Killing Me Softly

thoroughly, then opened the wine, pouring some into two unmatching glasses.

‘It will be about an hour,’ he said. He put his hand into his trouser pockets and pulled out two slender leather thongs. ‘I’ve been thinking all day about tying you up.’

‘What if I say no?’ My voice came out in a blurt. Suddenly my mouth was dry so I found it hard to swallow.

Adam lifted his glass to his mouth and took a small sip. He looked at me consideringly. ‘How do you mean, no? What kind of no?’

‘I’ve got to show you something,’ I said, and went over to my bag and took out the photocopied letter and article. I handed them to Adam.

He put his wine down on the table and read them through, taking his time. Then he looked up at me. ‘Well?’

‘I… the journalist gave them to me and…’ I came to a halt.

‘What are you asking me, Alice?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Are you asking if I raped her?’

‘No, of course not. I mean, look at what the judge said and – oh, shit, we’re married, remember? How could you not tell me something like this? It must have been a big thing in your life. I want to know what happened. Of course I do. What the hell do you expect?’ To my surprise, I banged the table with my fist so that the glasses jumped.

For a moment he just looked sad, instead of angry as I had expected. ‘I expect you to believe in me,’ he said in a quiet voice, almost to himself. ‘And be on my side.’

‘I am. Of course. But…’

‘But you want to know what happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Exactly what happened?’

I took a breath and said firmly, ‘Yes, exactly.’

‘You asked for it.’ He poured himself some more wine and sat back in his chair and looked at me. ‘I was at a party at a friend’s house in Gloucestershire. It was eight years ago, I guess. I’d recently returned from America, where I’d been climbing in Yosemite with a mate. We were pretty strung out, ready to have a good time. There were lots of people there, but I didn’t really know any of them, except the guy who was holding the party. There was plenty of drink flowing. Some drugs. People were dancing, kissing. It was summer, hot outside. There were a few couples in the bushes. This girl came up to me and pulled me up to dance. She was pretty drunk. She tried to undress me on the dance floor. I took her outside. She had her dress off while we were still walking across the lawn. We went behind this big tree; I could hear another pair going at it a few yards away. She kept going on about her boyfriend, and how they’d had this big row, and how she wanted me to fuck her, do things to her that he didn’t do. So I did just that. Then she said I had raped her.’

There was a silence.

‘Did she want you to?’ I asked, in a low voice. ‘Or did she ask you not to?’

‘Well, now, Alice, that’s an interesting question. Tell me, have you ever said no to me?’

‘Yes. But…’

‘And have I ever raped you?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Sex is not that simple. What I do to you, do you like it?’

‘Yes.’ Beads of sweat were standing out on my forehead.

‘When I tied you up, you asked me to stop, but did you like it?’

‘Yes, but… This is ghastly, Adam.’

‘You asked for it. When I…’

‘That’s enough. It’s still not that simple, Adam. It’s about intention. Hers, yours. Did she want you to stop?’

Adam took another sip of his drink, swallowed it slowly. ‘Afterwards. She wanted me to have stopped. She wished it hadn’t happened, sure. She wanted her boyfriend back. Then, we want to change things we’ve done.’

‘Let’s be clear here. There was no point at which you thought she was resisting or unwilling?’

‘No.’

We stared at each other.

‘Although sometimes’ – he went on gazing at me, as if he were testing me – ‘it’s difficult to tell with women.’

This struck a horribly wrong note. ‘Don’t talk about women like that, as if we were all just generic objects.’

‘Well, of course she was an object. So was I. I met her when we were both drunk at a party. I don’t think I knew her name, nor she mine. That’s what we wanted. We both wanted sex. What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m not –’

‘Has it never happened to you? It has, you’ve told me so yourself. And isn’t that part of the pleasure at the time?’

‘Maybe,’ I admitted. ‘But part of the shame later.’

‘Not for me.’ He glared across at me, and I could feel his considerable anger. ‘I don’t believe in worrying about things we can’t change.’

I tried to keep my voice steady. I didn’t want to cry. ‘That night after we got married. In the cabin. I wanted you to, Adam. I wanted you to do anything that you wanted to do. The next morning when I woke up I felt wrong about it. I felt we’d gone too far, gone somewhere we shouldn’t have.’

Adam poured me some more wine, and then some for himself. Without me noticing, we’d almost finished the bottle.

‘Have you never felt anything like that?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘After sex?’

‘Not necessarily. But I know what you mean.’ He grimaced at me. ‘I recognize the feeling.’

We drank our wine together, and the candles flickered.

‘The swordfish will be marinated enough soon,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t rape someone.’

‘No,’ I said. But I thought: how would you know?

‘Shall I cook the fish now?’

‘Not yet.’

I hesitated. It was as if my life was on a hinge. I could push it one way or the other; close off one avenue or another. Trust and go mad. Distrust and go mad. From where I stood, it didn’t seem, in the end, to make much difference after all. It was quite dark outside and I could hear the steady drip of rain. The candles were guttering, casting shadows that fluttered on the walls. I stood up and crossed over to where he had dropped the leather thongs. ‘Come on, then, Adam.’

He didn’t move from his chair. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked me.

‘I’m saying yes.’

But I wasn’t saying yes, not quite. The next day at work I rang up Lily, and arranged to see her early that evening, straight after I left the office. I didn’t want to go to her seamy little basement flat. I didn’t think I could sit on the stained sheets surrounded by old photographs of Adam again. I suggested the coffee bar in John Lewis, on Oxford Street – it was the most neutral, least atmospheric place I could think of.

Lily was there already, drinking cappuccino and eating a large chocolate-chip muffin. She was wearing black woollen trousers, a shaggy mulberry-coloured jersey, ankle boots, and no makeup. Her silver hair was tied back in a loose knot. She looked rather normal and, when she smiled at me, rather sweet. Not so deranged. I smiled back tentatively. I didn’t want to like her.

‘Trouble?’ she said genially, as I sat down opposite.

‘Do you want another coffee?’ I replied.

‘No, thanks. I wouldn’t mind another muffin, though – I haven’t eaten all day.’