The shower did make Belle feel better, but it was odd, not seeing her reflection. She caught a faint misted glimmer of it in the showerhead but averted her eyes straight away. She wasn’t ready for that yet.
It floated into her mind again, the horror of her situation. Everything’s gone. My family. Even my looks. Everything that ever mattered, all gone, all snatched away by Harlan fucking Stone.
When she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a big towel, there was a hairdryer on the dressing table and a pair of beige loafers on the floor beside the bed. From the pile of clothing she selected a too-big black bra and some practical unsexy Sloggi underpants, then sorted out a pale blue chambray shirt and a pair of Jack’s mother’s jeans to put on. They didn’t really fit – his mum had been a tall lady, that much was clear – but they were OK around the waist, so it was fine. She turned them up at the ankles by a couple of inches, scuffed on the loafers. They didn’t fit either, they were loose on the length and narrow through the instep. She went back to the bathroom and padded the toes out with toilet paper.
Better.
She picked up the ruins of her dress. It was thoroughly caked in blood, filthy with dirt. She remembered putting the thing on just weeks ago before everything had gone crazy. Remembered turning back and forth in front of her mirror in the gatehouse bedroom, admiring herself. She’d always done that, didn’t every woman?
But now she was afraid. If she saw her reflection and some monster was staring back at her, what the fuck would she do?
Freak out. She knew she would.
She went out into the kitchen. Jack was making tea, slipping bread into the toaster.
‘You want some?’ he said, turning and seeing her there.
Trix, laid out in front of the roaring fire, grinned a greeting at her.
He paused, taking in this new Belle in jeans and shirt. Belle turned her head away, hiding her cheek. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thanks. What should I do with this?’ She held up the ruined dress.
He put two more slices of bread in the toaster. ‘We can wash it.’
Belle shook her head. She’d be reminded of what happened, every time she wore the thing. ‘I don’t want to keep it.’
‘Then put it on the fire.’ He indicated the grate, where the flames were leaping up from the crackling logs.
Belle walked forward, patted Trix and threw the dress into the fire. She watched the expensive fabric curl and burn. It was like destroying her past, watching that. Saying goodbye to the old life and maybe allowing for a new.
Allowing for what though?
For being scarred? For being ugly? She felt a shiver of apprehension, despite the fire’s heat.
‘Tea?’ asked Jack.
Belle nodded and went to the table and sat down. Not too long ago, she’d been laid out on here with her life’s blood streaming out of her. But what now?
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ said Jack. ‘If there’s any danger they’re still after you, it’s probably safest. You’re not really fully recuperated yet, are you. Better to rest up. Get back to full strength.’
Belle felt relieved at his words. Truthfully, she was scared right now of the outside world. She’d been battered and bruised and abused by it. Here at least, with this unsmiling stranger, she did feel safe.
He was bringing the tea and toast over to the table, setting it all out with butter and jam and milk.
‘Help yourself,’ he said, pushing a plate toward her.
Belle buttered the toast, spread on jam. Then slowly, gingerly, she started to eat her first solid meal.
He was watching her face. Again, instinctively, she turned her damaged cheek away from him.
‘Don’t,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Don’t turn your face away. I’ve seen it all before, anyway.’
Belle nodded, embarrassed. He was right. What was the point of hiding her ugliness from him? He’d stitched her up. He’d seen it all, at its very worst.
‘I think I should see it too,’ said Belle.
‘You ready for that?’
‘I have to see it, don’t I. Sometime.’
‘Maybe after we take out the stitches?’
‘Will it look better then?’
‘Probably not.’
Belle threw down her toast.
Jack looked at her intently. ‘Look – you’re still alive. You want me to fetch a mirror now? Right now?’
Belle stared at him mulishly. She wanted to say yes, if only to spite him for being so fucking casual about this. But she was afraid.
‘No,’ she said.
‘OK. So eat your damned breakfast and stop feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘You’re a prickly bastard,’ Belle observed.
‘It’s been said.’
‘Your parents ran this farm?’
‘They did.’
‘You going to tell me about them?’ challenged Belle.
‘Nothing much to tell.’
‘I don’t hear any livestock about the place,’ said Belle, gingerly eating the toast again, realizing that she was actually hungry for the first time in too long. ‘No cows, no sheep.’
‘My dad’s prize dairy herd were sold off. The sheep too. All that’s left are a few chickens, my mum’s mare and a Shetland pony to keep her company.’
‘Ah! She rode then.’
‘She did. When she was a bit younger. More toast?’
‘Yeah. Please.’ She eyed him. ‘And you. What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Have you got a job? What do you do?’
But his eyes were hard again, unreadable. ‘Nothing to tell,’ he said.
Then there was a knock on the door.