Tell Me Everything (27 page)

The ugly man laughed as he saw Leanne cowering on the bed. He told her to take off all her clothes and watched as she stood there cold and naked. He even forced her to put her hands on her head and turn round slowly in front of him, while he appraised her as critically as he might an object he'd just bought. He even clucked as if he wasn't completely happy with his purchase.

Leanne was crying all this time, I said. Tears were pouring down her cheek but she wasn't allowed to mop them up.

Mr. Roberts let out a grunt. I still didn't let myself look at him, but I was sure he was crying too. I carried on looking at the spot on the carpet. What I wanted to capture was the same helpless horror I'd felt when I read the description of the prostitute in Amsterdam, the same hopelessness I reacted to in
The Story of O.

I forced myself to carry on with the story.

He made Leanne walk to his car like that. He strapped her in the backseat, putting down newspaper first as if she was an animal that couldn't be trusted to keep itself clean. Then he blindfolded her, tying her wrists with a light silk scarf. He took her to a house and led her straight to the basement. Leanne could hear the sound of angry voices—male voices—from somewhere upstairs. She was scared. Poor, poor little Leanne. Someone grabbed her and dragged her over to the bed before locking the door with a series of clinking keys. There was no one to rescue her. It was too late for that now.

Suddenly there was a cry from the bed. Mr. Roberts was clutching at his heart. His breath was both quick and labored. He whistled every time he breathed in, gasped as he breathed out.

“She got out,” I whispered. “Look, she's here now. It's all right.” I pulled the sheet up and gently covered Mr. Roberts up to his chin. “And she's at home too. Mrs. Roberts will be all right now. You don't need to worry about her anymore. I'll look after her.” My fingers trailed over his clammy forehead. He was staring wildly up at me, trying to say something.

“Women like her always survive,” I said. “Sometimes they meet men like you. Sometimes they're not so lucky.”

He nodded then.

“It's for the best.” I was telling myself this as much as him.

Thankfully he shut his eyes so he couldn't see me as I left.

Dawn looked up as I passed the reception. “He wants to be left alone for the rest of the afternoon,” I said. “Mrs. Roberts is coming in later and I made sure he's got everything he needs.”

Dawn smiled. “Well, I'm sure he enjoyed such a lovely visit,” she said.

Mata was still guarding the bag outside. She whimpered as I
came near but I didn't untie her. Instead I took the bag back inside.

“I was wondering if you'd like these,” I said. “They don't fit me anymore and I was just going to take them to the charity shop.”

Pity there wouldn't be a next time, because I was sure she'd remember me now. Still, it felt good too not to be carrying the burden of Miranda's dream anymore. When I looked back I could see Dawn holding the green satin dress up to her body, twirling round in front of the window and smiling at her new image.

I waved at her but she didn't even see me. She was safe, miles away in her own imaginary world.

B
y the time Mata and I reached the Seize the Day bench it was dark. I tried different opening sentences out on Mata, making my face look bright and animated. We sat down on a bench and I practiced laughing, the way I had seen other women do, holding up my chin so my neck appeared elongated. I forced myself not to look down and see if the bear was still there.

“And where are you going this summer?” I said loudly in my best tea-party voice.

All the time I was looking for men, or one man in particular. Not that I was anymore, I corrected myself. Particular. I hitched the skirt of my dress up so I was showing even the bruised bit at the top of my leg, but still no one approached. I stroked my bruises in a circular motion. It was always satisfying.

Liz would be pottering round her lonely home, a book propped up in front of her ready meal for one and surprising herself by feeling grateful for her late-flowering memories. Miranda would be making plans at the pub with her new friends. Mrs. Roberts would be mourning Mr. Roberts, genuinely, lovingly, but with a spark of relief that maybe now at least she'd find some freedom.

If I could make all that happen then maybe there was the chance I wouldn't turn out so badly after all.

“Do you come here often?” I asked Mata, who was sitting beside me on the bench, guarding against spooks in the half-light. The branches of Jessica's tree stretched out above me. The stars were visible through them, the silver coin of the moon, and in between a canopy of colored shapes and ribbons, arching over me, protecting me.

I was just about to give up when a shadow blocked mine from behind. Mata growled, but only a light growl. I forced myself not to turn, but carried on rubbing my legs, round and round. Mata continued to growl softly but I hushed her. “It's all right,” I said, not sure exactly who I was trying to comfort. I could smell a sweet scent, overripe plums mixed with Parma violets.

There was one iced white heart I'd never noticed before on the tree. It was twisting this way and that on its golden thread as it gave itself up to the gust of freezing wind that blew suddenly through the park.

“You?” I said, but a question like that can never have the right answer.