The Girl on the Train

‘What aren’t I going to like?’ he asked again, but he didn’t let go of my hand.

I told him I loved him and I felt every muscle in his body tense, as if he knew what was coming and was bracing himself for it. You do, don’t you, when someone tells you they love you like that. I love you, I do, but … But.

I told him that I’d made some mistakes and he let go of my hand. He got to his feet and walked a few yards in the direction of the track before turning to look at me. ‘What sort of mistakes?’ he asked. His voice was even, but I could hear that it was a strain to keep it so.

‘Come and sit with me,’ I said. ‘Please?’

He shook his head. ‘What sort of mistakes, Megan?’ Louder that time.

‘There was … it’s finished now, but there was … someone else.’ I kept my eyes lowered, I couldn’t look at him.

He spat something under his breath but I couldn’t hear it. I looked up then but he’d turned away and was facing the track again, his hands up at his temples. I got to my feet and went to him, stood behind him and placed my hands on his hips, but he leaped away from me. He turned to go into the house and without looking at me, spat, ‘Don’t touch me, you little whore.’

I should have let him go then, given him time to get his head around it, but I couldn’t. I wanted to get over the bad stuff so that I could get to the good, so I followed him into the house.

‘Scott, please, just listen, it’s not as awful as you think. It’s over now. It’s completely over, please listen, please—’

He grabbed the photograph of the two of us that he loves – the one I had framed as a gift for our second wedding anniversary – and threw it as hard as he could at my head. As it smashed against the wall behind me, he lunged, grabbing me by the tops of my arms and wrestling me across the room, throwing me against the opposite wall. My head rocked back, my skull hitting plaster. Then he leaned in, his forearm across my throat, he leaned harder, harder, saying nothing. He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to watch me choke.

As soon as my bag is packed, I start unpacking again, stuffing everything back into the drawers. If I try to walk out of here with a bag, he won’t let me go. I have to leave empty handed, with nothing but a handbag and a phone. Then I change my mind again and start stuffing everything back into the bag. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t be here. I close my eyes and can feel his hands around my throat.

I know what I decided – no more running, no more hiding – but I can’t stay here tonight. I hear footsteps on the stairs, slow, leaden. It takes forever for him to get to the top – usually he bounds, but today he’s a man ascending the scaffold. I just don’t know whether he’s the condemned man or the executioner.

‘Megan?’ He doesn’t try to open the door. ‘Megan, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.’ I can hear tears in his voice. It makes me angry, it makes me want to fly out there and scratch his face. Don’t you bloody dare cry, not after what you just did. I’m furious with him, I want to scream at him, tell him to get the hell away from the door, away from me, but I bite my tongue, because I’m not stupid. He has reason to be angry. And I have to think rationally, I have to think clearly. I’m thinking for two now. This confrontation has given me strength, it’s made me more determined. I can hear him outside the door, begging for forgiveness, but I can’t think about that now. Right now, I have other things to do.

At the very back of the wardrobe, in the bottom of three rows of carefully labelled shoe boxes, there is a dark-grey box marked ‘red wedge boots’, and in that box there is an old mobile phone, a pay-as-you-go relic I bought years ago and hung on to just in case. I haven’t used it for a while, but today’s the day. I’m going to be honest. I’m going to put everything out in the open. No more lies, no more hiding. It’s time for Daddy to face up to his responsibilities.

I sit on the bed and switch the phone on, praying that it still has some charge. It lights up and I can feel the adrenaline in my blood, it’s making me dizzy, a little bit sick, and it’s making me buzz, as though I’m high. I’m starting to enjoy myself, enjoy the anticipation of putting everything out there, confronting him – all of them – with what we are and where we’re going. By the end of the day, everyone is going to know where they stand.

I call his number. Predictably, it goes straight to voicemail. I hang up and send a text: I need to talk to you. URGENT. Call me back. Then I sit there, and I wait.

I look at the call log. The last time I used this phone was April. A lot of calls, all of them unanswered, in early April and late March. I called and called and called, and he ignored me, he didn’t even respond to the threats I made – I’d come to the house, I’d talk to his wife. I think he’ll listen to me now, though. I’m going to make him listen to me now.

When we started all this, it was just a game. A distraction. I used to see him from time to time. He’d pop by the gallery and smile and flirt, and it was harmless – there were plenty of men who came by the gallery and smiled and flirted. But then the gallery closed and I was here at home all the time, bored and restless. I just needed something else, something different. Then one day, when Scott was away, I bumped into him in the street, we started talking and I invited him in for coffee. The way he looked at me, I could see exactly what was going through his mind and so it just happened. And then it happened again, and I never meant for it to go anywhere, I didn’t want it to go anywhere. I just enjoyed feeling wanted; I liked the feeling of control. It was as simple and stupid as that. I didn’t want him to leave his wife; I just wanted him to want to leave her. To want me that much.

I don’t remember when I started believing that it could be more, that we should be more, that we were right for each other. But the moment I did, I could feel him start to pull away. He stopped texting, stopped answering my calls, and I’ve never felt rejection like that before, never. I hated it. So then it became something else: an obsession. I can see that now. In the end I really thought I could just walk away from it, a little bruised, but no real harm done. But it’s not that simple any longer.

Scott is still outside the door. I can’t hear him, but I can feel him. I go into the bathroom and dial the number again. I get voicemail again, so I hang up and dial again, and again. I whisper a message. ‘Pick up the phone, or I’m coming round there. I mean it this time. I have to talk to you. You can’t just ignore me.’