I headed down the stairs and into the kitchen. If Susan followed me, fine; if she ran screaming from the house, even better. I wasn’t surprised to turn around to find her standing there. I’d come to discover she was irritatingly persistent. I was curious though. ‘Who told you I’d killed Ivan?’
She hesitated for only a moment before giving a shrug. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. It was Ethan. He said you were dangerous. That you always had a thing for rich, older men. Called you a black widow.’
Ethan! He’d got his revenge for the way I’d treated him. I had to give him credit for that. ‘I need coffee,’ I said, crossing to the kettle. I gave it a shake, judged there was enough water in it for a couple of cups and switched it on. Susan was hovering. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, sit; I’m not going anywhere.’ I grabbed two mugs and the jar of coffee. ‘It’ll have to be black; there’s no milk.’
She dragged a chair noisily from under the table. ‘Fine.’
Sitting, she folded her arms across her chest. Perhaps she was trying to look tough, but I could see the whisper of fear in her eyes, the slight quiver in her lower lip when she forgot to keep them pressed firmly together. I’d dismissed her as being of no account; I’d been wrong and once more felt a stirring of regret for what I’d done to her.
The kettle seemed to take forever to boil, giving me too much time for self-reflection. Before it reached boil, I flicked the switch. It was hot enough.
‘Here you go,’ I said, placing a mug on the table before her and taking the seat opposite with mine. ‘There’s nothing to eat, I’m afraid. No biscuits or anything.’
‘This isn’t a social event! I don’t want any bloody biscuits.’
Her hand was wrapped around the mug. For a moment, I thought she was going to throw the contents at me. I leaned back in my chair to put more distance between us, only relaxing when I saw her grip ease.
‘I just want what I came here for, and then I’ll be gone and you’ll be out of our lives forever. Okay?’
What she came for. Proof that I had murdered my husband. I shivered and slid my hands around the cooling coffee, trying to absorb some of its heat. ‘It’s not that easy.’ Then, because I decided I owed this odd woman, I said, ‘Let me tell you a story…’
I’m not sure that I had the right words to paint a clear picture of what Ivan had done to me, or if words even existed that would convey those minutes of vicious terror. ‘Ivan discovered I was taking the contraceptive pill. He decided to make his displeasure felt with his fists. And his feet.’ I saw her expression change from accusatory to shocked. ‘He was a lot older than me, but a big man and he was determined to make his message clear. Apart from the multiple bruises, I had three broken ribs on one side, one on the other, and kidney damage that had me peeing red for days. I was lucky, the doctors said, because I was fit and had good all-over muscle tone. The kidney damage, luckily, was reversible but I have to have regular blood tests to keep a check.’ The sympathy in the eyes opposite had changed to pity. It wasn’t something I appreciated. ‘I find myself obsessively checking the toilet bowl when I wee,’ I said, adding a laugh to lighten the mood.
There was no responding smile. I wondered vaguely if Susan had a sense of humour, then remembered that Mark didn’t have much of a one and realised, probably for the first time, how well suited they were. ‘As I lay in hospital, the only thing that kept me going was planning how I was going to make the bastard pay for what he’d done to me.’
I could have told her more, how finding that photo of me and Mark in that old book had pulled me out of the deep fug I’d been in since Ivan’s brutal attack. That it had given me hope that there were good men out there. Mark had been a good man, and what had I made of him?
I could tell her much more. Explain why I was drawn, despite everything, to much older men.
My jacket was hanging on the back of a chair, the outline of what I’d removed from the drawer in my mother’s bedroom clearly defined by the thin fabric. I stared at it, still trying to come to terms with the hideous lie I’d been told. Perhaps this was the story I should tell Susan: the one that had made me who I was.