Page 31 of Born To Be Bad

He recoils. “I would never hurt you, Ivy. Never.”

“Too late,” I reply.

“Please forgive me. Please take this,” he tries to hand me the huge bouquet of cream roses.

I don’t take them. “Jeff used to buy me flowers after he hit me,” I say.

“I’m not Jeff. I’ll never hit you.”

“That’s not enough. Not hitting me is not enough. I won’t stay with a man who treats me like you did in there. Who yells at me.”

“Of course,” he insists. “Of course you won’t. You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Well, it’s true. I know I’m not good enough for you. I’ve known since I saw you at that protest. But that’s not going to stop me wanting you. Loving you. You make me want to be a better person.”

“Well, it’s not working,” I reply. His grimace hurts.

For the first time I can remember, I don’t want to be in Alistair’s company. “I’m going for a walk.”

“I’ll come wi?—”

“Alone. I need to think.”

“Ivy. Don’t leave,” he pleads. He puts the flowers into my hands and clamps my fingers closed around the stalks. I don’t resist. I turn and exit the lobby, binning them at the door.

I head out of the hospital and walk blindly, oblivious to where I’m going. The heavens open up and drench me. I shake my fist at the sky. It’s clearly on Alistair’s side. The last time we argued, the outcome was torrential. Note to self: when fighting with Alistair, come armed with an umbrella. It’s difficult to look like a savvy take-no-shit woman when you resemble a drowned rat.

Fuck it, I think, and just keep walking. When you reach peak saturation, there’s no getting wetter, so I may as well keep going. I’ll think of it as a cleanse. May the rain wash away the knot in my stomach and the sting in my heart.

My intuition is quiet now, or perhaps just drowned out by the downpour. I channel Becks instead. What would she say?

St. Ives, beloved, what did you expect?

No, I argue with the phantom version of my best friend. That’s not fair. Alistair has given no indication of violence toward me, ever.

His true self, though.

Again, unfair.

Is he not a feared figure in the London mafia?

Okay, I’m not enjoying this inner dialogue at all.

Then put it this way, says imaginary Becks. Ignore the fact that you’re dating a violent, powerful, morally gray man.

When you put it like that…

Then the question remains. What did you expect? And by that I mean, did you think you’d never argue? Did you think he’d be perfect in every way?

He can’t be that controlling though. Ariana needs loving guidance, not force.

Ivy, you sexy bitch! Stop lying to yourself. You LOVE that he is so controlling. It makes you feel safe.

Ugh. This isn’t working. I need the real Becks. I would call her if the rain wasn’t so loud—and if my phone was waterproof. Maybe I can duck into a coffee shop, I think, but there are none in view.

So I keep walking in the rain, sulking, a Snow Patrol song on repeat in my head. When I start shivering, I think I’d better catch a cab home. I try to signal a taxi but it just rushes past, sending a wave of dirty puddle water over me. I want to remove my ruined shoes and throw them at his rear window, but I restrain myself. It’s not the cabbie’s fault that I’m in need of an ark.

---