As Naomi reached for a jumper, the lipstick rolled onto the floor. She shuddered, hearing his brash footsteps.
He scanned the room, his territory.
‘The lipstick?’
She reached for the tube but he got there first.
He read the label using his TV voice. 999, Christian Dior.
Fingers pinched her as he painted her lips.
‘Wear the red Fendi sheath.’
Naomi did as she was told.
Afterwards he made a call.
‘Julia, Darling. It will be a pleasure to spend time with you. We should chat about the new series.’
In the car he grabbed her neck, choking her.
‘Boo!’.
‘Why don’t you just do it?’ Her voice sounded small, held his attention.
‘Where did that come from?’
He hit her, back of her head.
Many guests knew him. Others recognised him from Channel 5. They wanted to celebrate him for the talented chef he undoubtedly was, wanted to meet his beautiful girlfriend.
‘He speaks of you with devotion.’
‘Naomi…? Gosh you’re one lucky girl.’
‘Does he do all the cooking? Magic hands.’
Those hands. Back of her head. Around her throat. Between her legs.
The following day he was missing. Naomi would have cherished the time had she known it was hers.
She might have considered an escape plan but she was frightened. Always.
When he returned, he woke her. He was high and smelled of someone else. Sweat, Miss Dior.
Once, he used to buy her roses, devoted to her happiness.
Everything changed after she lost their babies. He changed. She used to ask questions, trying to understand. Now capacity for planning had disappeared. Sometimes she prayed.
She wasn’t allowed on the internet.
Everything they bought was ordered by him and delivered to him. He manipulated every opportunity.
He especially treasured his chef’s knives, made from hagane. His favourite had a blade 65 mm long. He told her that as he was drawing the blade across the skin of her white throat.
The door slammed and she knew he would hurt her. Naomi shuddered. He was incoherent, laughing hoarsely like a low-grade actor. His face was contorted. White powder on his right nostril.
‘There she is. My beautiful…… very own slave.’
He reached for her hair, slipped on the wet tiles. His face slapped against the unforgiving worktop. Naomi shrieked. His cheek split, fresh red blood trickled down his face. He rubbed it with the back of his hand, became agitated.
‘God. I’m bleeding. Get a towel. Wash my face you stupid bitch. Don’t just stand there’.
‘You did this? You pushed me?’
Naomi felt light as if she was floating.
‘No!’ she whispered, searching for a towel.
In the drawer was his beloved knife, cold to the touch.
Naomi would never properly recall what had happened.
He was hurt, more blood was flowing, spilling on the tiles. Thick red everyday blood, spreading over the shiny pristine floor, like a painting.
Naomi watched it.
He fell, maniacal, thrashing. And then everything was quiet.
He scanned the room, his territory.
‘The lipstick?’
She reached for the tube but he got there first.
He read the label using his TV voice. 999, Christian Dior.
Fingers pinched her as he painted her lips.
‘Wear the red Fendi sheath.’
Naomi did as she was told.
Afterwards he made a call.
‘Julia, Darling. It will be a pleasure to spend time with you. We should chat about the new series.’
In the car he grabbed her neck, choking her.
‘Boo!’.
‘Why don’t you just do it?’ Her voice sounded small, held his attention.
‘Where did that come from?’
He hit her, back of her head.
Many guests knew him. Others recognised him from Channel 5. They wanted to celebrate him for the talented chef he undoubtedly was, wanted to meet his beautiful girlfriend.
‘He speaks of you with devotion.’
‘Naomi…? Gosh you’re one lucky girl.’
‘Does he do all the cooking? Magic hands.’
Those hands. Back of her head. Around her throat. Between her legs.
The following day he was missing. Naomi would have cherished the time had she known it was hers.
She might have considered an escape plan but she was frightened. Always.
When he returned, he woke her. He was high and smelled of someone else. Sweat, Miss Dior.
Once, he used to buy her roses, devoted to her happiness.
Everything changed after she lost their babies. He changed. She used to ask questions, trying to understand. Now capacity for planning had disappeared. Sometimes she prayed.
She wasn’t allowed on the internet.
Everything they bought was ordered by him and delivered to him. He manipulated every opportunity.
He especially treasured his chef’s knives, made from hagane. His favourite had a blade 65 mm long. He told her that as he was drawing the blade across the skin of her white throat.
The door slammed and she knew he would hurt her. Naomi shuddered. He was incoherent, laughing hoarsely like a low-grade actor. His face was contorted. White powder on his right nostril.
‘There she is. My beautiful…… very own slave.’
He reached for her hair, slipped on the wet tiles. His face slapped against the unforgiving worktop. Naomi shrieked. His cheek split, fresh red blood trickled down his face. He rubbed it with the back of his hand, became agitated.
‘God. I’m bleeding. Get a towel. Wash my face you stupid bitch. Don’t just stand there’.
‘You did this? You pushed me?’
Naomi felt light as if she was floating.
‘No!’ she whispered, searching for a towel.
In the drawer was his beloved knife, cold to the touch.
Naomi would never properly recall what had happened.
He was hurt, more blood was flowing, spilling on the tiles. Thick red everyday blood, spreading over the shiny pristine floor, like a painting.
Naomi watched it.
He fell, maniacal, thrashing. And then everything was quiet.
