Behind Closed Doors(39)
Once, I thought my chance had come when somebody rang at the gate as I was writing, but instead of going to the intercom to see who was there, Jack simply ignored it, as he does the telephone when it rings while I’m seated at the computer. Yet along with the frustration I feel when he escorts me back to my room, at another chance gone, there is also a feeling of near-contentment, especially after I’ve written to my parents. It’s almost as if I believe the lies I have told them, about weekends away that Jack and I have been on, or visits to beautiful gardens, to country houses, to places I have never been and where I will never go, yet am able to describe in such detail. But, as with all highs, the coming down is hard, and once the euphoria has gone I feel more depressed than ever.
There’s no third ring at the gate so I go back to the bed and lie down. I feel so restless that I decide to try a bit of meditation to relax me. I taught myself to meditate not long after Jack moved me into this room for fear I would go mad with nothing to do all day. I’ve become so good at it that sometimes I manage to drift off for what often seems like several hours but is probably a lot less. I usually start by picturing Millie and me sitting in a beautiful garden with a little dog at our feet. Not Molly though—to be able to lose myself, I need to think happy thoughts. Today, however, I’m unable to relax because the only picture I can bring to mind is that of Esther driving away from the house. In my isolation, I’ve become superstitious and I take it as a sign that I’ve got it all wrong, that Esther isn’t going to be the one to help me.
When I hear Jack coming up the stairs maybe an hour or so after the ring at the gate, I try to guess if he’s come to play some sort of game with me or if he’s simply bringing me a late lunch. He unlocks the door; there’s no tray in his hand so I prepare myself for one of his sadistic games, especially when I see that he is holding a book. The urge to pounce on it and snatch it out of his hand is powerful, but I keep my face impassive and do my best not to look at it, wondering what torment he has devised this time. He knows how I crave to have something to read—I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve pleaded with him to let me have a newspaper, just once a week even, to help me keep up-to-date with what is happening in the world so that I don’t appear a complete idiot when we go out to dinner. So I’m fully expecting him to offer me the book, only to withdraw his hand the moment I reach out to take it.
‘I have something for you,’ he begins.
‘What?’ I ask, as unenthusiastically as I can.
‘A book.’ He pauses. ‘Would you like it?’
Coming from Jack, it’s the question I hate most in the world as I’m damned if I say yes and damned if I say no. ‘It depends,’ I say, hating that I’m prolonging my agony by trying to keep him there as long as possible because at least he’s someone to talk to.
‘On what?’
‘Its title. If it’s called My Life with a Psychopath, I’m not interested.’
He smiles. ‘Actually, it’s the one that Esther recommended.’
‘And you decided to buy it for me?’
‘No, she dropped it off.’ He pauses again. ‘Under normal circumstances, I would have put it straight in the bin, but it came with a very charming invitation to dinner a week next Saturday, with a little post scriptum saying that she can’t wait to hear what you think of the book. So I suggest you make sure you’ve read it by then.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll have time, but I’ll do my best,’ I tell him.
‘Don’t get too smart,’ he warns. ‘You’ve become so adept at avoiding punishment that I only need the slightest excuse.’
He leaves, and unable to wait any longer, I open the book and read the first page to get an idea of what it’s about. I know instantly that I’m going to love it and I hate the thought that it’ll only take me a day or so to read it. I wonder if I should wait a while before starting it properly, and limit myself to a chapter a day, but because there’s always the possibility that Jack will take it back again before I’ve had a chance to finish it, I settle down on my bed, ready to spend the best few hours I’ve had for a long time. I’ve been reading for about an hour when I notice that one of the words I’ve just read, the word ‘alright’, stands out more than the others and, when I look closely, I see that it’s been lightly shaded in pencil.
Something about it jogs my memory and, going back a few pages, I find the word ‘thing’ highlighted in the same manner, but so lightly I’m not convinced I would have noticed had I not been looking for it. I flip back a few more pages and come across the word ‘every’, which I recognise as the word that had caught my attention earlier, although I had put its darker background down to a printing problem. Intrigued, I carry on turning back the pages and eventually find a tiny ‘is’ nearer the beginning of the book.
I run it together—‘Is everything alright’.
My heart starts beating faster as I consider the possibility that Esther has sent me a message. If she has, there has to be more. With a mounting sense of excitement, I scan the rest of the book for evidence of shading and find ‘do’, ‘you’, ‘need’ and, on the second to last page of the book, ‘help’.
The elation I feel, that she has recognised my predicament and wants to help, is short-lived, because how can I reply to Esther when I don’t have access to something as mundane as a pencil? Even if I had one, I’d be at a loss as to what to reply. A mere ‘yes’ wouldn’t be enough, a ‘yes, get the police’ would be futile, because, as I know to my cost, Jack has them in his pocket. Like the staff at the hotel in Thailand, they know me as a manic-depressive, given to accusing my devoted and brilliant lawyer husband of keeping me prisoner. Even if they arrived at the house without warning, Jack would have no trouble explaining away this room, or any other room in the house for that matter. Anyway, he would never let me return the book to Esther without checking it first, just as he always checks my bag before we go out to make sure it’s empty.