Page 28 of Scar

I clear my throat. “Um, hello. I was due to come in tomorrow to find a new dress. I am unable to make the original appointment, but I will be coming in first thing with my mother as she wants to see the dresses, too. Will this be a problem?” I ask.

Mumbling echoes in the background before she replied. “It sounds like there is a slight echo and you’re breaking up. Are you on a car phone?” the soft voice asks, and I realise this is a way of them asking if they are on speaker.

“No, it must be my signal.” I stand and move over to the kitchen window. “Is that better?” I ask, hoping that mother is believing this whole charade.

Scar’s deep voice comes on the line, and I have to fight everything in my body to stop from reacting. “Angel, are you hurt?” he asks.

“No, you won’t need to provide breakfast for us,” I say as in a way of an answer.

“Good, go with your mother. We will sort the bridal shop, don’t worry. You free to come back in the afternoon?” he asks.

“Oh yes, I’m sure I could do that,” I answer, smiling. I look over to my mother who is watching me like a hawk.

“Okay, good. Don’t worry, I will take care of everything,” Scar replies.

“That would be great, thank you. I know we would love to enjoy a glass of champagne.” I grin. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too, Angel,” he growls and disconnects.

I take a breath and smile before turning around to face my mother.

“All sorted. They even offered to provide us breakfast, but I didn’t want to bloat while trying on dresses. However, I thought it would be nice for us to have a glass of champagne,” I state as I go back to my yogurt.

Mother nods and gives me a tight smile. “Yes, that would be nice, and you are right. Maybe wear your shape-wear tomorrow, because you don’t want that chubby stomach of yours poking out and ruining the look of the dresses,” she jibes, her eyes flickering down. “Are they a specialist store for bigger brides?” she asks.

I don’t blanch at her insults. I’m used to them by now. It’s not that they hurt, they do. Her words will always sting, but I’m just too excited and anxious for tomorrow.

“No, it’s not.” I smile tightly before I move to put my yogurt pot in the bin and spoon in the dishwasher. “I’m going to sortsome more wedding stuff out,” I say over my shoulder as I walk out, desperately needing some space from her.

The next morning, I’m half expecting my mother to sleep in, as she rarely gets up before 10 am, but not today. She’s right on time as she walks down the grand staircase, dressed in her designer pant suit. Make-up and hair is done to perfection, as always, and her designer handbag is hanging off her arm. She comes to a stop next to me.

“Are you driving?” she asks.

I nod. “Yes, Layton gave me the keys to the Mercedes,” I answer.

“Well, come on then. Let’s go.” She tuts as she saunters out of the house.

I make a silent prayer that all will go smoothly, because if I get caught, she will make my life a living hell.

The drive over was silent except for the radio. When I started singing along, she reminded me how talentless I was and that I should stop singing, just in case the local authorities thought someone was being murdered. Deep inside, I wanted to sing more, sing louder just to piss her off, but I kept my lips tightly shut and concentrated on getting us there in one piece, all while resisting the urge to drive 100 miles an hour into the nearest tree.

I get out of the car and my mother waits for me to walk around the car and open her door for her. I do it and she walks off into the bridal shop, leaving me scurrying behind her heels. Once in, the assistants smile and walk up to us with a tray balancing two glasses of champagne on them. We each take one and my eyes dart around everywhere, wondering where he could be, and also will the assistants give anything away.

“Welcome back, Elsie. We have some dresses ready for you to try on. Mother of the bride, would you like to take a seat and enjoy our complimentary champagne and hors d’oeuvres.” Shebeams and Mother nods, her face stern as she happily sits there, drinking her champagne.

The other assistant walks me through to the back where the changing rooms are. She pulls back the curtain, revealing dresses hung up for me to try. “If you get changed, and please give me a shout when you are ready for help fastening them.” She smiles and closes the curtain behind me.

A disappointed sigh escapes me. I thought for sure Scar would be back here waiting for me. After removing my clothes, I grab the first dress when suddenly a hand covers my mouth. A screech escapes my throat, but it soon dies when I see who it is in the reflection. I instantly relax, a smile spreading across my face that it’s him. As I spin around, I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. His arms hold me close, hugging me back just as tightly. I slowly release my hold and lean back, feeling the warmth of his large hands across my back.

Looking up at him, I smile. “I’m so happy to see you,” I whisper.

He returns my warm smile. “I’m so happy to be seeing so much of you.” He winks. My eyes go wide and it’s then that I realise I’m stood in just my underwear. The dress I was about to try on is in a pile on the floor. I gasp and step out of his hold, quickly bending down to pick it up. However, before I can even step into it, he takes hold of my elbow, stopping me.

I look into the mirror at his reflection, wondering what he could want. Then I see where his eyes are pinned; the bruises on my hips and thighs. He looks away from the reflection in the mirror, then stares down at my breasts. He turns me to face him, and any other time I would be flustered and enjoy having him looking at my breasts, but not the way he’s looking at them now.

With dark fury swimming in his eyes, he trails his index finger along the flesh, over to the swell of my breast, up to justabove the cup of my bra. I shudder and my skin prickles into goosebumps.

“He do this?” he asks, his voice low and threatening. I look away, and I can feel it when he sees the bruising along my back. He gently turns me around, his fingers ever so delicately tracing over the marks. “Elsie, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on. The bruises, the finger marks on your intimate areas, then there are these,” he rasps, his voice breaking not from emotion, but from trying to contain the rage I know he is feeling. It is the same one I feel, and I see it in his eyes that he is struggling to hold back his emotions. “Elsie,” he growls my name in warning. I flinch. “Fuck.” He bends down and grabs my clothes before he attempts to start dressing me.

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