. I just couldn’t bear to see your face even by accident. I stored them on a memory stick and put them with the framed pictures of us together. They are in the loft. Right at the back, buried under the stuff that Mum insisted I took from my old bedroom when I bought the house.
I told her to do the same and remove any photos of you that were dotted around her house. It pissed her off because there were some great ones of us all together, but I insisted. It killed me, seeing you smiling from the window ledge or to be reminded of Christmases at Mum’s as I passed the photo on the landing wall. Mum’s house is like a sodding gallery and everywhere I looked, there you were, reminding me what a total dick I was. Anyway, back to the psycho.
Billie looked up from the letter and rubbed her eyes, realising also that she was frowning and would probably have deep crease marks between her eyebrows. As she turned to her right she spotted the security guard from the yard speaking into his radio and paranoia kicked in. Feeling uncomfortable, Billie placed the letter on the passenger seat and started the engine. She was probably being stupid and the bloke could have been chatting to anyone, nevertheless Billie felt the urge to relocate, out of sight of the cameras and other suspicious eyes. She drove towards the main road to find a side street to wait in, and then she could finish reading Stan’s letter.
3
Billie’s new parking spot was much more secluded, tucked away in the corner of a litter-strewn makeshift car park on some wasteland behind the rows of shops that lined the main road. She couldn’t even see the prison which was a relief. Making sure her doors were locked, Billie shivered. The whole area was dingy and borderline seedy. Next time – if there was one – no way would she get here so early, her nerves wouldn’t take it. Trying to take her mind off her surroundings Billie went back to Stan’s letter.
Most of the time, Kelly behaved like a normal person and I’d got used to her jealousy. Maybe I was flattered that she liked me so much. It was an ego boost, especially after being wiped out when you left. I’m not making excuses here. It’s just a way of fathoming out where the hell my head was and why I didn’t run a mile when I could.
We were jogging on nicely and there’d been no major incidents for a while then out of nowhere, you texted me. I nearly cried when I saw your name on the screen and then lost my bottle. I had this premonition that you were going to say you’d met some Greek millionaire and were getting married, not that you were coming home and wanted to meet up. My imagination went crazy, concocting scenes where I met you at the airport and you flew into my arms, saying you forgave me and you wanted to make a go of it. I know exactly how many texts you sent and what they said, every word, because I memorised each one before I deleted them. My photographic memory came in handy once again.
I was in a right dilemma, though, because I’d ascertained you were still single, that your dad had been really ill and your mum was still a cow. I was pleased to hear you loved working at the shop and had settled in well with Marissa, but what I really wanted to read was that you missed me and were prepared to give me another chance. I clung on to that hope and realised that if I was with Kelly when you came back, the chance of reconciliation was zero. That’s why I never mentioned her to you. I knew there and then that she had to go.
It wasn’t like I needed much encouragement and was willing to throw Kelly under the bus for you, not literally, obviously. Christ, I’m in enough trouble without adding murder to my list of offences. So when the body-art performance occurred, she played right into my hands.
We were going for a meal – her treat she said – and I think I was well and truly getting on her nerves because I was easing myself into the ‘can’t be arsed’ phase of my grand plan to dump her. I began by ignoring her texts, sounding bored when she rang me at work and vague when she tried to make arrangements to meet up. I faked a pulled muscle so I couldn’t go to the gym and caught a nasty forty-eight-hour stomach bug. I thought I was being so clever.
Anyway, she’d bought a new lipstick – it was an orangey-pink colour – and when she came downstairs I just burst out laughing and asked if she’d been Tangoed. That was it! She went insane, pulling at her hair, screeching that I was trying to humiliate her and make her feel ugly. Apparently, I wasn’t funny, I was a narcissist and my insults were a form of control. When she ran back upstairs, I didn’t follow and knowing we wouldn’t be going anywhere, I opened a beer and settled in front of the telly. No way was I running after her. I actually hoped she’d piss off home in a huff but I wasn’t that lucky.
After a while, curiosity got the better of me but I went to the bathroom first, which is where I found her. I nearly shit myself when I saw her, sitting on the floor in the dark and when I turned on the light it was like a scene from a film set in a mental asylum. She was naked and had drawn all over the walls in the lipstick. Bad Girl, Ugly Girl, Fat Girl, Nasty Girl. And she’d drawn all over herself too, the word Ugly across her forehead and arms and legs. What could I do apart from try to comfort her? She sobbed and said she was sorry, telling me over and over it was Daddy’s fault, Daddy hated her, Daddy said she was ugly and fat and it made her nasty. By the time I’d put her in the shower and then to bed, cleaned the bloody bathroom walls and calmed down myself, she’d fallen asleep. When I woke up the next morning she was gone and I admit I was glad, but it was short-lived because it was only to the supermarket to buy breakfast.
While we ate, she explained more about her estranged father who was a bona fide wife-beating narcissist and had made Kelly’s life a misery, which was why she felt worthless and reacted so badly to criticism. I listened and nodded in all the right places, but I didn’t feel sorry for her, and do you know why? Because I didn’t believe her. I didn’t even want to believe her and even if I had, I didn’t care, not one fucking bit. I had no time for some screwed-up woman in my life and I had no intention of being the bloke who fixed her. Even less so with your imminent return at the forefront of my mind.