Page 71 of The Women

‘He stole her childhood,’ Marcia said, shaking her head at the screen. ‘Look at her, a wreck all these years later. He deserves to go to prison. I don’t care how long ago it was. Nonce. They’ll murder him in there.’

He’s the opposite of a predator, the absolute opposite, Samantha told Marcia that first giddy morning, before she found out his not touching her was simply his little trick to bind young, naïve women, women like her, to him. A trick refined over years. Christ, he must have smelled her a mile away, with her social anxiety, her ignorance of recreational drugs and her dislike of the city.

Is Peter, her partner and the father of her child, really the absolute opposite of those seedy men in the documentary? Or is he absolutely the same – the same but richer, better spoken, better educated, separated from those lecherous bastards by class alone? She, Samantha, is not underage. But she is much, much younger than him.This is not about love at allis the dark thought that hits her. This is about something much less romantic.

This is about power.

On she walks, to Richmond, her cheeks aflame. She reaches the bottom of the hill, the mini roundabout, where the town centre begins. Tears are pouring down her face, and only now, at risk of someone seeing her, does she become aware of them. She cannot put the tender, loving, safe man that Peter is in the same frame as some grotty predatory beast, no matter what Aisha and Jenny have said. But nor can she unsee the photograph of him with a bunch of schoolgirls, his arm around the one he was blithely violating. She cannot square away what he has told her about his past with what she feels about it, nor can she reconcile the affectionate partner he is in the evenings with the cold, abrupt semi-stranger of the mornings. In that photograph, Lottie Lewis did not look like an innocent teenager. She looked full to the brim with cheek and a healthy thirst for kicks. But she was wearing a school uniform. She was as dangerous to herself as any ignorant young teenager. Samantha knows how out of control she herself was in the confused and dissociated aftermath of her father. Even though it was with boys her own age, the memory of that time haunts her. It’s possible that, ultimately, it is what sent her into Peter’s arms.

At that sad, sad thought, her anger dissipates. She feels something reach out from her soul or her heart or wherever empathy is stored, feels it search for this woman who has committed such a terrible crime against her, this woman she has just betrayed. She imagines holding Lottie’s hand and saying,I understand. I believe you. I’m sorry.

Sobbing uncontrollably now, she pushes the pram into the alleyway that runs alongside the cinema. She stops, finds some baby wipes in Emily’s changing bag and cleans her face, blows her nose, composes herself. One hand against the damp stone wall for support, she takes purposeful deep breaths, gets herself together. Slowly she feels herself settle. It is another fifteen minutes’ walk to the café. She will use every step to calm herself down. Hopefully her face will have returned to normal by the time she meets Aisha and Jenny. Hopefully, like a mask, she will have slapped on a new face: a brave one. Lord knows, she’s going to need it while she figures out what the hell to do.

Aisha and Jenny are already in Butterbeans, at the table by the window. The café is small, packed with mismatched wooden chairs and tables. The smell of coffee is nutty, sweet, delicious. A plate of eggs and slick green spinach sails past in the hands of a hip, bearded guy no older than eighteen. He smiles at Samantha, winks at the baby. She blinks back the new threat of tears. He is so beautiful. He is exactly as young as he should be.

‘Sam.’ Aisha is out of her chair, digging into the back pocket of her jeans, pulling out a cash card. ‘Peppermint tea?’

She doesn’t argue. The prospect of sitting down is too tempting; pulling her coat from her overheated body and cooling down.

‘Thanks,’ she says, touching her hand against her breast. ‘Bit late for caffeine.’

Jenny has moved a chair to make room for the pram. She budges along the bench and pats the space beside her. Gratefully, Samantha parks Emily, sits down and sighs.

‘You sound like you’ve been through it,’ Jenny says.

‘Just a long walk. Did you get your job, by the way?’

Jenny sucks her teeth. ‘Nah. Sexist bastard asked me if I was married. Men are twats. Did you hear from the police?’

Samantha nods, and when Aisha returns, she fills them in on what Christine told her – on the surface.

‘We’re not pressing charges,’ she says as briskly as she can. ‘I think we’ve all been through enough. We need to move on and recover.’

‘That’s good.’ Aisha sips her coffee. It is only a second, but Samantha catches the look that passes between her and Jenny. Enough.

‘So, you two keep glancing at one another,’ she says. ‘I have to say, it’s beginning to piss me right off. You said we should talk, so I presume there’s more I should know.’

‘Aisha said you were asking about Ecstasy,’ Jenny says, meeting Samantha’s indignation with a sober expression.

Samantha nods.

‘Have you found some in the house? Is that why?’

‘I …’ She hesitates. This is all so private. She doesn’t even know these women, not really. But she needs the information they clearly have.

‘Did he offer it to you?’ Aisha asks before Samantha has time to speak.

Samantha looks about her, to gauge if anyone is listening in. They’re not, it seems. ‘That first night at his house. What you said about … about the way he seduces women by not seducing them. And the drugs. That was … it was very familiar.’ And oh, she told herself she would keep it together, but now here she is, crying in a café with two women who weeks ago were strangers. Her best friend, meanwhile, the person she should be telling, knows nothing. Everything is upside down. Everything is wrong.

‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffs. ‘I’m just so embarrassed.’

Jenny passes her a tissue. ‘Don’t be sorry. Or embarrassed. That’s how they get us. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for and nothing to be embarrassed about. And like you say, it could be that he’s finally changed. What do we know? He asked you to move in and he didn’t freak when you told him you were pregnant.’

‘The reverse,’ Samantha says. ‘It was me who freaked. He was delighted.’

‘Well, that’s better than I got.’ It is Aisha who has spoken, Aisha whose turn it is to well up.

Samantha meets her eye, sees pain. ‘You were pregnant?’

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