It was November. The week of my seventeenth birthday. Snake was thirty-two.
For three days, I got up, went to work, tried to eat and sleep. My lodger lay low, made sure there was food in the house, and kept the chaos to a minimum. He invited me to eat with him at lunchtimes, which I did, on edge but still pathetically grateful for the attention.
He’s not so bad, I thought.
Wrong. He was worse.
On the fourth day, I had an early shift. I came home to find dinner on the table. Not a sandwich this time, a proper meal. There were candles and a vase of flowers. He had laid out napkins and a bottle of wine.
My heart began to thump, either with nerves or anticipation, I had no idea.
‘Happy birthday, Faith.’ He entered the kitchen, holding out a gift bag.
‘How did you know?’ I took the bag with trembling hands.
‘How could I not know? I care about you, Faith. Open your present.’
I obeyed him, unwrapping the tissue paper to find a dress. Bottle green, stretchy, short and strapless. A dress those other girls would wear – the ones Snake said I was better than.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, it’s really nice. Thanks.’
He smiled, appearing genuinely pleased. As if it mattered to him what I thought.
‘Well, food is nearly ready. Why don’t you go and put it on, and I’ll dish up?’
I took my time removing my worn jeans and sweatshirt, pulling the dress on and zipping it up before wriggling out of my bra. I shut my brain off, not able to comprehend what Snake might be expecting from all this. Knowing he always took what he wanted, but still desperate to keep pretending that I was different, that I was special. He might even love me. I might even be loveable.
Brushing out my frizzed-up hair, I heard a sound behind me.
Turning, I found him leaning on the doorframe, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
‘Well, well. Look what’s been hiding under those jumpers. You’re gorgeous.’
He stepped inside, carefully closing the door. My breath jammed in my throat. Snake, in my bedroom, his eyes glinting. Would I do what he wanted? Would I have any choice?
‘I thought dinner was ready.’
‘Not yet.’ He sat on my drooping single bed. ‘Come here.’
All those touches, the kisses, the compliments, the gifts tumbled around my brain like litter in a storm. With the twisted logic of a neglected child, I felt I owed him this.
I sat down. He put out one hand and stroked my face. ‘Don’t be afraid of me, Faith. I’m not going to hurt you.’
He lied.
Wednesday, I went round early to Sam’s to drop off some shopping and clean up a bit before taking April to choir practice.
When I let myself in, the flat appeared tidy. Slightly disconcerted, I went into the kitchen. The Formica work surfaces gleamed. New tea and coffee pots lined up smartly next to the sparkling kettle. Even the floor had been mopped.
I dumped the shopping on the table and opened the tiny fridge door. It was already full. A half-eaten cottage pie took up one shelf. The others were stuffed with salad, vegetables, a packet of chicken breasts, cheese, fresh juice, eggs and a chocolate cake.
Oh.
A prickle of irritation skittered up my spine and lodged at the base of my skull.
Squeezing a box of cereal and some tins into a well-stocked cupboard, I left the rest of the shopping and went to find Sam, ducking my head into a spotless bathroom on the way.
