The Girl Before

He was probably just trying to frighten you, he says when I’ve finished. Have you told the police?

I nod tearfully. I’d phoned DI Clarke as soon as I got back, leaving out only the bit about being called a liar. He said he’d get me some pictures of Nelson’s associates to look at, but they’d almost certainly have used someone who wasn’t known to the police.

In the meantime, Emma, the DI had added, I’m giving you my private number. Text me anytime you feel threatened. We’ll fast-track a response, get someone out to you right away.

Edward listens as I relay all this. So the police think it’s just an attempt to intimidate you? Meaning it would stop if you withdrew your evidence?

I stare at him. You mean—if I let Nelson get away with it?

I’m not necessarily suggesting that’s what you should do. Just that it’s an option. If you want to be free of all this stress. You can put it all behind you and never think about Deon Nelson again.

He strokes my hair tenderly, tucking a stray lock behind my ear. I’ll make us something to eat, he says.

NOW: JANE

I sit very still, my body turned to the window so that it catches the light.

The only sound is the soft scratch of Edward’s pencil as he sketches me. He has a leather-bound notebook he carries at all times, along with a steel Rotring propelling pencil, as heavy as a bullet. Sketching is what he does to relax. Sometimes he shows me the drawings. More often, though, he tears the page out with a sigh and takes it to the recycling bin built into the refectory counter.

“What was wrong with that one?” I asked him one time.

“Nothing. It’s a good discipline, to throw away things you like but don’t necessarily need. And a picture—any picture—left in view becomes invisible to the eye within minutes.”

Once, that would have seemed a strange, even faintly comic thing to say. But I’m coming to understand him better now. And to some extent, I agree. So many things about this way of life that once seemed onerous are now habitual. These days I slip my shoes off when I enter One Folgate Street’s little hallway without a second thought. I arrange my spices in alphabetical order, just as he likes them, and find it no great hardship to put each one back in its rightful place after use. I fold my shirts and trousers according to the precise method of a Japanese guru who has written several books on the subject. Knowing Edward finds it hard to sleep if I use the bathroom after him, in case a towel has been left haphazardly on the floor, I spread them out after every shower and come back to deal with them when they’re dry. Cups and plates are washed, dried, and put away within minutes of being used. Everything has its allotted space, and anything that can’t be found such a place is probably redundant and should be jettisoned in any case. Our life together has acquired an efficient, calm serenity; a series of quiet domestic rituals, soothing in and of themselves.

There are compromises on his part, too. There are no bookshelves in the house, but he tolerates a neat stack of hardbacks in the bedroom, so long as the edges are perfectly aligned and the construction four-square. Only when the pile begins to tilt does he start frowning at it as he dresses.

“Too high?”

“Perhaps a little, yes.”

I still can’t bring myself to throw books away, not even for recycling, but the charity shop on Hendon High Street is grateful for these pristine, almost unthumbed gifts.

Edward rarely reads for pleasure. Once, I asked him why, and he said it was to do with the words on facing pages not being symmetrical.

“Is that a joke? I can never tell when you’re joking.”

“Perhaps ten percent of a joke.”

Sometimes when he sketches he talks, or rather thinks out loud, and those are the most precious times of all. He doesn’t like to be pressed about his past, but neither does he shy from it when it comes up in conversation. His mother was a disorganized, chaotic woman, I learn; not exactly an alcoholic, not exactly addicted to prescription pills—another child might have had Edward’s childhood and come out completely normal, but some sensitivity or contrary streak determined him down a different path. I talk in turn about my own parents, their relentless high standards: the hard-to-impress father who exhorted me by corporate email to try harder, do better, win more prizes; the habits of conscientiousness and diligence that have stayed with me all my life. We’re complementary, we decide: We could neither of us settle for a partner who was happy being average.

Now he finishes his sketch, studies it for a few moments, then turns the page without tearing it out.

“Am I a keeper this time?”

“For the time being.”

“Edward…” I say.

“Jane?”

“Some of the things we did in bed last night made me feel uncomfortable.”