Marina closed her eyes, put her head back, tried to relax. Willed the hot water to take away any dirt from her body, pain from her mind. Tried to think, rationalise. But all she saw was Hugo Gwilym’s leering, grinning face.
She shook her head to lose the image, water droplets flying, and tried again.
Put the night in order. That was what she had to do. And not for the first time. It was all she had thought about since Thursday night, all she had done. Put the night in order. The restaurant. The meal. The drinks.
The drinks.
Marina was sure now that she had been drugged. She had no evidence to support the idea, not yet, just a feeling, a conviction. Gwilym must have slipped something into her drink at the restaurant. Must have done. She hadn’t had enough wine to explain the awful headache the next day, the aching in her arms, legs.
The blackout. The total absence of memory.
Drugs. It had to be.
She ran her hands over her body, examining herself. She opened her legs, inspected the tops of her thighs, her vagina for any signs. Bruises. Abrasions. Redness or soreness. Signs that he had been there.
She had done the same thing the day before. Obsessively, compulsively, over and over, like Lady Macbeth trying to wash the guilt-staining blood from her hands. Hoping that her fears were as imaginary as that blood was.
She had found nothing. Any time, yesterday or this morning. Nothing. She knew what she looked like, what she felt like when she had had sex. And this wasn’t it. She had investigated thoroughly and she was sure of it. Or she hoped she was sure of it. Hoped she wasn’t deluding herself, clinging desperately to a false belief, ignoring the obvious signs because she didn’t want them to be true.
No. There was nothing to show he had been there. Nothing.
But still…
There was too much she couldn’t explain. The trip in the taxi. Gwilym knowing too much. Her panties in his pocket.
Oh God. She was going to be sick.
She put a hand to the wall, steadied herself. Kept her eyes closed, breathed deeply. Waited until the nausea passed.
It did. Eventually.
Marina knew she should finish in the shower, towel off, get going. But she stayed where she was, the water running all over her. Just one more feel, one more investigation…
No. Still no sign. Nothing there.
Or she hoped that nothing was there. Because the alternative…
She shook her head, tried to shake Gwilym’s leering face from it once more.
She still couldn’t believe what had happened. How a simple dinner with colleagues had turned into a nightmare. She hated to use such a clichéd phrase, but there was no other way to describe it. That was what it was. Her life, in the space of two days, had become a living nightmare.
The enormity of what had happened played over in her mind once more. Someone she had been talking to, someone she knew, albeit briefly, had drugged her and forced her to have sex with him. If that was what had happened. Forced her to have sex with him.
She knew the word for that all right. But she still couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not head on. She would skirt round it, try to approach it sideways. She knew she would have to say it eventually. But if she did, if she admitted and acknowledged it, that word, that one little word that defined what she had gone through, then that was her life off in a completely different direction. One that could redefine not only her but all her relationships with everyone else she knew or met. And certainly with Phil.
Phil. It broke her heart not to be able to tell him what had happened. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she had it straight in her own mind. Not until she was ready to confront it herself.
She was scared of what he would say. Or even what he would do. She had played out every possible reaction he might have, spent the night lying there going over and over them. He might believe her, go after Gwilym. Hurt him. Kill him, even. And she wasn’t sure she could live with him doing that, even though a part of her wanted him to. Worst of all, though, he might not believe her. Call her a slag and a slut, say she had asked for it, that it was all her own fault. That she had fucked someone else and was scared he would find out and this was how she covered for it. That was the reaction she dreaded most.
She shook her head once more, tried to clear it. To calm down. Think. Plan. Decide on a course of action.
Confront Gwilym. That was what she would do. Tell him she was going to report him to the university for what he had done. She thought again. Was that wise? Her career might be over if she did that. If she brought allegations against their star lecturer. Especially allegations she couldn’t substantiate with evidence.
No. That wouldn’t work. She couldn’t do that.
But she had to do something .
Marina felt hands on her body. A quick, sudden movement, round her waist. She gasped, tried to turn, ready to fight. Lost her footing, slipped.
She screamed.