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  ‘Don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Keep looking straight ahead.’

  His voice was so quiet she could barely hear him. His breath tickled her ear, bringing back memories of the last time. She began to tremble. As he pulled away, she felt thick stubble brush against her cheek and she could smell his aftershave.

  She leant her body back into his. There were commuters packed tightly in around them so all that was visible were their heads. Nobody knew about his hands quickly moving under her skirt and on to her hipbones. They felt coarse against her smooth skin.

  He wasted no time moving downwards to her crotch. His hands came together in a V-shape from her hips until his fingers met her tight, wiry curls. He kept going until he reached the soft folds. He slid two fingers either side of her clitoris, making his way to the slippery wetness. He pushed both fingers inside. It took her by surprise and she gasped. He immediately withdrew his fingers and started massaging her smooth inner fleshiness.

  Polly tried desperately to keep herself composed. She kept glancing at the people around her to see if they’d noticed. They were all lost in their own worlds, listening to music or buried in the screens of their phones or newspapers. She tried to stay as still as possible so not to draw attention to herself, but he kept applying more pressure and force, pulling her deeper and deeper into her core. She teetered on the edge. She bit down on the inside of her lip until she tasted blood.

  Then suddenly he stopped. She felt his damp fingers trail along the tops of her thighs as he moved behind on to her buttocks. He rubbed and squeezed handfuls of flesh, the tips of his fingers bruising her. He moved to the centre and into her crevice. He used both hands to pull apart her buttocks. He pushed and probed, trying to find a way in. It burnt when his finger finally penetrated. It felt like nothing she had ever experienced before. The sensation grew more intense the further he pushed inside. She opened her mouth and let out a small cry.

  Several commuters turned round to look at her. She could see their disgruntled expressions, but she felt powerless to do anything about it.

  Before she knew what was happening, he clamped both hands around her arms and pulled her backwards. She couldn’t keep up so she ended up being dragged into the corner. The crowd reacted to the kerfuffle passively, rearranging themselves as a collective, flicking open their newspapers again and turning their backs to her.

  Once he had her in the corner, he lifted her so she was on her feet again, then quickly turned so she was facing the blackened window, completely obscuring her from view. He pushed her up against the window and pulled up her skirt. He grabbed one of her hands, pulled it behind her and stuffed it into his already opened flies. She gripped the shaft of his penis and squeezed as she ran her hand up to the tip. Her fingers lingered on the head, gently stroking. He jerked her hand down roughly. She did as she was instructed and started rubbing him back and forth harder. She felt his stubbly face against her cheek as he dropped down towards her.

  ‘Rougher,’ he whispered.

  They mimicked one another’s movements in their secret corner. She could feel his sweat dripping on to the back of her neck and his stifled moans grew louder with each breath.

  As the train careened into the next station, he bit down on to her neck and ejaculated. He pulled away, her body still trembling. She opened her eyes and took a few deep breaths before turning to face him. She felt coy and excited at the same time. She wanted some of the intimate closeness they’d had together the last time.

  But when she saw his face her smile faded.

  She lifted her hand up to her mouth in horror.

  It wasn’t him. She’d never seen the man standing before her – he was a total stranger.

  He leered back at her, then nonchalantly got off the tube.

  Ten

  Polly turned the key in the front door as quietly as she could. All the way home she’d been praying that Oliver would be out, but the thin strip of light coming from under the door told her otherwise. As she carefully pushed the door open, she could hear the sound of sizzling. He was cooking, again – it smelt like sausages and onions. Once inside, she carefully closed the door so the lock only made a small clicking sound, rather than allowing it to slam shut as she usually did. She turned as quietly as she could and crept to the bedroom.

  ‘Hey, Pol,’ said Oliver, poking his head round from the kitchen. The lounge door was open, so he could see straight through to the hallway and caught her mid-tiptoe.

  She froze.

  ‘I thought I’d make us a quick supper before we go out.’ He smiled at her, his face flushed and red from the heat of the kitchen.

  ‘Right,’ she said. She dithered over what to do – make a run for it to the bedroom, or walk into the lounge and get it over with? In the end she decided to stay put.

  He continued smiling at her through the open doorway. When she didn’t move, his brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why are you just standing there? Come here.’

  He moved towards her, his arms outstretched ready for a cuddle.

  She didn’t move. He couldn’t see the state of her in the darkened hallway. She knew that as soon as she stepped into the light he would see how filthy she was.

  When Polly had turned around on the train and seen the stranger behind her, she’d been mortified. She’d thought it had been him touching her – that she’d been touching him.

  This guy was in his late forties, neatly dressed in a grey suit and black tie. He was tanned, with a shaved head. She could see from the pattern of stubble on his scalp that he was balding. In any other situation she probably would have thought that he was OK-looking for an older guy, but after what they’d just done together he made her skin crawl. His mouth was open and breathless, he had bubbles of spittle in the corners, and his forehead and top lip were beaded with sweat. She couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been. From the first moment he laid his hands on her, she had known something wasn’t right. The way he touched her wasn’t the same as before: he was much rougher, he even smelt different, and the way he had pushed his finger inside her from behind … she couldn’t bear to think about it. She wondered how he even knew to pick her out, but then she figured she was the only one on the train dressed like a slut. Suddenly the whole thing seemed like total lunacy. What had she been thinking? She felt disgusted with herself.

  Worse still, in the confusion, she hadn’t been able to get to the train doors before they closed. She’d suffered the indignity of being squashed among the other commuters, not knowing who’d seen what. Most of them had ignored her, for which she was thankful. A few stared at her, unsure what had happened but knowing something had. Time stood still in those three minutes it had taken to get to the next stop at Lancaster Gate.

  As soon as the doors opened, Polly was through them like a shot, almost falling over her heels.

  Once outside, she had crossed the road to Hyde Park. She didn’t know what to do or where to go, so just wandered aimlessly. Her feet ached with every step. She kicked off her shoes and walked barefoot on the grass. She’d read somewhere that walking barefoot cleansed your aura – it couldn’t make things any worse. The flawless blue skies of the last couple of days were suddenly gone. The park was gloomy and overcast, and the air ripe and heavy.

  She came across a green hut that had been made into a café/kiosk. Her mouth felt dry and sticky, so she stopped for a bottle of water. She turned to walk away then stopped and decided to get some cigarettes. The guy behind the counter wasn’t expecting her to turn back. She caught him leaning over the counter, leering at her. She looked down at herself; she’d forgotten how she was dressed. She got her cigarettes and matches and marched off.

  It started drizzling so she stood under a tree to shelter. She could have stayed under the kiosk awnings, but couldn’t stand the thought of people seeing her. She lit a cigarette. She hoped that this guilty secret would eclipse all the others. She chain-smoked as the rain p
oured down. And she cried, a lot.

  By the time the rain stopped, she was marooned on her own small island of grass. She should be getting home. She blew her nose on a leaf and wiped her face on her shoulder. She negotiated the enormous puddle barefoot. Her feet squelched in the muddy ground. It was much deeper than she expected, and the water came halfway up her calves. It felt nice at the time, but, as soon as she put her shoes on, the grit irritated the soles of her feet and got between her toes.

  Now, standing in the darkened hallway dressed like a whore with her bare legs caked in mud, her hair stringy and plastered against her head, and make-up streaked down her face, she couldn’t move.

  Eventually Oliver moved forward, turning the hallway light on as he approached. ‘Wow,’ he said as soon as she was illuminated. ‘What have you been up to?’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘I know you like to make fashion statements, but jeez … this is too far!’ He laughed and moved closer. ‘Is that mud?’

  Tears began to slip out, and before she knew it she was in full flood.

  ‘Polly … Oh, Polly. What’s wrong, darling?’

  He moved towards her and encircled her with his arms. Polly stayed rigid with her arms firmly down by her sides. He smelt of clean washing and home cooking. She wanted to hug him back, but she couldn’t. Instead she leant her forehead on his shoulder and let her dirty tears soak into his T-shirt.

  She knew she’d have to explain herself. Her mind raced, trying to think of something before he asked again, but her head felt heavy and fuzzy from smoking half a packet of cigarettes.

  Before she had time to come up with anything, he pulled back to look at her face.

  ‘What happened? Are you OK?’ There was nothing but love and concern in his voice.

  ‘I’m OK. I … erm … it was just … ’ She couldn’t finish. Tears choked her.

  ‘Did something happen at work? On your way home?’

  She nodded, grasping on to anything she could.

  ‘Tell me.’ He sounded so worried.

  She took a couple of deep breaths, stalling for time. She suddenly remembered an incident she’d seen when she first moved to London. An old lady had been hit by a bike as she crossed the road. It was the strangest thing, watching her flying through the air like a kite caught up in the spokes.

  ‘I got run over by a bike.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I was crossing the road, and I didn’t see him coming, and I sort of lost my balance and got dragged along with him.’

  ‘A motorbike?’

  ‘No, a bicycle.’

  ‘A bicycle?’ He looked confused for a moment before breaking into a smile then laughing.

  She tried to laugh along, but ended up crying again.

  ‘Oh, silly Polly,’ he said, trying to control his laughter. He hugged her close again, enfolding her head in his chest. She could have stayed there forever. ‘When did it happen? Straight after work?’ The bass of his voice boomed through his chest into her ears.

  ‘Yeah … erm … no.’ She suddenly remembered the time. ‘I went for a walk in a park after work. It was on my way back from there.’

  ‘A walk?’ he said, pulling back to look at her.

  ‘Yeah, thought I’d get some fresh air, clear my head.’ She tried to make it sound bright and breezy.

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to look at her. She imagined he was studying her face for clues.

  She was forced to carry on, ‘You know … things at work are tough with James being out so much, and when I spoke to Dad the other night about Mum … ’ She started crying again.

  Oliver leant back over the kitchen counter and grabbed a piece of kitchen roll. She couldn’t imagine what she looked like, big black tears and sticky snot everywhere. He put his hands on each of her shoulders. She blew her nose. It was good to get it all out.

  ‘Is that why you’ve been cheating?’

  He said it so offhandedly she almost missed it. She looked up at him, thinking she’d misheard.

  ‘What?’

  He was gripping her a little tighter now. It was comfortable, but firm – she wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘Because you’re feeling stressed and upset?’

  Her heart started pounding. ‘What do you mean?’ The words barely came out.

  ‘I can smell it on you.’

  Her entire body was instantly rigid. Could he smell him on her? His touch? His aftershave? She remembered the damp, sticky patch on the back of her skirt; she’d felt it when she was on her way home. She was horrified to find it, and, though she managed to wipe most of it off, it had marked. Was the pungent smell of him coming from her skirt? Or the hand she used to wipe it away? Or was it her? Could Oliver smell her familiar scent? Were her own sticky fluids giving her away?

  ‘You’ve been smoking. You stink of cigarettes. I thought you’d stopped all that nonsense.’

  She could have dropped down dead.

  ‘Oh … yeah,’ she said weakly, ‘sorry.’

  He gave her that look. She hated that look. Then he let go and walked into the kitchen. ‘Go and get yourself cleaned up. Dinner’s almost ready, then we’ve got to get going.’

  ‘What? Get going where?’

  ‘To the theatre. Charlotte got tickets. She said she told you about it when you had dinner together the other night,’ he said from the kitchen.

  Polly vaguely remembered Charlotte saying something about the theatre, but she’d been far too distracted at the time to take it on board. There was no way she was going anywhere tonight.

  ‘I’m not feeling great, Oliver. I think I’ll just have a bath and go to bed.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. She’s paid for the tickets already,’ he said. She could hear him in the kitchen moving pots around and getting plates out.

  This was the last thing she needed.

  ‘I’m really not up to it.’

  He popped his head round from the kitchen. ‘Come on, go and get changed, dinner’s almost ready.’

  ‘I don’t want any dinner!’ She wanted to be alone. She couldn’t cope with getting dressed up and pretending everything was OK for the rest of the evening.

  ‘It’ll make you feel better. I made your favourite – sausage and mash.’

  It wasn’t Polly’s favourite meal at all, it was Oliver’s.

  ‘No, I’m just going to have a bath then go to bed.’

  ‘Polly, we’ve got tickets.’

  She was beginning to get annoyed. ‘I don’t care.’ She felt so uncomfortable in her clothes and her feet were throbbing.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but just a ‘pah’ sound came out, as though he couldn’t believe how unreasonable she was being. He shook his head. ‘Let’s just sit down and eat,’ he said, then he turned away, as if dismissing her childishness.

  ‘No,’ she shouted, ‘I’m not going!’

  He turned back. He looked genuinely hurt. ‘Pol … ’

  ‘I don’t want dinner. You didn’t make it for me, you made it for yourself. And I’m not going out with you and your sister again. Hasn’t she got any of her own friends to go out with?’

  Her voice was high-pitched and screechy. It sounded horrible in the high-ceilinged room. Oliver looked at her in disbelief. She’d never lost it in front of him before. He struggled for words.

  She reached out and grabbed the handle of the lounge door and slammed it shut.

  Polly sat in the bath until the steaming water turned cold. When she had first got in, the hot water had stung like crazy where he’d pushed into her arse. It made her wince.

  From the bathroom she heard Oliver on his phone to Charlotte. He told her that Polly had had an accident on her way home and they wouldn’t be able to make it to the theatre. From his answer she could tell that Charlotte was annoyed. He apologised profusely and told her that he needed to stay home and look after her. Polly prayed that she’d persuade him to go, but he kept insisting that he needed to stay. ‘Honestly, Charl
otte, I’ve never seen her so upset.’ Eventually Charlotte let him off the phone.

  He knocked on the bathroom door to tell her. She ignored him. He tried to open the door, but she’d locked it. He soon got the message and left her alone.

  When she finally got out of the bath, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the wall. She stood naked while water beaded down her body. The bruises on her thigh had completely disappeared now. She turned around and looked behind her at her reflection. She could see fresh red marks on her buttocks where the other guy had pinched into her flesh, and she noticed a small bite mark on her neck.

  She faced front again and carefully examined the rest of her body. Her collarbones stuck out sharply on each shoulder, and the hollow where they met in the middle was more pronounced than usual. The bathroom light caught the xylophone of ribs that ran from under her neck to her breasts. She touched each one in turn then moved on to the scar high up on her abdomen. Her fingers pushed and prodded the thickened mound of skin. There was a time when she could have put her finger right through it into her stomach. When they first took the feeding peg out, the hole didn’t scab over right away and she had found it impossible to leave it alone. The tender skin around it had itched and prickled, enticing her fingers to play. She’d peeled off dressing after dressing despite constant reprimands. She’d known what she was doing; it would heal eventually. Her body was littered with similar scars.

  She knew she’d lost a couple of pounds over the last few weeks. When she was in the clinic she was banned from using weighing scales so developed a new method. She spent hours carefully studying her body, getting to know the look and feel of certain bones and areas. Her hips and collarbones were the best indicators; her ribs and spine were pretty good too. She always knew she was in danger when her knee joints and elbows became too prominent: the doctors had warned her dad to look out for these in particular.