Kalopsia E-Book

Lucinda Lamont

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Kalopsia - (n.) The delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

They say you never know what goes on behind closed doors, but do you really know what goes on outside your front door either?

Kate is a twenty-something, successful woman. Funny, attractive and independent, she seemingly has everything going for her. But when it comes to love, Kate wouldn't know a good idea if she stopped at a zebra crossing and watched it pass by in front of her.

Suffering at the hands of her mentally abusive partner, she doesn't quite have the gumption to leave. That is, until Greg shows an interest.

With Greg by her side and offering her everything she has ever wanted, Kate thinks she has finally met her prince. But will temporary feelings have permanent consequences?

This book contains graphic sex and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

Kalopsia

Lucinda Lamont

Copyright (C) 2018 Lucinda Lamont

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To all of my wonderful friends who demonstrate love and compassion on a daily basis.

Chapter 1

God I'm bored. How can I be bored, sipping on a large G&T, sitting outside a vibrant bar on La Rambla in Barcelona? Because, he's boring. I must do something about this. I'm not even happy on holiday anymore. Look at his stupid face. He doesn't even know I'm bored. We haven't spoken since we sat down and he doesn't even care. Maybe he likes to be quiet but I don't. I like to have fun, especially on holiday. If I was with my friends now we would all be struggling to get a word in edgeways and having a great time. But no, that doesn't happen with him. He enjoys being a moody bastard, at least it certainly seems that way. Oh well, at least I'm not at work. Although saying that, I have a laugh at work. My colleagues make me laugh but Tom doesn't. Tom doesn't know how to spell the word laugh let alone actually do it. The most excitement I've had today is this G&T. They've put a cinnamon stick in it which threw me a bit. As I watched the barman get out his jar of Gin accessories I thought, steady on Pedro, cool your jets but he assured me it was all the rage and to give credit where it's due, it works. Pedro knows his Gin alright. That excitement lasted about sixty seconds and now I'm sat here with Mr Miserable. Mr 'I can't let you out of my sight and I will never make you happy but if you leave me I will kill you' and I'm having an utterly shit time with the miserable, controlling prick.

Across the way there is another bar, well, La Rambla is crammed with bars from top to bottom. All of them heaving with bohemian residents and excitable tourists all wanting refreshment in the wonderful Mediterranean heat. Refreshments and big juicy olives and bread you can dip in oil and balsamic vinegar. Divine. There is a girl right in my eye line and she is laughing. Bitch. Look at her with her boyfriend/husband who makes her laugh heartily. She isn't even fake laughing like I do when he tells me one of his jokes that even a twelve-year old wouldn't find funny, but I detect his attempt at humour and offer the most lacklustre chuckle on autopilot. I wonder what he said to her to make her so happy? Maybe it wasn't even that funny, she just likes him. It's easier to find people funnier when you actually like them. Maybe it's her gay best friend. That's why she is in stitches because he's always funny. Not an arsehole most of the time but suddenly has a funny side when he has an audience. Yeah, I bet that's it.

We arrived in Barcelona two hours ago and already he was beginning to drink himself into oblivion. I haven't always hated him. There was a time when I was attracted to him, I think it was just before he revealed himself to be a complete wanker. We had a year of bliss, barely argued. He was charming, he tried with my friends and my family and always wanted to be with me. Everywhere I went, everything I did, he was there. Right by my side. The problem is I should've spotted that he was insecure, possessive and controlling but because the boyfriend before him couldn't care less whether he saw me once a week or once a month, I took Tom's behaviour as a good thing. I thought we were having a proper relationship and building a life together.

He has a kid. The last boyfriend had a moped. He has a serious job…and serious baggage. All of this I took, bizarrely, as a good thing. I thought it was the most grown up relationship I had ever had and that this is what people do. I was twenty five and he was thirty eight when we met. He was divorced and needy. I was getting broody and needy. Needy for a serious relationship. As I said, the first year was great. He swept me off my feet. He took me away on romantic weekends without warning – meaning I had to cancel plans I had made with friends because he had 'surprised' me. My friends didn't mind the first, second and some, the third time. By the fourth time they all hated him and could see what I couldn't. Even this weekend, here we are in Barcelona when we were supposed to be staying with my friends in London. He booked the trip this morning and I had to let my friend, Sam, down again. She went mental, told me he was a dick and slammed the phone down. Tom said she wasn't a nice friend and that I shouldn't waste my time with people like her. I knew she was right but I didn't want him punching the kitchen cupboard doors next to my face again if I challenged him so I put on a fake smile, reluctantly packed my weekend bag and told Sam we weren't coming – again. She was in the supermarket buying all the food and drink for the spread she was planning and she cried as she tried to juggle her two small children and her disappointment with me, who she had been so desperately looking forward to seeing apparently.

I don't know why half my friends talk to me anymore. The amount of invitations I have accepted but cancelled later or just simply failed to show. My friend Claire told me recently I am now on her 'invite but won't turn up' list. That made me feel sad. To be honest, I didn't realise my friends liked me as much as they did until I started pissing them off. Now I have realised as I am losing them all. I'm losing them all because of this prick sat next to me.

I have been desperate to escape for some time. Desperate to end this miserable relationship but the truth is, he scares me. He told me if it wasn't for his daughter, he would have his ex-wife killed. He said he knows people that would do it for him. I had been in an abusive relationship when I was seventeen. It ended with me in the back of an ambulance with a broken nose. I swore I would never end up in something like that again. But I have. In fact, I think this is worse. This one is mental abuse. That's the reason we clash so much because I won't bow down to him. He is a bully but he won't leave me. I wish he would. I have even thought about how I would pretend to be upset if he told me it was over. I couldn't show him how thrilled I was because he might have me murdered so I would have to pretend to be devastated. I think I could pull it off.

Women are very good when they want something. I'm pretty sure I could pull it off. Please don't go Tom! Please! We can fix this. Don't break the dream, don't take it away! I am nothing without you. You complete me! I'll even let you paint me like one of your French girl's! Then pose like Kate Winslet did in Titanic and gesture towards him to paint me. He would laugh at how desperate I was, thrilled that he had won but as soon as he left and the front door had closed I could pop open the bubbly and put on Katrina and The Waves – Walking on Sunshine, on my boom bar full blast. Loud enough for him to hear it as he got in his car outside and then he would look in to the window with a face full of venom and I would be dancing and laughing at him whilst giving him the two fingers with both hands. Ok, perhaps I am thinking about this too much.

'Do you want another one babe?'

Bloody hell, he's drinking quickly. I hate it when he calls me babe in his horrible mock cockney voice. I don't mind a cockney voice as it goes but his is more Joe Pasquale and basically, I just don't like anything about him anymore. I don't like his stupid voice or his stupid face.

'Yeah go on then. Why not. We are on holiday I suppose.'

I don't look at him. I just continue to people watch up and down La Rambla. God, I love it here. I love all the stalls which all sell exactly the same things. Fridge magnets, postcards, aprons, castanets, playing cards, keyrings and the like. I wonder how they all manage to survive when they are all selling the same stuff? These people inspire me. They are always jolly and they never stop trying to get the sale. They reach out to any passer-by that they can make eye contact with and ninety nine percent of the time not only do they not get the sale, they don't even get acknowledged. I always say, 'No thank you' and I give them a big smile. I doubt it helps but I just admire their tenacity.

I look around and see him sitting there smirking away to himself. Why does he always do that? Sitting there smirking, what's he got to be so happy about? Then I notice he is ogling a hen party at a bar opposite. The group of women are barely dressed and extremely inebriated. Just how he likes his women I suppose. Fingers crossed one of them is up for it, they can have him. I wish I was here on my own and then some hunk with a tanned and toned body which is dripping in oil (hey this is my fantasy, don't judge) would come and sit next to me and charm me with his Spanish and we would fall in love because he would be a bloody nice bloke and not a complete wanker.

'So babe, where do you want to eat tonight?'

'Well, there is a place in the Gothic Quarter that has top ratings on Trip Advisor. The chef is Irish apparently. I thought maybe we could check that out?'

'Gothic Quarter? I'm not going there. Won't it be full of freaks who are miserable and they all have black hair? Fuck that babe. Let's go to an Irish bar, the footy is on tonight.'

'What is the point in asking me then if you already knew what you wanted to do?'

'Don't start a row with me babe, we are on holiday. Why have you always got to fucking start a fight.'

'How have I started a row? You asked me a question?'

'Shut up, you silly cow, you are always looking for an argument.'

And, so it begins. We landed less than twelve hours ago and he has probably had twice the amount of drinks than we have had hours here. Welcome to another lovely trip away with this prick.

The evening went on and I managed to get by without an argument by simply keeping my mouth shut and massaging my darling spouse's ego. I laughed in the right places, faked interest in his stories and said that I would be delighted to go to the Irish bar and have chicken wings and watch the footy.

Did I want to go down near the water and find a nice Mediterranean bar serving up local cuisine? Nah! Did I want massive shrimps loaded with garlic and oil? No way José! Did I want a cocktail whilst listening to the water lapping the shore on the wonderful man-made beach of Barcelona? No Sir-ee! Please, let's travel to a foreign country and pile into a place that is full of British tourists, watching British sport and eating food that can be found in any dump back in Britain.

Anything that can be served as a feast or super-sized or gigantic is vulgar to me. I want enough food. I don't want a tiny portion that is only good for an Instagram photo. I want a normal portion. You shouldn't get a pat on the back for over indulging. It's nothing short of grotesque. When he finished his ridiculous amount of chicken wings and looked at me with orange sauce all around his mouth, I wanted to ask him how he managed to get out of his highchair, ask him where his bib was and start wiping his face. The fact that he was so pleased with himself made him look a bigger tool than normal. I managed to drift through the evening in a haze of spiced rum and ginger beer loveliness.

He was much more tolerable when I was wrapped up in the warm embrace of alcohol. That was the other problem. He is a big drinker and so I have become a big drinker. I am nowhere near on his level of dependency despite his best efforts. I nag him about his drinking because he does it every day and it's not just a beer. It starts off with about three beers and then he will open a bottle of wine and then he moves on to the shorts. Every. Day. I have tried telling him I don't want to drink everyday but I come in from work and he already has one poured on the side waiting for me. I guess we both win if I drink. I find him more bearable and as a result, I am probably nicer to him. He's like a drug dealer keeping me topped up on his opium, never letting me have a day off in case I get a taste of how good seeing and thinking straight could be. The more he keeps me boozed up, the more he can try and control me and our miserable life. What he doesn't realise is that he doesn't need to try that hard or spend that much. I'm too scared to leave him anyway, in case he kills me.

Chapter 2

I woke up next to him snoring this morning in his deep, boozy, Barcelona stupor. I deserve a medal for not elbow dropping him there and then as I crept out of bed and into the shower. On the way back from the bar last night, he tried getting all fruity with me and became quite forceful. He tried getting me to have sex with him in an alleyway, against a bin of all places. He was hammered. This is what he does. Treats me like crap all day and then pretends to be nice when he's drunk knowing full well that he will want sex by the end of the night. He thinks I can't see through him. He thinks he's clever. I think he's disgusting and I must start making a plan to get away from him.

After my refusal to have sex on a bin we broke out into an argument as we walked back to the hotel. He called me the usual. A boring bitch. A miserable cow. He said it's not right for me to refuse him and that he won't be happy unless we have sex that night. As we got back to our room I told him that we would not be having sex. I cried. He had been so horrible and aggressive. I explained that I didn't like it when he got this drunk and that it didn't make me want to have sex with him. He pushed me onto the bed. He told me to shut up. I pushed him off. He lay on top of me with his hand around my throat. He told me I was nothing but a frigid bitch and that he would find it somewhere else. He then left the room.

I didn't care. I was glad he left me alone. As I drifted off to sleep, I prayed that he would never return.

As the morning sidled in through the shutters I was disappointed to see my prayers hadn't been answered so I got up and showered. I knew what was coming next. He would be up soon and he would act like nothing happened. He would dismiss all of it. I wouldn't be reminding him either. When I have done that in the past, he only reacts badly and he scares me so I just roll with it. I accept it and carry on in this miserable existence, fantasising about my escape.

I was right. By the time I came out of the bathroom he had stirred. I got dressed in the bathroom because I can't bear him looking at me after a night like that. I don't want him anywhere near me. He tells me to make him a coffee and winks at me.

He's got a fucking cold sore. He went out last night to I don't know where and he has woken up with a fucking cold sore. What the hell has he been doing? Actually, I don't want to know. I gladly make him a coffee as it means I don't have to look at him. I know I said I wouldn't say anything but coming home with a virus on his face is a new low. I can't help but enquire.

'Where did you end up last night then?'

'Nowhere. I didn't go out.'

'You did. We fell out and you went out. You were cross with me.'

'I just went outside and had a cigarette to calm down. I was back in five minutes later and you were asleep.'

That's a lie, I clock watched for at least forty minutes.

'Oh right. Well, it's a new day. Let's forget about it and get out in the glorious sunshine.'

I smiled at him and gave him his coffee.

'Is that my apology? You really are a piece of fucking work, Kate. You're lucky I am so reasonable.'

'Sorry Tom. Sorry about last night.'

'Whatever.'

My stomach is churning with anxiety and stress. For the last twelve month's I have had crippling stomach pains and fatigue because of the monster that I live with. I can't tell him I don't feel well. This won't surprise you but sympathy isn't a strong point of his either.

About twenty minutes later we are both ready to leave the hotel and head out for breakfast. I feel happier now because I am safer outside. He can't scare me or be nasty to me when we are out. He likes everyone to think he is the nicest guy out there so I will now get at least eight hours of pleasantries. It pisses me off that this is how he is but the outdoor version is easier to handle than the at home version.

It's funny isn't it, yesterday I was dreading the drinking pattern starting and yet today I can't wait to down my first, oversized, fish bowl of Gin and Tonic. The stronger the better. If I drink it quickly it will make me feel numb for a while.

We are staying just a short distance from La Rambla. A few metro stops to be precise but the weather is gorgeous and so we decide to stroll and see what's around. He seems happy, he definitely had sex last night. It's so obvious when his balls have been emptied. I don't care. It saved me a job and has made today more relaxed.

When I am in Europe I love to just walk around the streets and take it all in. The air smells different. The heat feels different. The hustle and bustle is different. We were out just before the shops and cafés began to open so we saw bakery drivers and the like all delivering their goods to the various establishments. Even the drivers seem happier than British drivers. Is it the sun? Is it the heat? Is it just Spain? Or maybe they all just got laid last night.

As we stroll, I almost creak my neck looking up at all the tall apartment buildings. I picture myself opening my shutter doors and putting washing out to dry before heading down to La Sagrada Familia to meet friends for a coffee. I imagine that I would be so happy living here that I would be skipping my way down the street. Whilst I ponder that for a moment we notice that a market is being set up and coming to life as well. There is so much going on. Numerous food stalls, craft stalls, books, clothes, music. I check my watch and it's just before 8.30am. Before I know it some sort of Spanish marching band appear playing music and everyone stops to let them cross the street and continue with their parade. It seems like something just out of a movie and it makes me love the place even more. How wonderful it must be to look out to this every weekend from your apartment window. That's it, I've decided. If Tom and I split, I am moving to Barcelona.

We find a quaint little café and order some breakfast and sit outside. This is the life. Glorious sun and a vibrant community. What a great way to spend a Saturday morning. My bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt are brought out along with my fresh orange juice and black coffee. I had wanted a cheese and ham toastie this morning. I fancied the grease to soak up last night's booze but Tom ordered without asking me and seeing as we were off to a good start I didn't want to rock the boat.

We sit and eat in silence. I don't mind the peace at this time of day. It can take me a while to come around in the mornings so I am glad that we aren't talking. I am just looking around, taking it all in and people watching. I love looking at all the architecture. Gaudi's work is incredible. We are sitting not far from La Sagrada Familia and I watch the flock of tourists milling about already forming a long queue to get inside. There's no doubt about Gaudi's talent but I can't understand why he went to so much trouble to make the spires look like they were melting. Maybe it's because he had been drawing his plans for so long and in the end, he thought he couldn't be arsed and so he just drew some squiggly lines. Maybe he thought he would come back to that bit later but he died before he could and now the builders are trying to build something he didn't intend to look like that. I like that idea. I chuckle to myself.

'What's funny babe?'

'Oh, nothing really.'

'Come on, tell me.'

'I was just imagining Gaudi giving up with his drawings and that's why a lot of that building looks like it's melting.'

'What?'

'Don't worry.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

'The Cathedral. There. That fuck off massive building that is swamped with tourists, mainly Chinese. The guy that designed it was called Gaudi.'

'Really? How do you know so much about it?'

'I looked up things to see and do before we came.'

'See and do? We know what we want to see and do. We want to sit in the sun and drink. I think it's sweet when you try to be clever. You're not fooling me babe.'

We both picked up our coffee and took sips in silence.

The rest of the day went by kind of painlessly. We mooched about in the heat whilst stopping off at an array of bars for refreshments. He was happy and so, I was happy. We had lunch down by the marina overlooking the fabulous yachts they have moored up. Many of the yachts had British flags on them and one of them which looked particularly grand had a guy running on his treadmill on the third deck. What a life. Not bad for some. That's something to aspire to. Make millions of pounds, move to Barcelona, get a three or four tier yacht and have a treadmill in one of the rooms that you can use whilst looking out over the bay. What a lucky bastard. I wonder if he's single? Even if he is, he won't be looking for a twenty something, slim blonde with a psycho ex in tow.

We spent the afternoon continuing to walk and stroll and drink and eat. The life of Barcelona was seeping into my skin. I was falling in love with the place more and more.

We went back to our hotel to freshen up for the evening. As we went into our room it was clear Tom had only one thing on his mind and I couldn't think of a reason to say no. I mean, the fact I didn't want to was surely good enough but not if I wanted to be able to enjoy the rest of our weekend here and so I allowed him. He lowered his slightly overweight body on to mine. All I could smell was smoke and beer on him and he stank. His technique wasn't great either. He thought he was great.

Well he would say he thought he was great but the fact he insisted on having the lights off said otherwise. It used to annoy me when we first started out, now I thought it was a blessing. I knew that I must do something about us soon. Him being on me made me feel sick. My body would recoil and I would silently beg for it to be over as quickly as possible. These days his best was about two minutes but for me it seemed like two hours. I hated pretending to connect and be involved and the only sense of euphoria I experienced was when he got off.

I went to the shower and I cried. He was sleeping as he so often did straight after. Two minutes really took it out of him so it would seem.

I'm not naturally a quiet crier so to sob in the shower took great skill to try and do so discreetly. I didn't want him to know something was up. I couldn't talk to him about it. What could I tell him? You scare the shit out of me and I'm scared you are going to kill me and that's why I stay. I hate confrontation. It's not a conversation I can have and that's why I cry in the shower when he's not around. I am stuck between the 'run for your life or put up and make do' scenario.

Not many of my relationships have been great. What if I leave him just to walk into another disaster? At least being with him, I know the dangers. If he kills me then so be it. My time will be up and there is nothing I will be able to do about it. If I leave him I would always be looking over my shoulder.

Chapter 3

We boarded the plane to come home and I was delighted to see that a woman who thought more of herself than she should had the pleasure of sitting next to my vile boyfriend. I knew this would please him and it pleased me. I could sleep and relax knowing that he had everything he needed around him. Drinks on tap, a desperate bimbo sitting next to him and me not going anywhere. As I drifted off to sleep with my head leaning uncomfortably against the plastic window (can they not cushion the walls on these things?) I could hear her telling him that he wouldn't believe how white her white bits were. They seemed like the perfect couple. Hopefully he would leave me for her. They could swap numbers whilst I was asleep and meet up when we got back.

As I played out that thought in my head I felt a pang of pain in my stomach as memories of his cheating came back to me. Cheating he always denied but how many “ex-girlfriends could there be that hadn't gotten over him” as he alleges?

He has treated me like such a fool and I have let him crawl back time and time again. Would his phone go off through the night for the rest of our days to come? Would I catch him looking at dating websites again “because he thought he saw someone he knew on his old account that he doesn't know how to close?” How many more times would he come back with foundation on his shirt and glitter on his cheek? Or what about the time I left something at home and caught him in the shower at 11am after he had one at 8am? And not forgetting the time I was rushed into hospital with a particularly nasty virus and I couldn't get hold of him. It later turned out he was “catching up with an old friend” and was not able to answer his phone. Cock.

The last couple of days of our painstakingly long weekend passed with me playing ball and trying to do the impossible, keep Tom happy. We did the same every day. Walked around, popped in and out of shops, stopped for drinks and snacks, back to the hotel for tedious sex and then back out for the evening so he could get shitfaced and we could pretend to be happy. I couldn't wait to get home and get back to work.

How I avoided my first proper smack from him last night was strange though. We were sitting outside of the last bar, having a night cap as he calls it. I had had far too much to drink and the truth had started to come out. We were bickering. He told me how lucky I was and how I would never find someone like him again. No one else would put up with my shit apparently. I let him ramble as I struggled to keep my eyes open, I was desperate for my head to hit the pillow but we still had a ten-minute walk to get back to the hotel and I was flagging. I finally bit when he told me that above all else, no one could satisfy me like he did. I choked on my drink and sprayed it everywhere as I began to laugh which obviously infuriated him. He asked what I thought was so funny and demanded that I tell him. The moment was almost sobering but, not quite. For the first time in over a year, I found some guts or maybe it was stupidity masquerading as guts. I put my glass down on the table and looked him square in the eye.

'You are not the best I've ever had. Far from it. The best I have ever had was Jamie. He was huge and he could go for hours. Your penis is barely a penis. It's like a penis gave birth to a baby penis. I didn't care when I liked you, my love for you superseded your goldfish like penis! So no, you're not the best or anywhere near the biggest.'

I delivered it slowly and with conviction. I didn't blink and my face told him he disgusted me. What happened next, I was not expecting.

He said nothing. He stood up. Picked up his beer and downed it.

'Come on. It's time for bed.'

I stood up. Left my drink and we walked back. Silently.

He got into bed and he went to sleep. Not a peep out of him. I just hoped I would wake up in the morning.

I did wake up, clearly, as I'm now on the plane home and no more has been said. Not a word. I wonder if he can't remember. Of course, he remembers! He doesn't forget anything. No amount of alcohol effects his memory which is surprising.

He is probably planning my death. He knows I have to come home from Barcelona. He knows my friends are expecting me. He's probably making a mental shopping list of what to buy to get rid of me:

Rope, bin bags, chain saw (?), acid (?), elephant tape, shovel. Who knows how he will do it but he must be thinking about it. He wants his ex-wife dead for whatever reason and last night I told him he's shit in bed with a small willy so my cards are definitely marked.

I awoke with a thud, literally. We had just landed. I must've fallen asleep before take - off. That pleases me. Two hours of my life not wasted with him I guess. He is hammered. Him and his new bimbo mate are trolleyed. I see them swap numbers as I stir. They didn't see me wake. Mind you, they probably can't see anything in their state. I animatedly stretch and rub my eyes. He puts his hand on my knee whilst not taking his eyes off her and they are giggling away about something. I don't know, I don't care. I stand up and they try to do the same but both fall back into their seats and begin to laugh hysterically.

They are the only ones laughing. She is mixed race with a fantastic afro hairdo and at one time was probably quite attractive. She is wearing a long black maxi dress and as she is leaning forward, seemingly in hysterics, you can see straight down this dress of hers which reveals her tits. Both of them. Nipples and all. She's had a few kids. Either that or she was in an African tribe where she had to carry twenty paving slabs daily which were secured through nipple piercings in her now seemingly empty breasts. She's probably a nice lady. I shouldn't be a bitch. Actually, no. Even though he is an arse, he is clearly my arse and she knows it. So, that makes her a bitch. It can't have been twenty paving slabs, I'm upping it to forty.

The plane begins to empty and I am left to get our carry-on luggage whilst he exits with his new friend. I struggle collecting our two small cases and his three duty free bags of spirits and cigarettes. I eventually make it to the luggage collection point and I tell him I am going to the loo and so he needs to watch our stuff. He wasn't listening.

Whilst washing my hands in the basin I let out a big sigh.

'You deserve better you know.'

I look to my left to see a woman about ten years my senior.

'Sorry?'

'I was sitting adjacent to your husband and that woman. Whilst you slept, well, he's disgusting and you deserve better. Get out before it's too late.'

She squeezed my upper arm and walked out. I let a tear run down my cheek.

When I left the bathroom, he was there struggling with the bags. We made eye contact and there it was. That look of pure anger. The look that said, 'Wait until I get you home.' Great I thought.

We made our way out of Heathrow and I insisted on buying us both a coffee. He didn't want one but I certainly did. His breath wreaked. How many G&T's did he consume in two hours?

We loaded the bags into the car and I drove us off. He was asleep within minutes. Good. It was tempting to take a long and very scenic route back.

We made it back home in good time. We live about an hour or so away on the south coast. He slept the whole way back and until I woke him up. Which I did about forty-five minutes after getting the bags out. He questioned why we had gotten back so late and I said I had stopped off for a snack on the drive back and left him snoozing in the car.

So far, no psycho outburst. It must be coming. I don't know what is taking him so long. Maybe he wants me to start making dinner so he can attack me with a frozen joint of lamb and then eat the evidence.

Ok perhaps that was a tad too far. Or maybe not. Most people who get murdered must not realise they are in the hands of a murderer otherwise they wouldn't go near them? Saying that, look at me. It started off great and now he tells me what I can and can't wear and when it's acceptable for me to look at my phone or go and see my friends. A psycho doesn't reveal themselves straight away. They lure you in, that's what makes them dangerous. Maybe he's a sociopath? I can't remember the difference. I will look it up on my phone at work tomorrow and then erase my search history before I get home.