I hide in my room as I can’t face coming down for dinner. I suppose my mother tells my father I’m not feeling well. I crawl under my duvet, hoping that’s all she’s telling him.
In the back garden the next morning my mother corners me, armed with a morning’s research about how to talk to victims of domestic abuse. No matter how many ways I try to tell her that I’m not abused, she comes back with a soundbite about acknowledgment being the first step on the road to recovery. She finally leaves me alone and my head drops onto my arms. The one consolation is that she hasn’t said anything about this to my father yet, as it would “break his heart.” If you can call that a consolation.
My phone buzzes.
How are you babygirl?
She wants me to go to a shrink.
It’s a good idea. A shrink will be able to tell the difference between you and an abuse victim right away. Take your mother with you.
She also wants me to go to the police.
Less helpful, but the same end result.
Aren’t you worried about being reported to the police?
No.
An hour later I get another text.
Has your mother seen Secretary? He sends me a link to the IMDb page and I read the summary. It’s about a lawyer and his submissive secretary who have an unconventional, BDSM relationship and eventually fall in love.
Are you kidding? My mother thinks When Harry Met Sally is too racy. She won’t understand a film like that.
Do you need a few days off?
No, but thank you. I’ll be okay to dance.
That wasn’t what I meant. I’m thinking about you, not the show.
I’ll be okay.
When I come offstage later that night I know he expects me to come up to his office like I usually do, but my body is a deadweight. I don’t want to think anymore, or talk anymore about what’s happened. I wait till I am heading out the stage door and then text him that I don’t feel well and I’m going home.
A few minutes pass, and then my phone buzzes.
I love you.
I squeeze my eyes shut so that I don’t cry. I know in the intervening minutes he’s gone down to the dressing room to see if I am there. I don’t know how to reply, so I don’t.
* * *
Rufus gives me space over the next few days by an unspoken agreement. I know he doesn’t like it and I can feel him watching me whenever we pass each other in the corridors or backstage. He sends me good-morning and good-night messages every day, and sometimes I reply. I’m existing in a sort of limbo. If I do nothing, nothing else bad can happen. It’s an unhappy place but at least I don’t have to make any decisions.
Nearly a week passes like this and then Gregory tells me Mr. Kingsolver wants to see me in his office. It’s a low blow, pulling rank like that.
He sits on the edge of his desk, watching me.
“Abby. You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you been eating?”
“A bit.”
“Please come back to my flat tonight so that I can take care of you. We don’t need to talk about anything.”