‘Here you go, gorgeous.’ Olly slides back a railway-sleeper bench and gestures for me to sit. I’m eight-months’ pregnant now. Olly doesn’t know how uncomfortable I’ll feel sitting on hard wood, and I’m too polite to tell him.
There are tea-towel napkins and tin cans of cutlery on the table. Very casual. This restaurant is built in a conservatory, with a vegetable garden growing outside. Olly thinks it’s my favourite place to eat. But actually, it’s his favourite place.
I barely know my own tastes any more.
People from difficult families seek other difficult people, isn’t that what they say? I think about that sometimes. My mother. Olly. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Little by little, my personality has been sucked into Olly’s. He took my mind first, my body second. I didn’t realise what was happening until it was far, far too late. When Olly’s bad side surfaced, he’d already broken down all my defences.
And now he has me. All of me.
To do with what he will.
I’ve married my mother.
Taking a seat, I wonder if the other diners have noticed how red my eyes are. Will the waiting staff guess I’ve been crying?
Olly unfolds a napkin and lays it over my lap, putting a casual hand on my baby bump and giving it a little stroke. He does this with tenderness and caring. Like he really loves me. Loves us. Then he sits opposite and takes my hand.
These are my favourite times with Olly. It’s almost worth the arguments to see this side of him. Because like day follows night, praise and adoration follow darkness and rage.
I notice other female diners looking at Olly. He’s never been short of female attention – his friends have told me all the stories. But his girlfriends didn’t last long, apparently. Until I came along.
Olly squeezes my fingers. I flinch, biting my lip.
Olly says, ‘You are so unbelievably beautiful. Do you know that?’
I take my hands back to pick up the menu, printed on thick, grey recycled card.
My ring finger throbs. I’m scared it might be broken. Olly again. Careless. Shutting that car door on my hand. Just a mistake …
‘Lizzie?’ Olly pushes the menu down, blue eyes meeting mine. ‘I’m sorry.’
I wonder how long his good mood will last for this time. He sits back, and I realise my hands are shaking uncontrollably.
A woman at the next table glances over. She whispers something to her dining companion, then looks again.
I slide my hair from behind my ears to cover my frightened face.
‘Are you ready to order, gorgeous?’ Olly asks me, waving the waiter over.
‘Oh … um. Not quite.’ I try for a more natural smile, but the edges of my eyes are tight. ‘You know what’s good here. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
Olly turns to the waitress – a young girl in a black apron who’s just appeared at the table. ‘My beautiful fiancée here will have the sea bass,’ he tells her, all puffed up with the control I’ve given him.
I wonder if Olly knows that often I don’t like what he orders.
I suppose a better question is: does he care?