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STELLA
Derry Lane, Dublin, 2014
Stella held her breath as he circled her. He moved slowly, methodically, inspecting every inch of her body. His breath nipped the back of her neck with menace. He combed through her hair with long, cool fingers. She willed herself not to move, not to shudder, not to react.
‘Very nice,’ Matt whispered and, despite herself, she exhaled in relief. The air crackled and shifted with his elation at her reaction. She knew he was getting off on her fear. She would have to work harder not to give him that satisfaction.
Her reprieve was short-lived. No sooner had the word ‘nice’ been uttered, than a long, dissatisfied sigh was exhaled through his perfect white teeth. His face scrunched up in a frown and the vein on his forehead throbbed in protest. Matt stood back and shook his head slowly, disappointment tainting the air around them.
Damn it. What had she missed? In a frenzy Stella went through a quick mental checklist. Hair blow-dried pokerstraight by her hairdresser and friend, Charlie, earlier, exactly as Matt liked it. Her make-up was applied carefully, with neutral shades that accentuated her eyes and complemented her nude lips. Stella thought back to the night a few years ago when she’d paid sorely for experimenting with a new look. Matt had walked into the bedroom, watching her as she stained her lips red. She felt glamorous and sexy. Until he stood behind her, groping her left breast and squeezing it so tight that his fingernails marked her skin.
‘You’re hurting me.’ She protested, trying to wriggle free from his grip.
‘Oh, you don’t like this?’ he asked, placing another hand on her behind and smacking it hard.
‘No!’ She exclaimed. She was stunned, completely immobilised by his tone and actions.
He pulled away from her and said, ‘Well, you surprise me. Because this …’ He pointed to her face, ‘this trashy make-up will result in a similar response from every man you meet. You look like you belong in a whorehouse.’
Was he joking? No. His face was anything but jovial. She felt annoyance bubble up inside her. How dare he say such nasty things to her?
‘What do you know about whorehouses?’ she lifted her chin in defiance.
Looking back, she could see how bloody naïve she’d been back then. That was a time when she still believed in Matt and their marriage. Yes, he had the odd ‘off day’, was prone to mood swings. But she could forgive him those, because he loved her. Because he was all she had. That was then. This is now.
‘What did you say?’ His voice was quiet. Menace laced every word. Stella shuddered as she watched him change in front of her. She tried to locate traces of the kind, charming man she thought she’d married. Then the force of his hand landed hard across her cheek, smearing her blood-red lipstick over her chin.
The impact had been so forceful she reeled backwards against the corner of their dressing table, stabbing her side as she fell. An old injury moaned in response to his sudden assault and she tumbled down to the ground in an undignified, shameful heap. She stayed there in shock and in pain, unable to speak as she watched him come at her again. He was precise, he considered his next move. Then he kicked her hard in her side. Right where her scar was. She found her voice as she cried out in horror and pain and she begged him to stop. But if he heard her, he didn’t show it.
He told her afterwards that he’d lost control, that he was ashamed of his actions, that it wasn’t who he was. His calm, cold face and his precision in where his blow landed made a liar of him. Matt always knew exactly what he was doing. With stark realisation, Stella knew that he enjoyed every blow.
What had she missed this evening when she’d got ready? Here she was – immaculate, yet still somehow – wrong.
Stella was brought back to the present when Matt circled her once more and her eyes followed him. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that it’s all in the fine detail? You really are so careless. I swear, I don’t know what you would do without me.’
So many lies in their marriage.
‘I’m sorry,’ she kept her voice steady, light, without a note of whining. He hated it when she had ‘histrionics’. She steeled herself to look at him directly. Was it the fading light in their white kitchen playing tricks, or had his eyes changed? How long had it been since she saw love there? Had she imagined that in the first place? Now, it was like looking into the eyes of a monster. Cold and dark, his pupils dilated so much that they dominated his eyes.
He raised an eyebrow, watching her, as if he could read her mind. She looked away first, pulling her gaze from him. He always won, much better at the game than her.
Her mother’s face flashed into her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on that. Dark-blue jeans, with a sloppy, long cream cardigan that she always wore around the house. She’d had it years, it was wrapped up in every memory she had of her mam at home.
She used to say, ‘Your nan wore a housecoat nearly every day of her adult life. Whenever she got home, she’d put it on, over whatever she was wearing. This cardigan, well, I suppose it’s my housecoat. Just snugglier.’
Stella remembered a time when all her troubles could be snuggled away sitting beside her mam, with the cardigan wrapped around them both. A blanket of love and protection in that cardigan. Oh Mam …
Her mother’s voice whispered to her a lot these past few weeks. Repeating words of wisdom she’d given Stella. They had just watched About a Boy and Hugh Grant’s character was busy making a fool of yet another unsuspecting female. Mam had paused the movie, then turned to her, saying:
‘How a man treats you is how they feel about you. Do you understand? You must always believe them when they show you who their true self is.’
Stella wished with all her heart she could be back in that cardigan’s embrace, safe and loved.
‘I don’t think Matt likes me very much, Mam.’ As tears pricked, she felt her eyeliner creep its way into her eyeballs, stinging her.
But who else is there, but him?
Her mother’s voice was stern now. ‘No time for tears. Think! Don’t let emotions cloud your next move. Think, my darling girl.’
She played through her options. She could implore him to let her off whatever transgression she had committed, or she could brazen it out, say nothing and hope for the best. Somehow or other, she knew that either would likely result in the same reaction from him. She’d done this dance with him so many times, she knew the drill. This was a game to him, a cruel game of cat and mouse, where the rules changed daily.
Tonight it appeared he wanted to play.
‘You think this is acceptable?’ He pointed to a small, fine white thread that poked out from the hem of her Louise Kennedy dress and flicked it with his index finger. Her stomach flipped when she saw the offending article, so small, yet with the power of a deadly grenade. She must have snagged it when she removed the tag earlier.
