Autobiography

He always made the tea too sweet. Even if it hadn’t been, she still would have felt sick. She couldn’t shake the crawling feeling on her skin, as though his hands were still on her. She couldn’t avoid inhaling his smell of sweat and cigarettes.

She’d made him angry. He was focused intently on the television, absorbed in the machinations of a game she didn’t much care to understand, but now and then an expression would flash across his features — just for a moment — and the fist that rested on his knee would clench a little. She should have been receptive, Margaux reflected. It would have been unpleasant, humiliating, but at least it would have been over relatively quickly. Too late now. Too late.

She could always apologise, of course. She could always…

But as she looked at him she knew she could never bring herself to do it. Doing what she was told was one thing… initiating something willingly was another.

She picked up her book, stared down at the lines on the page without reading them, and listened for the sound of a car engine.

*

When the match ended, Robert started flicking through the channels. She could only assume that it was in search of more sports programming.

“I know you’re not reading that book. You haven’t turned the page in twenty minutes.”

Margaux didn’t answer for a moment, searching for a neutral response.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Just… thinking.”

“I’ll bet I can guess what about.”

“Must you?”

“Yes, I rather think I must,” he replied, mocking her accent. Margaux frowned. “I’ll bet,” he began in a leisurely tone, “you were thinking about…”

She was bracing herself for any number of obvious guesses: she was thinking about rescue; thinking about revenge; thinking about what might have happened if she hadn’t come home that night. Instead he settled in his seat, glanced casually down at his fingernails and said:

“I’ll bet you were thinking about how to get around me.”

Margaux was silent. Trying to keep any kind of expression from her features.

“You were thinking, how am I going to get out of giving Bobby what he wants? Well, I’ll save you some planning, love, and tell you you’re not going to.”

Margaux didn’t like to admit to herself that she had judged the man on his outward appearance alone, but it seemed she had. She has mistaken Robert for the basest kind of thug, she realised, when in reality he was something more. Something worse.

“There’s no need for that face, Margaux. It’s not all bad. You give me something I want, I’ll give you something you want.”

“What… I want?”

This was all sounding very familiar. Margaux was beginning to wonder whether this wasn’t their standard M.O.

“I hear that Bill and yourself have a deal.”

“…Did Bill tell you that?”

“Let’s say he did.” Margaux took that as a no. “How about we make a deal of our own?”

Silence again from Margaux.

“I can get you things. Things you want, things you need. I could get you new books.”

“I’m not a prostitute. You can’t just bribe me to have sex with you.”

“Love, love, did I say that?” She scowled at him. He laughed. “Look, I’m not interested in what Bill gets up to with you — how he gets his rocks off is no business of mine —”

“It’s not like that.”

“I’m sure it’s not, love.” His voice practically dripped with condescension. “My point is, Margaux… Bill might be leading this operation, but there are two people here with absolute power over what happens to you. And I think you’ve forgotten that.”

The look he gave her sent an ugly chill down her spine. She swallowed nervously.

“I’m giving you a great deal here, Margie. You know what I could do to you if I wanted to.”

She nodded. Her throat felt dry suddenly. “I know.” She looked down at the musty book in her hands. This wasn’t really about getting something in return for her humiliation, it was about avoiding something worse. The reality of it hung between them in the silence.

“So?”

“…Alright.”

“There’s a girl.” He reached across the sofa and patted her knee. She flinched. “You can go now.”