But first... Surely there had to be a note with it... She rifled through the tissue paper, but found nothing. Could it be Miranda—maybe sending a rather extravagant thank you gift? She ruled that out right away, because Miranda was as short of cash as she was. Whoever had sent the dress was a mystery, and this was one mystery she was going to enjoy.
She stripped off at the bar, knowing no one could see her. She would ring the boutique tomorrow to find out who'd sent it. She checked out her reflection in the mirror. Her eye didn't look so bad. Makeup was covering the bruising.
And the dress?
It slithered over her curves without a hitch, clinging to every contour she possessed, but in a way that flattered her, rather than made her look fat. It was a dream of a dress, just as she had first thought when she saw it, but it was a gift she couldn't possibly accept. It was going straight back to the shop.
Jumping at the sound of a knock on the door, she glanced at her watch. Was it that time already? It must be Tracey arriving early to help.
It wasn't Tracey. It was Harold. And he wasn't alone. He had a hard–faced girl on his arm, and a group of friends to back him up.
"Well?" he demanded. "Aren't you going to let us in?"
"Who are these people?" Arabella asked anxiously, wishing she hadn't put on the revealing dress.
"The punishment squad," Harold said as he barged past. "Did you really think I would let you get away with last night?"
Her heart thundered painfully as the rest of his friends followed him in.
"What are you doing?"
She ran frantically from one to the next, trying to stop them from tearing up the room. They pushed her aside—threw punches at her, which she ducked as her simple flowers went crashing to the floor. They trampled on them. Broken glass and drink was flying everywhere. She tried her best to stop them, but Harold got hold of her arm, and he laughed as his friends cleared the tables she had so carefully arranged, with violent swipes that sent all the food she'd prepared to join the growing mess on the floor.
"This is the end of your Ladies Club," Harold hissed in her ear. "There'll be no more parties for you. You'll have no friends. They'll never ask you to do anything for them ever again."
Deep down, she knew that wasn't true, but she felt sick as she looked around. How was she going to make this right for Miranda? After working a bruising shift at the hospital, this was supposed to be Miranda's special party with her friends, for Randy. But now...
She watched as the hay bales she'd used for decoration were ripped apart and scattered, and then convulsed in horror as one of Harold's cronies urinated on the stage where the band was due to set up. Her stricken gaze flew to the clock above the bar. She was already trying to work out how long she would need to clear it up.
Following her stare, Harold tightened his grip on her arm, and the look in his eyes chilled her. "Do you really think this is it?" he asked in a sickening tone. "Do you really think that I've finished with you?"
Chapter Six
The first few blows from Harold's fist hurt her enough to make her cry out. The next flurry of blows became a hum of pain in her head. It was behind her eyes and in her ears, and even her teeth were rattled. She had an all–over–body ache, but she told herself she could bear it and she wouldn't cry out, whatever they did to her.
"Don't mark her," Harold said when all his cronies joined in. "At least, don't hit her where anyone can see."
She was curled up tight in a ball on the floor, hugging her knees, thinking this was an odd thing to say, when Harold's boot had already caught her in the face.
The one thing she hadn't expected was that the girl Harold had come in with would produce a pair of scissors. At first she thought the girl was going to cut her hair off, and she started screaming and begging her not to, covering her head with her arms, but Harold wouldn't allow it—he said it was too obvious, and might lead to suspicion by the police. The girl looked disappointed, but then she had another idea, and start cutting up the dress. She tried to fight her off, but Harold sat on her while the girl snipped away.
"Eurgh!" the girl exclaimed when she got down to Arabella's underwear. "I didn't think people wore things like this. Aren't they meant to bag up grain or something?"
The men, who had all clustered around to spectate, burst out laughing.
"Leave them," Harold said, getting to his feet. "She'll need something to mop up the spills."
Arabella recoiled into a very small, dark part of herself. The smell. The sound. The sudden stream of wet, stinking effluent flowing over her, combined with the derision of the men, and the girl's screeching laugh, was like a soundtrack of a horror film in which she played no part, because she was outside herself, looking in. She reassured herself that she could take a bath—she could scrub herself clean. She could take anything and everything Harold had to throw at her.
Or so she thought.
His first kick into her ribs that were still bruised from his last punishing shove made her cry.
"Now you'll part with the house," he said, aiming a second kick. "You'll do anything I tell you to do—and you'll start by giving me a divorce."
Divorce. The word shimmered through the pain with all the promise of a healing salve. Freedom. That was her talisman. Thoughts of freedom allowed her to think beyond now, to then.
"I'll take the house as my divorce settlement," Harold informed her in a matter–of–fact tone. With every word he aimed a kick. "You'll sign it over to me. Do you understand what I've said?"