‘That’s not my situation,’ I protest immediately.

She waves her hand airily. ‘Just wait for the end, will ya?’

‘Go on.’

‘She goes to her grandmother and asks for her advice. The grandmother puts three pots of water on the stove. Into one pot she puts broccoli.’

‘Carrots,’ I correct.

She nods sagely. ‘I was just checking to see if you were listening.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Now that we’ve established that you’re paying attention, we’ll carry on. And in the other two pots she puts the other two ingredients.’

‘Eggs and coffee beans.’

‘Exactly.’

I sigh. Even though I am so drunk, I can’t get Dom out of my head.

‘She lets all the ingredients boil for twenty minutes.’

‘Why twenty minutes?’

‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’

‘Go on,’ I say, and reach for the bottle again.

‘She takes all the ingredients out, and basically shows her granddaughter that the carrots went in strong and hard and came out soft and malleable. The eggs went in soft and came out hardened. Only the coffee beans elevated themselves to another level, released their fragrance and flavor, and changed the water. So all three objects faced the same suffering and adversity, but each reacted differently. When the situation gets hot, you have to decide which are you.’

I put the bottle down. ‘I feel like the carrots at the moment.’

‘That’s today. What will you be tomorrow and the day after?’

I drop my forehead into my palm. ‘Oh, Anna. My life is such a mess. I thought I was in such a good place—and now look at me! My world was like a bubble waiting to pop.’

‘Hey, look on the bright side. At least she’s dead.’

‘What?’ I gasp.

‘Yeah. At least she’s not around to disturb your fragile peace of mind with cruel physical comparisons.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I have a raging aversion to all my boyfriend’s exes. Like, seriously detest, abhor, and hate them. I get so jealous that I can’t stop pouring over their Facebook photos to examine their tans, their smiles, their outfits, in the hope of finding faults so that later I can subtly criticize them while in conversation with my boyfriend.’

She stops and picks at her nail polish.

‘In fact, one or two I’ve hated so much I even fantasized about breaking into their houses and stabbing them while they slept in their beds.’

‘Really?’ I ask, shocked.

‘Absolutely. It’s petty and childish, but I can’t help it. It’s like an addiction because I’m so insecure. I feel as if I’m in competition with them. I’d much rather a dead girlfriend who looks like me.’

‘No, I’d rather have an ex who’s alive. I can’t even consider pouring over her Facebook pictures to subtly criticize her because she’s been put on some kind of pedestal. I mean how do you compete against a dead woman?’ I ask garrulously.

‘God! I hate exes. Alive or dead, they’re just trouble. Talking about exes, I forgot to ask before, have you heard from your stalker?’

I shrug. ‘I think I frightened him off.’

‘No more midnight phone calls?’

‘No more,’ I mumble. The room has started to spin. ‘I need to pee and to get to bed,’ I say, and stand up unsteadily.

She stands and we use the bathroom together. Then she helps me to bed.

‘Sleep next to me,’ I tell her.

She smiles down at me. There’s a strange, pitying look on her face as she stands over me.

TWENTY-FOUR

I stand over her and a thrill runs through me.

I am in her space, her bedroom! How strange that hatred, in its intensity and viscosity, should be so similar to passion. Look at her! Sleeping the gentle sleep of angels. So beautiful. So innocent. Bitch!

I take a step closer. My shoes are soft-soled and make no sound. It is a warm night and a window is open. Gentle breezes make the curtains flutter. Otherwise, everything is perfectly still. It is dark, but my eyes are accustomed to the dark. I have embraced the dark, made it my friend, taken it and its terrible secrets into my heart.

I bend down so that I am only a few inches from her skin.

How sweet and divine she smells. And yet, she destroyed me without a second thought. I still remember the first time I saw her waltzing across a room and thought, wow! She’s hot. I didn’t know she was a half-woman, half-serpent. But I was a man then.

She changed me, made me into the thing I am now, a shell. I loved her for so long. But there is nothing in my life now except this all-consuming obsession I have for her. Look at her throat. The seductive curve begs you to kiss it, wrap your fingers possessively around it, and squeeze it, until her eyes fly open and watch you in horror even as her pussy curls helplessly around your rock-hard dick.

Very gently, I blow into her slightly parted lips. My stale vapors enter her pink mouth. I will contaminate you yet further, my sweet.

‘Mmm…’ she murmurs.

I freeze.

She moves away from my warm breath. Even in sleep she is moving away from me. I guess she only wants a big man. I have seen her with him. He holds her possessively. He would make a formidable enemy, but I will not be confronting him. I will just be taking her away from him.

Why? Because she is mine.

Let him be broken, the way I was, when he took her away from me. I’ve taken care of all the other men who have sniffed around her like wild animals. It was easy because she didn’t want them. She wants this one. I have followed her up to his house in the woods, which he never locks, and watched from the window as he fucked her. It made me sick to my stomach. I threw up in the bushes. I thought she was something special.

Cheap hussy was mewling like a kitten for his dick.

I feel my cock harden. So. My body still wants the little bitch. I shall have her. I shall tie her up and have her until my body feels the disgust and abhorrence my mind feels for her. I would take her today, if not for the other woman sleeping in her bed. My opportunity will come again. One of these days she will be alone again. And I will strike then.

I straighten, and, turning my head, look at my own visage. How curious. It is a pale and glowing mask in the moonlight. Looking back at me is the almost demonic face of a man possessed by rage and hatred.

Vengeance will be mine.

I stand there for a long time. Only when I have had my fill of my complete power over her vulnerable form do I turn around and leave the way I had come.

Through the front door.

TWENTY-FIVE

The wound is the place where the light enters you.

                                                                    —Rumi

I knock at the semi-detached house and Vivien’s mother opens the door. The past ten years have not been kind to her.

‘Hello, Mirela.’

‘Hello, Dom,’ she says with a smile, and moves back to let me in.

I go into the living room and look around me. Nothing seems to have changed. Everything is spotless. The kitsch decorations, the fans on the walls, the patterned carpet, the net curtains, the ornate figurines, and the bohemian crystal vases filled with plastic flowers. She gestures for me to sit.

I sit on an armchair with a crocheted lace antimacassar. The cushion is old and lumpy. I feel a sense of guilt. I should have come earlier. I should have given them some financial help. I know Jake gave money, but I should have done something too.

She takes a seat opposite me. There is a low coffee table with an oval lacy doily-like thing between us. On it she has set a crystal bowl filled with sugared almonds, a tray with a teapot and cups, and a plate covered with a napkin. She smiles at me mistily and begins pouring the tea. She doesn’t ask how I like my tea. She pours exactly the right amount of milk and drops in a cube of sugar. She hands it over to me.