The Woman at 72 Derry Lane. Carmel Harrington
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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.
You idiot. You bloody stupid idiot.
‘I’ll sort it out, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I missed that.’ She kept her voice light, calm, even, then moved towards the hallway, to the stairway. His voice halted her.
‘Just where do you think you’re going? Come back here now!’ His voice grew louder with every word and her body trembled in response. She moved back into the kitchen, standing beside their large granite island.
She bit hard on the inside of her mouth to stall anguish. Later, while he slept, she could allow herself the luxury of tears.
She glanced at the back door. How far would she get if she ran for it? She could climb the fence into next door’s garden, bang on the woman’s back door and beg for safe refuge. She tried to remember her neighbour’s name. It was a pretty name. Rea. That was it. Despite the fact that their houses were conjoined, semi-detached buddies, she knew little about the woman. She never left the house and gossip on the street was that ‘she wasn’t all there’. No, the tired face of her neighbour, seen peeking through her window every now and then didn’t inspire confidence. Not an option.
Who else was there? The house to their left was empty. On the market for months, ever since the owner died. Linda? She lived opposite with her teenage son. But she was never in. Always out on dates. Matt called her a slut. Stella thought she was lovely, always had a smile and a kind word for her when they bumped into each other.
Was it fair to bring this drama to anyone else’s door? Probably not.
That was that, then. She didn’t really know anyone else on Derry Lane. Matt always said, ‘I like to keep myself to myself.’
He liked to keep her to himself, more like it. She was utterly alone. No family. No friends. There was just him.
Tonight they were out to impress his boss, she had a role to play: the dutiful corporate wife. Remembering this fact gave her hope. The meeting was important. He’d been talking about it all week, the need for a perfect performance from them. His boss, Adrian, was a family man. Traditional, conservative. She was sure he’d not appreciate a black eye on the wife of one of his team.
‘Thank goodness for your beady eyes. What would Adrian think if he saw me in a right old state?’ she asked evenly.
I’m thinking, Mam. I’m being brave. She felt her mother’s approval.
Matt responded with a small nod and then walked to the kitchen cabinet. She knew not to move nor make another sound. She’d pushed it enough by mentioning Adrian. Now it was time to appear contrite, seek forgiveness for her fine-thread transgression. She looked down at the wisp of cotton and her eyes blurred once more as she realised that her life had been reduced to this. There were many times when she felt like she was clinging onto her sanity and life by a fine thread, but this was ridiculous.
She glanced in the cream, ornate mirror that hung over their dining-room table and, not for the first time in her married life, didn’t recognise the woman standing there, looking terrified.
The sound of cutlery jangled against each other as he searched the drawers’ contents. Each clink rang out into the quiet and only heightened her growing fear. What would his next move be? He looked almost cheerful