Behind Closed Doors

We go downstairs and in the hall, he takes my coat from the cupboard and holds it open while I slip my arms into it. In the drive outside, he holds the car door for me and waits until I’m in. As he closes it behind me, I can’t help thinking it’s a shame he’s such a sadistic bastard, because he has wonderful manners.

I don't suppose I could have a whiskey instead of the wine, could I?" "Whiskey?" "Yes" "I didn't know you drank whiskey." "And I didn't know you were a psychopath. Just bring me a whiskey

I can’t help thinking it’s a shame he’s such a sadistic bastard, because he has wonderful manners.

I cry even harder, thinking of how it could have been, of how I thought it would be. For the first time, I want to give up, to die, because suddenly everything is too much and there is no solution in sight.

I look around at everybody laughing and joking together and struggle to understand my life has become a living hell that nobody present could even begin to imagine

When I look at him I feel dismayed as I always do at how normal he looks, because surely there should be something--pointed ears or a pair of horns--to warn people of his evilness.

Do I detect a renewal of your fighting spirit? I'm so glad. To tell the truth, I've been getting quite bored. Bring it on, Grace--I'm waiting for you.

The door opens and he stands in the doorway, my handsome, psychopathic husband.

Fear,’ he whispered. ‘There is nothing quite like it. I love how it looks, I love how it feels, I love how it smells. And I especially love the sound of it.’ I felt his tongue on my cheek. ‘I even love the taste of it

Pretending to be broken would be much harder, simply because it was in my nature to fight back.

Without routine, there is no risk of me becoming institutionalised and unable to think for myself. And I must think for myself.

it’s a shame he’s such a sadistic bastard, because he has wonderful manners.

What colour was Millie’s room, Grace?

Stunned, I sat down on the bed, reading the message over and over again, convinced I had misunderstood it in some way. I couldn’t believe that Jack would have written something so cruel or been so cutting. He had never spoken to me in such a way before, he had never even raised his voice to me. I felt as if I’d been slapped in the face. Surely I deserved some explanation and, at the very least, an apology? I needed to talk to someone, badly, so it was sobering to realise there was no one I could call. My parents and I didn’t have the sort of relationship that would allow me to sob down the phone that he had left me by myself and for some reason I felt too ashamed to tell any of my friends. Where had the perfect gentleman I’d thought him to be gone? Had it all been a facade, had he covered his true self with a cloak of geniality and good humour to impress me?

He prides himself on uttering only the truth, and enjoys that I am the only one who understands the meaning behind his words.

A smile hiding my bitter disappointment, conscious of Jack’s hand on my back.

And afterwards, as he drank in the sound of her fear and breathed in the smell of it, he wished he could keep her there for eternity.

I like you Jack, but don’t like Jorj Koony

Had it all been a facade, had he covered his true self with a cloak of geniality and good humour to impress me?

When I remember how I had truly believed on the strength of a beautiful yellow bedroom, that somewhere deep inside him lay a tiny shred of decency, I wept at my stupidity.

In And Then There None, lots of people die, and Mrs Rogers, she die from sleeping medicine.

The bubbles dance in my mouth and I feel a sudden flash of happiness, which I try to hang on to. But it disappears as quickly as it came. I

Don’t be so hysterical, it doesn’t suit you. Something’s come up, I’ll see you in the morning.

the same as I do now—you know, cooking, cleaning, gardening—when the weather permits.’ ‘You’ll have to come for Sunday lunch next time and see the garden,’ says Jack. ‘Grace has green fingers.

A post at St Polycarp’s. I was getting quite bored being at home all day.’ ‘When do you start?’ ‘Next month. I’m replacing a teacher on maternity leave.’ I turn to Rufus. ‘Jack tells me you have a huge garden,’ I prompt and, while I serve more of the beef Wellington, which, along with the vegetables, has been keeping warm on a hotplate, the conversation around the table revolves around landscaping rather

when I remembered how I had truly believed, on the strength of a beautiful yellow bedroom, that somewhere deep inside him lay a tiny shred of decency, I wept at my stupidity.