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Busy Line Then came the buzzing. The phone squirmed around on the table like a helpless bee on its back, flailing frantically for assistance, but with a warning of pain on contact. It buzzed feverishly, manically, right to the edge of the table and dropped to the floor with a loud thud. I picked it up and saw that 17 messages were screaming for my attention. Nine missed calls. “Where are you?” “Where the fuck are you?” “Why is your phone off?” Switch on your phone!” “Switch the fucking phone on!” “Are you fucking serious?” “Worried my fuckin’ arse!” “The one time I fucking need you!” This was the message I paused on. Shit! What did he need? What had I done? My hands began to tremble so violently that I almost dropped the phone. I felt panic coming on and I stood up instinctively, ready to move in any way that might ward it off. But then my stomach reminded me why I was still at home mid-morning on a Monday and I ran to the bathroom. After a minute or so, I was able to steady myself and I returned to the room, sat on the bed and called him. He picked up immediately. “Where the fuck have you been?” “I’m at home. I’ve been ill, I’m not sure what’s up” “Too ill to answer your fucking phone? Have you been out again? Is that why you're sick?” “No! I’ve been in.” I had to take a deep breath which allowed him to continue “Doesn’t fuckin’ feel like it. I’ve been calling you for the last hour. I’ve been in a fuckin’ prison cell. Got arrested for you, spent the night in a fuckin’ cell and you don’t even pick up my calls or answer my messages?” “What? What do you mean arrested?” In that moment, I felt a strange sense of relief enter my body as I realised that he hadn’t been with her. “Yeah, arrested, fuckin’ arrested!” “For what?” “That other bitch. Fuck this. I’ll tell you later. I’ll be back in an hour. Come and meet me outside when I get there, I don’t want to see my mum or dad.” “OK, let me know when you’re here” “I will if you pick the fuckin’ phone up!” And with that he was gone. I realised I was shaking, but I felt strangely calm, my body almost refusing to engage with the drama that had just unfolded. It felt like that was a separate world and one which my body was not prepared to step into fully right now. It had bigger fish to fry. Or regurgitate, to be more precise. I drank some water and then, from nowhere, my stomach gurgled longingly and my head reminded me gleefully that there was a portion of that cheesecake, two in fact, just waiting to appease my hungry tummy. How strange that I could go from death’s door to ravenously hungry in a few short minutes, and that I could remain calm now in the face of what Richie had just told me, particularly given the mood he was in. Bodies were strange things. I moved slowly to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and there they were, waiting patiently for my attention. I took the nearer portion out and shut the fridge door, shuffled to the side where the cutlery drawer was, slid the drawer open and took out a small fork, then, without lifting my feet from the surface of the floor, crossed the kitchen, moving my feet the way you do when you cautiously attempt to move forwards on ice skates for the first time, until I reached the other side to where the cupboard housing the plates was, got out a side plate and continued back to the lounge where I plonked myself down on the sofa and, for about four and a half minutes, nothing in the world mattered except delivering this exquisite treat to my body. * The cheesecake worked its magic and I moved from the sofa and went upstairs to sort myself out. As I did so, I heard the front door open and with it the sound of Richie’s mother talking to a friend. I figured that it would be a bad idea to remain in the house knowing what I did about Richie, so once ready, I headed downstairs, went to the lounge to clear away my plate and took it into the kitchen where his mother was making tea for her friend while they chattered away. I took the plate to the sink and Richie’s mother waved her hand in a gesture to tell me to leave it on the side. “Feeling better? Felipe said you weren’t in a good way this morning.” “I think so, I’m going to get some fresh air, think it’ll do me good” “Yeah, best medicine” “OK, I’ll see you later,” I smiled broadly at her friend as I left the room and headed out. It was another sunny day. Read next episode

Manic Monday It wasn’t until about 8pm on the Sunday that I started to wonder what was going on. I’d taken full advantage of the day’s sunshine and the time to myself to wander about the streets, in and out of parks. Later in the afternoon, I felt a wave of tiredness come over me and decided to head back to his parents’ place, which was just as well as they’d set a place for us both at the table to eat the food his mum had prepared. It hadn’t been a concern that he wasn’t yet back as he’d already messaged to say that he was going to meet another friend at some point to borrow a particular tool he needed to help his dad put up a new garden shed and when I explained this to his parents, they seemed happy enough with this explanation for his absence from dinner. I excused myself from the table soon after eating and they could see I was struggling a bit and agreed that I should go and have a lie down. I just assumed I’d been in the sun for too long. I must have slept from the minute my body was horizontal and I woke to see that it was dark outside. I assumed it was the middle of the night, but it was only a few minutes to eight in the evening. I checked my phone for messages. Nothing. I looked to see if there had been any missed calls. Again, nothing. I called his number and there was no answer. All of a sudden, I felt the urge to vomit and got up and raced to the bathroom. I wretched, but nothing was forthcoming. Then, just as I was moving to get back up, my body convulsed and this time I was sick. Nothing much came up, but still, it wasn’t pleasant. Was it the sun? Surely not. While the day had been warm and I’d stayed in the sun, this was London, not Madrid! The fish, perhaps? It didn’t feel like full-on food poisoning which I’d had only a year before from fish and which had knocked me out for a full three days. My mind turned once more to Richie’s absence and I wondered whether this was some sort of anxious reaction to this. Where was he? I washed my face and hands and went downstairs. Neither of his parents had seen or heard from him, but they were used to this. I went back upstairs and tried his phone. It went to voicemail again. This time I left a message asking him to get in touch as soon as he’d heard it and texted him similarly. And then the spiral started. Where was he? Had they somehow made up? Had she convinced him not to leave? Apologised for the tirade I’d witnessed only a short time ago and somehow won his heart back? Was I going to be left on my own here again? Maybe they were laughing at me. My voice message, my text, my worry. Maybe I was being cast out once more. I tried to rationalise - maybe he had left his phone while picking his stuff up, or round at his friends when collecting the tools. That must be it. And then 9pm came, as did 10pm, without word. What had I done? How was this happening again? I messaged him and called again. Straight to voicemail this time. Had he switched it off so that I wouldn’t distract them? My head was filled with thoughts of them together, in each other’s arms, giving themselves to one another while the fear and the rage and the panic took hold of me and left me writhing on my bed, desperate to escape my body, my being. I cried hard into the pillows and duvet and, through sheer exhaustion, fell into a deep sleep. I awoke just before 4am with a strong urge to vomit. I went to the bathroom and was sick straight away, though it was mainly liquid that came out. I didn’t feel like I had a fever particularly, I was just nauseous. I went back to the bedroom, got back into bed and reached for the phone. Still nothing. I thought about ringing, but a part of me didn’t want to disturb them in case they were sleeping. Ridiculous, but true. I simply texted the words: “I’m worried” to his phone. There was obviously no way I was going to get back to sleep, so I got up, grabbed my dressing gown and went downstairs, making sure not to make a noise. I made a cup of chamomile tea and sat huddled on the sofa, rocking, while my being seemed to shift from intense anxiety, with thoughts and images darting from every angle of the edges of my head into the centre as if to torture me, with the only respite being a huge wave of nausea which would free my mind of any thought or image temporarily while I focused on riding the wave and reestablishing balance in my body. Then back to the torture. I remained like this, back and forth, until just after 6am when I noticed his father standing in the doorway of the lounge. “You OK? You don’t look too well. Can I get you anything?” I hadn’t heard him come down the stairs, lost as I was in my cosy little world of torture and nausea. I didn’t want to go into it with him, so I just explained that I hadn’t slept well and was feeling a little under the weather, but that the tea had helped and I was going to go and shower and change. But as soon as I got up, a tsunami hit and I scrambled to the downstairs toilet as my body purged itself of what little there was lurking in the depths of my stomach. His dad was waiting for me outside the door with a plastic beaker of water when I emerged. “I think you need to come and lie down in here” I said nothing and allowed him to guide me back to the sofa. “Shall I get you another cup of that tea you like?” I nodded and was struck by his kindly half smile. I remember noticing that the resemblance that he normally bore to Richie vanished in that moment. He came back with tea and said he would call my work to tell them I was unable to come in, but was not sure that his English was good enough to have a conversation over the phone with someone he didn’t know. I told him not to worry and that I would do it and was sure they would understand. It was rare that I had time off, but I was annoyed that it was a Monday, a classic day for high absence anyway. I reflected on how lovely the weather had been and wondered who among my office colleagues would have taken full advantage and were perhaps now in that limbo moment of deciding whether to call in sick or to bite the bullet and weather the proverbial storm. Isabella for one! And just as an image of her ordering a round of shots at the bar popped into my head, she popped into my inbox. “Amiga, ugh! Can you take care of me this morning? I’m going to need lots of nursing!” I immediately felt a pang of guilt because I wanted to be that friend but, feeling the way I did, I just couldn’t. “I wish I could, amiga, I’m sorry, but I’m in a bad way myself. Not sure what it is, but I’ve thrown up twice already this morning. I’m going to have to call in sick.” “Oh no! You poor angel! Sounds awful. But Richie’s back there now, isn’t he? Is he taking care of you?” I didn’t have the headspace to go into the details and, without the full story, I didn’t want to sully Richie’s reputation with her any further. “He has to go to work. But I’m fine, I’ll just curl up here and watch whatever nonsense is on the TV.” “Haha! English daytime TV! It will either cure you with laughter or send you into a deep depression! Wish I could come and watch with you. I’d better run, take care of yourself.” My mind returned to Richie and Rebecca. What would they be doing now? Breakfast, perhaps, or maybe still in bed. I tried to banish the thoughts from my head, but the inability to move made it difficult. Richie’s dad emerged from the kitchen with another cup of chamomile, handed it to me, felt my forehead, frowned, shook his head and suggested he help me back up the stairs to bed. Up we went, carefully managing the stairs all the way to the top. I steadied myself and told him I was fine from there, went into the room, put the tea on the side table and shivered my way under the duvet and dozed off almost immediately. * It was full-on daytime when I awoke. Residual nausea lingered, but not enough to keep me down. I felt sweaty and desperately wanted to wash so went to the bathroom, showered and washed my hair. It was only once I’d finished wrapping a towel around my head, turban-style, that I realised that I’d forgotten to call work. Panic set in and I rushed to the room, but my phone wasn’t there. My mind went blank for a good few seconds, and then I remembered. Downstairs. I rushed down the stairs, took two long side steps that felt almost ballerina-esque then darted into the lounge and over to the sofa where I could see the abandoned phone. I grabbed it and pressed the button on the front to rouse it from its snooze, but nothing happened. It was dead. My heart sank momentarily, but then a wave of nausea came from nowhere, reminding me sharply that my body needed less drama right now. I took a deep breath and slowly made my way back to the room, padding up the stairs slowly, trying to appease my general malaise. Once back, I plugged in the phone. There was something positively calming about being cut off from everything for the next five minutes while I slowly dressed. No Richie, no work, no way for anyone to contact me. I sat on the edge of the bed and took a few long breaths. Read next episode

EPISODES 1. The most wonderful time of the year - READ NOW 2 . All that she wants - READ NOW 3. Marie's boychild - READ NOW 4. Drop the boy - READ NOW 5. Don't you want me? - READ NOW 6. Don't leave me this way - READ NOW 7. Jealous guy - READ NOW 8. Twat amongst the pigeons - READ NOW 9. You win again - READ NOW 10. Under pressure - READ NOW 11. Milkshake - READ NOW 12. Manic Monday - READ NOW 13. Busy Line - READ NOW 14. Surprise! Surprise! - READ NOW A note from the author - READ NOW Drowning Narcissus Drowning Narcissus Drowning Narcissus Drowning Narcissus

Surprise! Surprise! There was a cool breeze blowing which I warmly welcomed as I got to the end of the short garden path and turned onto the street. I allowed a woman to pass by me with her buggy which had a young child sitting in it and a helium balloon attached with a large number three on it. Without thinking, I wished the boy an enthusiastic happy birthday which surprised both me and the mother so much that we both laughed. I wouldn’t normally do such a thing, but I was feeling strangely emotional, an incongruous but deeply satisfying mix of weepiness and elation. I figured that the drama of the last 24 hours must have initiated a bit of an onslaught of conflicting chemicals battling for my body’s attention. As I watched the woman and her buggy get further into the distance, the balloon blowing and flapping in the breeze, I was reminded that I needed to get stamps to post my sister’s birthday gift and card. Normally, I’d have helped myself to a couple from the big batch in the office, but I needed to send it before the end of the day so I headed to the local post office. There was a short queue, which I joined. I took the opportunity to send Richie a message to say that I was on the local high street so he wouldn’t have to pick me up from his parents’ house. I got a swift reply. “Meet me at that coffee hut thing”. Then another shortly after “And get me a cafe belmonte.” I would have replied to suggest a “please”, but I was conscious of not wanting to irk him. “Excuse me!” came a soft, but still shrill voice from behind me. I looked around and saw the woman behind smiling, prompting me to go to the counter, her finger pointing at the empty space in front of me. It was my turn. I apologised politely and approached the counter, noticing straight away that the woman serving had her chair pushed back further than was normal in order to accommodate the big bump between her and the counter. It looked for a moment like she was simply balancing a basketball under her long stretchy dress, so round was the bump. “How can I help?” “Yes, can I have a first class stamp for a small parcel to send to Madrid, please?” “Shelly,” she called over to the woman at the adjacent counter who dutifully turned towards her, “Shell, can you pass me the airmail stamps?” “Yeah, hold on love.” Shelley opened the drawer to her left and took out a large book of stamps and passed them across, pausing to speak. “I’m on my break in a few minutes. Want me to get you anything?” My server looked back at Shelley with a look of mock guilt as she began a deliberately slow reply “You know what you could get me…” “Scotch egg?” “Is that bad?” “Don’t be silly, I was the same. My go-to was chocolate mousse though. Loved that stuff. Still do. No wonder my little one’s got a sweet tooth!” “Ah, you star, thanks Shell.” My server paused, turned back towards me and then chuckled. “Sorry about that. OK, so, was it just the one?” “Er, yes,” I said slowly, handing over a five pound note and waiting for what seemed like an age as she rummaged in the till drawer for change. The enormity of my situation began to sink in. I took the change and said a feeble thank you and walked to the exit in a daze. Fuck! I stood outside and stared out into the distance. “S’cuse me,” came a voice from behind me. I was blocking the exit, so moved a few steps forward. Then the phone rang. It was Richie. “Where the fuck are you? Are you taking the piss?” “What? No! Sorry, I just…” I didn’t want to explain anything. “I’ll be there. Two minutes.” I gathered my senses and headed to the coffee hut. Next episode coming soon

All that she wants (!) When I found out I was pregnant with Diego, I’m ashamed to say that I was devastated. I’d only recently started to face the reality that the life I had was not the dream I’d envisaged as a teenage girl. Not even close. I had started to realise that I was lumbered with a liability of a husband. Not a cute, slightly useless but good-hearted one though. Oh no. I was lumbered with a fucking monstrosity, and the thought of bringing up another child with him as the father was almost too much to bear. Don’t get me wrong, I love my son. I love him dearly and would do anything for him; he means the world to me. But at the time, we were in no position to bring another child into the world, we had very little money and I was the only one with a steady income. I’d grown weary of his assurances that his next big plan was going to be the one to change everything, to give us financial stability, to bring us comfort and happiness. I’d already started practising lines to broach the topic of divorce. Every night I’d go over and over them in my head, building up the courage to find a good moment to say them, but I never did. I either froze with fear or was swiftly dismissed when I said that we needed to talk about something important. To avoid physical intimacy, I’d go to bed as soon as I’d put the kids to bed and be asleep or feign sleep when he came home. On the rare occasion that he was in, I’d invite a friend round so that I could stay up talking with them. He didn’t like me having friends around. He didn’t like me having friends full stop. But in the preceding year or so, since a reunion with many of my oldest and dearest at a friend’s 40th birthday party, I’d vowed to keep them close. And on hearing my tales of woe, they’d vowed to keep me safe. When one or more of them did come round, their presence at home would irritate him and he would eventually take himself off to the bedroom to watch TV. Much later on in the evening, to be sure it was safe to go in, I would creep past the door and listen out for the sound of his snoring. A rattle from within would be my signal to dispatch whichever friend had come round to provide protection, then sneak in. I even kept a separate blanket at the end of the bed so that I didn’t always have to get under the covers. But from time to time, inevitably, I gave in to his constant demands for sex, like the time I had a bladder infection and didn’t have the energy to refuse his persistent advances. He had been complaining angrily for weeks that I was denying him his right as a husband, that I was constantly looking for excuses. He was also being short with the kids, shouting at them, refusing to spend any time with them when they asked for his attention or to play, and I figured that letting him have his way would be a fair compromise if it ultimately benefited the children. Now, although I was taking the contraceptive pill, I’d been advised by the doctor that because of the medication I was taking for the bladder infection, I should take additional contraceptive precautions if I was sexually active. I had hoped not to be, but this particular night I was very tired, the kids had been difficult and I figured I just needed to grimace and bear it for the good of everyone, so I didn’t think about contraception and was just glad to get it over with. Afterwards, he complained that I wasn’t making the effort and put it to me that there were plenty of women who would gladly invite him into their beds if his advances weren’t welcome in this one. Had I had the slightest bit of energy, I’d have mustered the strength to begin my divorce speech. As it was, all I could do was roll over and sleep. I realised I was pregnant about six weeks later, after a number of days getting severely bloated every time I ate something. Despite the pain it caused, I was still craving food and having trouble convincing myself to turn to healthier ways, to regulate the frequency of my eating and the content of my diet. One thing I couldn’t get enough of was strawberry cheesecake. Why I didn’t join the dots together sooner is beyond me. It was something I’d craved during my pregnancy with Stephanie. It had to be a particular brand and I had to have it at a very particular temperature. When I was pregnant with Stephanie, it used to be the the one thing I insisted Richie went to fetch for me when he said he was nipping out, and he always obliged. You see, there was an unspoken agreement at this point that going out to get it for me and bringing it back was his ticket to then be able to go out and do whatever it was he did of an evening. I had started buying them again as part of a weekly shop, but never enough to keep me satisfied. When I started up the trend again of asking him to get them, it clearly registered in his head that this was a ticket out for the evening, though he too had failed to see the significance. While at work one Monday towards the end of April, eating heartily from a lunch buffet that work had put on because we had some distinguished guests in the office, I remember simultaneously vowing to change my ways while being overcome by intense dizziness. I held on to the table I was standing next to and shuffled to a chair and sat down while a concerned colleague crouched down by my chair, took my hand and told me that the colour from my face had drained completely. “Stay there,” she gently demanded, and moved swiftly to the nearby kitchen, emerging a few seconds later with a glass of water. “I’ve got some vitamin C in my bag if you want some?” I shook my head and tried to take a few breaths to calm down, wondering what on earth was wrong with me. “What happened there?” She asked when I finally steadied. “You’re not pregnant are you?” she teased. Oh. Fuck. No! My mind flashed back to the doctor’s surgery and the warning about protection and then the horror of having sex with him while I was feeling so unwell. It couldn’t be, could it? My boss told me to get myself home. In fact, he offered to call a cab, but I preferred not to have the fuss. Once I felt strong enough, I packed my things and headed out. I stopped at the Boots across the road from the office and bought three pregnancy tests. I needed to be sure. From there I caught the bus home and, although the traffic was much clearer in the mid-afternoon, the journey seemed to take an age, crawling from stop to stop, prolonging my agony and further feeding my anxiety. * I did the test again and again and again, but still it came up positive. I was distraught. How could we bring another child into the world? It felt utterly irresponsible. I was dreading telling friends because I knew they’d be thinking the same as me. As soon as the idea of an abortion crossed my mind, my Catholic guilt kicked in and dispatched the thought from my mind. Reluctantly conceding that we had a new family member on the way, I cautiously divulged the news to Richie. He was delighted! Delighted with himself, I should add. There was a disconcerting lack of talk about me, about how I was feeling and what he would do to support me. He was just happy with himself, so much so that he called up a couple of friends to tell them the news and headed off out to celebrate. And there I was, alone. Pregnant, unhappy and alone. Read Episode 3!

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The most wonderful time of the year It was 5.45am, Christmas Eve morning, 20Whatever. Exhausted from another late night secretly preparing those little special extras for the kids, I struggled from my bed for one last time before the beginning of a full five days of annual leave. Not a holiday. That would have meant at least some degree of relaxation, calm, fun. Instead, it would just be a longer-than-usual string of consecutive days where I didn’t have to plough through crowds of commuters to get to my desk for another day at an ultimately unfulfilling job. Richie was asleep. He’d opened an eye briefly when I purposely clattered the wardrobe doors shut, then told me to keep it down and rolled over. I’d reminded him it was Christmas Eve and that he had yet to organise the main presents for the children. This was his only job. Literally. He was out of work yet again. I showered, dressed, prepared my bag and grabbed a piece of fruit, then took a moment to gather some strength before leaving, contemplating the mess I was in. Today would obviously be the last chance to get the gifts at the top of each of the children's list. One day to go. He'd had the short list of three presents, along with my credit card, for over two weeks now, but still nothing. There was always a reason he hadn't been able to manage to get to the shops, and it was invariably someone else's fault. I took a deep breath. It was time. I made sure my shoes connected sharply and loudly with the wooden floor, then called out one final reminder as I passed by the bedroom. He grunted an insult and shouted for me to stop with the constant nagging, and within seconds was snoring. * He couldn’t do it again could he? I’d told him in no uncertain terms the night before that I couldn’t go through again what had happened the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that. I was in tears when I’d told him, swamped in wrapping paper and discarded sellotape with hours more torture ahead of me. “Why is it always me staying up, sorting everything out? Why can’t you do just something to make sure they have a special day? Is it really that difficult to stay in and put in a bit of effort? Seriously?” “You buy them too much. And you make way too much fuss. That’s why you’re in this state.” “I buy them too much? Are you for real? They’re our kids! I want them to feel loved! I want to see them excited! I get them what we can afford after I’ve paid for food and bills and after what you spend on whatever it is you do during the day while I'm working and every night wherever it is you go. You’d better sort those presents tomorrow or I’m done. I’m not putting up with this any more. I don’t deserve this.” I began sobbing uncontrollably. From the corner of my eye, I could see him shuffling awkwardly, impatiently. “Right, I’ve got to go out.” And with that, he was gone. It was 9pm. I went to bed alone and noticed that I was still alone when I awoke at 3am to go to the toilet. He’d crept into bed at around 4am and I’d pretended to be asleep so as not to have to have any sort of interaction with him. I remained awake until about 20 minutes before I had to get up for work when, naturally, sleep decided it was just the right time to take my head back to the pillow, adding more misery to the struggle of hauling myself from the bed and getting on the road one last time before the break. With it being Christmas Eve, we’d likely be sent home from work after lunch. I consoled myself with this as I boarded the heaving 468 and wedged myself between a buggy and the corner of the stairs, my long puffer coat acting as a feeble cushion against the angle. And no sooner than we had started moving, than the bus jolted to a halt and I ricocheted between buggy and stairs, my shin connecting sharply with the bottom step in far too undramatic a fashion for anyone to even notice, let alone sympathise, with the fleeting agony of the moment. The bus crawled from stop to stop, people came and went, but I remained stuck in my spot until we eventually arrived at the bus stop a few minutes’ walk from the office. I battled my way through the far-from-accommodating crowd to the door and alighted, and only when I stepped off did I notice the sickening stabbing sensation shooting from my shin all the way up to my stomach. Every second step of the short walk brought with it excruciating pain, so much so that I thought I would vomit. A quick trip to the toilet once at work revealed a deep and nasty gash. The surrounding area was tender to the touch and had taken on a deep blue hue. Without warning, a tidal wave of world-weariness crashed over me, drowning me momentarily in despair, leaving me soaked to the skin in gloom. Luckily I had some of the trusty, chunky painkillers I’d brought back from Madrid during the annual summer visit. I’d noticed that not only did they numb physical pain, but were quite adept at suppressing the pain that this joke of a marriage constantly heaped on me. I promised myself there and then that change would happen. Little did I know what lay ahead. It was the previous summer that I’d started to wake up. Another family trip to the Motherland funded by me. Although he'd made his usual promises about helping to pay off the credit card we were using while out there, I would never see a penny of the debt in which we eventually found ourselves languishing. But of course, he insisted on being the person to keep hold of the card. "What's it going to look like if they think you're paying for everything?" he'd argued. "I'm the one who's going to be paying it back and I'm not having that lot thinking I'm sponging off you" Each day, he’d go out around 11am with some of the other men, touring bars and cafes, and he would always come back with treats for the table if we were eating in. When we went out to eat, he insisted on paying: we were the affluent emigrants; they were the little folk who had not his talent, drive or vision to escape the peasants’ life. They were destined to remain here, lucky to be patronised by him once a year, to eat the food he lavished on them and to listen to his never ending tales of adventure. Of course he’d pick up the tab! No problem! His pleasure! My despair. Of course, the credit card was his idea, but it had to be taken out in my name because he couldn’t get credit, because he didn’t have any money to pay it back. Luckily for him, I did. I worked. Two jobs at times - his idea of course - while he pursued that perfect employment opportunity. His tactic? Sleep till midday, get up and go for a coffee or three in one of the local cafes, buy a coffee or two for one or two of the regulars - so generous he was with that credit card - then speed around the local neighbourhood in his beloved motor, frequently stopping suddenly and illegally on the road to have a quick chat to anyone he saw that he knew, while swearing and blasting on his car horn at any motorist, cyclist or pedestrian who might have the temerity to challenge his delusional interpretation of the Highway Code. Then it was back to the flat to work on the masterpiece that was his CV so he could send it out to a few lucky, prospective employers. But he was always overqualified, apparently. On this particular day, there would surely be no time to grace the town with his presence, for today was Christmas Eve. He had one job to do. As lunchtime approached at the office, and with it the joy of an unofficial afternoon off, my teenage son, Jack, called me to let me know that he would soon be leaving to attend a Christmas lunch with the charity he’d been volunteering at. He called to let me know that his departure would leave the youngest, our three year old, effectively unsupervised as his dad was still asleep. I told him to go and wake his dad and to make sure that he had surfaced before leaving the house. He did so, much to the annoyance of his father, who shushed him and told him abruptly that he’d better watch his mouth or he’d be sorry. How dare he bark orders at his dad! Who did he think he was? Jack reluctantly apologised, explaining that he had to go and get changed or he’d be late for his lunch. “I’m up! What is your problem! Go to your precious fucking lunch!” Jack went to get changed and put his headphones in to listen to his music. Richy went back to bed. But only for a short while, for the youngest was now playing with his favourite toy - the electric cooker! He’d turned on all of the dials and, slowly but surely, the pan on the hob got hotter and hotter until it finally started to melt the plastic colander that was still resting inside it from the pasta Richie had made on his return in the early hours. The smoke alarm went off, but the music in Jack's headphones was loud enough for the sound of the alarm not to appear quite so shrill and close. The smell of burning plastic, however, coupled with Richie's screams of anger, were more than enough to alert him to the ensuing chaos. Diego, our three year old, was hysterical with fear and had retreated to a corner, sobbing. Rather than console and reassure him, Richie could only respond to the situation by throwing insults at Jack. “What were you doing leaving a three year old playing with a cooker? Are you some sort of retard? You could have had us all killed! I give up on you! You’re an embarrassment! Get out and go to your stupid, fucking lunch.” When I arrived back from work an hour or so later, the smell of burning plastic mixed with narcissistic rage hung heavy in the air. Because of heavy traffic, it had taken about 20 minutes longer than anticipated to get home. He looked at me with disgust as I walked through the door, asking where I'd been until this time and then started one of his regular gaslighting rants: “I was meant to be out getting the presents and now look at the time! It’s going to be a nightmare in the shops. And you expect me to get everything now? Don’t start blaming me if the shelves are empty. You were the one who was late. I’ve had nothing but shit to deal with today. I told Jack to look after Diego while I went for a shower but he left him on his own in the kitchen and look what happened! Can’t he do one little thing? Fucking useless! He had his headphones in, locked in his room while this one was busy burning the place down! I’m starting to give up on Jack, I swear! The guy’s a joke!” I just stood there. I didn’t have the energy to say anything back so I stayed silent, put down my bags and went to the toilet to have a minute to myself. As I splashed my face with cold water, my shin throbbing furiously from down below and emanating right to my chest, I tried to summon the courage to go back out. But then I heard the door slam violently. Music to my ears. I hobbled back into the lounge and in the direction of the sofa, but as I did, Diego approached me slowly, mournfully, sobbing. When he reached me he just wrapped his weary arms around the top of my legs to where he could reach and cried and cried. Read Episoide 2

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A note from the author Drowning Narcissus is a story of empowerment. It takes strength and courage to free oneself from coercive relationships, such as the one depicted. I want this story to provide hope for those trying to break free from manipulation and to highlight the weakness and insecurities of the perpetrators, despite their desires to appear dominant and powerful. For survivors and victims, the process of escaping will have been or will be a complex one, requiring the deep support and love of their closest friends and family; others may need to turn to victim support groups and the authorities in order to regain their freedom. It might be the case, however, that you are not even aware that you are the victim of manipulative behaviour - the narcissist's skill is to make you believe that what you are going through is normal or that you are to blame. Indeed, you might have been living like this for years, just as I was. So, I'm hoping that for some people this story might be revelatory! Drowning Narcissus will touch on themes many victims and survivors will be familiar with. I am well aware that for some people reading this, the episodes will be a far cry from the abuse they are experiencing. It is my hope, nevertheless, that by publishing this story, inspired real life events, victims, survivors and their allies will come together to support one another to make breaking free seem possible. I cannot thank my dearest friends enough, not only for their support, but also for their stories of being coerced and manipulated which have been knitted into the fabric of this story. Our aim is to publish an episode every two weeks, sometimes more frequently. Initial episodes will be available to read free of charge and we will keep any subscription charges low. We aim to publish Drowning Narcissus as a novel in the coming year and we hope you will support our efforts. We welcome comments and messages of support in the group section and look forward to being part of a wider conversation. Thank you Mariella Colina

Jealous Guy We met the next day for coffee. I’d mentioned to him when I’d called him back that there was post that had been piling up at his parents’ place that I could bring to him in case it was important. He immediately took the bait. He asked me to check to see if anything official looking had come for his parents that might be related to a driving offence. He explained that he thought he’d been caught speeding in his parents’ car when he’d used it a couple of weeks back to take some more stuff to the new girl's place and wanted to intercept the post and get the fine paid before they noticed. I brought anything that might fit the bill, happy to be his accomplice. As it turned out, there were a few, one speeding and two parking fines. I watched him as he went through each envelope, grimacing at the contents. I could see that he was becoming agitated, so I asked him what the problem was “Fucking speeding ticket. Do you know how much it is? It’s a fucking joke! Got less than a week to pay or it doubles!” Sensing an opportunity to win favour with him, to help him in his hour of need, I agreed with how unfair the fines were and asked him if I could help. “I could always lend you the money?” I glanced at his eyes and saw a look I knew well. Within seconds, he was all over the idea, explaining how much he stood to make this week and next from his extra shifts at the restaurant, and that he would have the lot paid back within a month tops! It was more money than I could really afford, but I felt it was worth it if it kept us close. We finished our coffees and walked straight to the cashpoint so I could withdraw the money for him. We then headed to the tube together and before we said goodbye, he casually asked me to say hello to his parents and to tell them that he would call tomorrow. I explained that I would but that I might not see them before that as I was going out with a small group of people from work and that we’d probably be out until late. “Who are you going out with?” I reeled off a list of names, four female, two male. Immediately he was interested. “Where are you going?” I explained that we were going for dinner at Alex’s house and then going on to a bar-club place that opened till late. “Who is Alexandra?” he asked, lengthening the name to its female version. “Alexandre,” I corrected, “he works in sales, just moved here. He’s invited us all round for dinner at his place before we go out to a bar as it’s close. We’re just getting takeaway there then heading on to this bar where Isabella knows the manager.” I could see that he was agitated. Was he jealous? I hadn’t banked on this, but I’ll take it, I thought! His goodbye was curt and he walked off at pace while I made my way to the barriers. By the time I got to my stop, I had four missed calls from him and three messages. He wanted to see me. Tonight if possible. I told him, reluctantly, that I couldn’t as tonight was already planned and I’d promised Isabella, who had been so good to me these last few weeks trying to keep my spirits up, that I would be there without fail. I didn’t want to let her down, but I could see him tomorrow if he wanted, I told him. I had no plans. He agreed that we would meet the following day. That evening, he called and messaged non-stop. I couldn’t sit for more than a few minutes without my phone going off either with a message notification or ringing to the point where the others were getting frustrated. I hadn’t long had the phone (in fact I hadn’t long had a mobile phone) so was still finding my way around it and was unsure how to silence it. Eventually, to avoid any further interruptions while we were eating, I switched the phone off. My mind was completely distracted as we ate and I was unable to participate properly in conversation and this was obvious to all there. When we were finished eating and began walking to a local bar, Isabella collared me to ask what was going on and I explained that I had met Richard earlier to deliver his post, that we’d had a nice time together and that ever since he’d been messaging and calling me. I didn’t mention the money. “Oh, so is that back on then?” We stopped for a few moments in the street so that the others could pass and get ahead slightly. “I don’t know, I mean I don’t think so, it’s all a bit confusing, but I don’t think so. I think it might be the fact that we’re all out tonight and he was hoping that we could catch up properly. I’ve told him we can tomorrow.” “So, leave it at that then. Come on! You need to enjoy yourself tonight. You can see how the land lies tomorrow when you see him, but tonight you’re ours, not his, OK? That one comment not only made me smile, but overwhelmed me so much that tears came to my eyes and I began crying. “Thank you!” I said to Isabella, stopping, turning to her and hugging her tightly. She laughed. “Come on, let’s have some fun!” “OK, let me just check my phone before we go in” Isabella cocked her head to one side and raised her eyebrows and made plain her thoughts from just her look. “Look, just let me send a message to say I’ll call tomorrow and then it goes off, please!” “OK” she said with joking anger and stood while I fished the phone out from among the debris in my handbag. I fumbled with it for a second as I tried to remember which button I had to press to switch it on, but eventually got there. The screen lit up and the phone slowly came to life, buzzing incessantly with incoming messages. It was embarrassing. I could feel Isabella’s stare on me and knew I had to make a call to appease him. We were very close to the bar, so I explained to Isabella that I would nip round the corner and make a quick call and join them inside, but before I could, the phone rang. It was Richard, of course. I answered, looked at Isabella and before I could say another word, Isabella snatched the phone from my hand “Hi Richard! It’s Isabella, Mariella’s friend from work. You OK?” I watched and listened, initially with horror, but then with amusement as Isabella worked her magic, turning on the charm, telling him that we were all out having a nice time, that she had insisted on me switching my phone off because the calls were interrupting our lovely meal. There was a pause as he spoke and clearly, from the smile she shot my way, he was reciprocating the charm. She told him I was fine, so there was no need to worry about me and the she would look after me and get me home safely, but we were going into a bar now which was going to be loud and busy so she would pass me back on so he could say goodbye, but that my full attention was needed, so we were all going to switch our phones off until the end of the evening. It was a masterclass from Isabella. She handed me the phone back and I asked him if he was OK and he sounded cheery enough. “Make sure you call when you’re on the way back. I just want to make sure you’re OK” Isabella grabbed my hand and jerked me towards the bar entrance. I said that I would call him once home and, as I was saying goodbye, Isabella snatched the phone from my hand once more, offered an extremely enthusiastic goodbye to Richard, ended the call, switched my phone off and put it in her bag, explaining with just her eyes that I was not getting it back for the duration. And with that, we went inside and partied hard. 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Drop the boy The more Richie becomes a distant feature of my day-to-day life, the more I am astounded at what I believed, what I allowed myself to be convinced of, and what lengths I would go to to assist his lie of a life. When Diego was very young and Richie was long-term unemployed, he somehow convinced me that he needed time to be able to apply for jobs and go to interviews, and that this wouldn’t be possible if he were looking after our son at the same time. He was also keen not to let his parents think that he didn’t have regular work. They would be disappointed with him and he didn’t want them to think that he wasn’t pulling his weight with regard to his family. Rather than spend time with his son, he would drive me to work in the morning - he insisted on this and insisted on picking me up as soon as work was over so that I could be back with the kids and he could go out and unwind after his desperately difficult day - but first he’d drop Diego off with his parents, who agreed to look after him, while he then went to “work”. He’d concocted a story that he was working for a construction company, but had negotiated reduced hours in order to be able to look after Diego from mid-afternoon each day. We would drop the little man there in the morning, with me having to go and hand him over to the grandmother, burning with shame as I did so, while Richie stayed in the car. The deal was that he would then pick Diego up at around 3.45pm once he had collected Stephanie from school and look after them both until it was time to collect me from work at 5pm. It’s probably worth just going over that again. Rather than look after his very young son, he pretended to have a job (and had me complicit in the lie) so that he could drop his son off with his parents for the whole day while he… well, let’s think… Was it to work on his CV? Clearly not - there was nothing more to add, well, nothing much to include in the first place and it was by and large a piece of fiction anyway. Was it to write cover letters for prospective employment? Was it fuck! I occasionally checked the laptop to see when that particular document had last been opened or updated. Alterations to that masterpiece were very rare, despite him once telling me that he'd sent out over 700 applications to a variety of different employers. And from time to time, when I presented him with job adverts from the local paper or passed on news of vacancies directly from helpful friends, his response would be to reject the suggestion. Who would pick the kids up for a start! I later found out - years later, from people we both knew and with whom he has fallen out or become estranged from - that during those times he was actually spending much of his day driving around the local cafes, explaining to the regulars he met in each one that he was a stay-at-home dad! Each cafe would get the same story: he’d just dropped his toddler son off with his parents for an hour to get a bit of time to himself, and also to keep them happy for they were forever insisting that he bring Diego over so that they could spend a bit of time with him. How could he refuse the grandparents that joy? And though it pained him to leave the little one even for one minute, he knew it was good for him, necessary even, to take a breather and recharge his own batteries. As his mother - a woman from whom he had clearly inherited these narcissistic characteristics - told me one time, in reference to Richie’s daily struggle, it was a long day for poor dad, ferrying the family around, working flat out, then rushing back to pick up his little boy. No wonder he used the weekends to catch up on much-needed sleep! Hats-off to those men who do stay at home and wear the stay-at-home-title with pride, the authentic ones who understand about silly little things like responsibility, mutual respect, equality. I wouldn’t for a moment dream of belittling them. But here was Richie, an insult to these good men, taking the credit for everything, doing absolutely nothing. And I endured this nonsense. I allowed his parents to believe what they wanted to believe and for him to be showered with praise for his selflessness, his duty to the cause. His mother would tell me sometimes, in hushed tones, that she was worried about Richie, the poor soul, working all the hours that God sent to try and carve a positive future for his young family. But strange though this may seem, I was kind of convinced by it all too. I even told our friends the same lie about him working. I wanted to protect the family from shame, or so I thought. Little did I understand the subtleties of his coercive ways. Many years later, when things began to unravel properly with our relationship, I learned more about what else he was doing during those days and then, in the evenings, when he would leave me with the kids and head out. He told me he had been teaching evening classes at a college in Balham - teaching “functional skills” English to non-native speakers, adults who had recently arrived in the UK who were trying to learn English to improve their chances of employment. How he loved the idea of this, him being the model of what they were trying to achieve. A shining example of what they might aspire to. And how he loved to tell friends about the transformation he was having on these people’s lives. I am still minded to believe that there is a tiny bit of truth in this, that at least he was taking some classes, but I don’t for a minute believe that that was where he was every night or that he then took on extra classes with a couple at their home after normal classes had finished. Where was the money, for a start? And when I finally got him out of the house - and I’ll come to that story later - he stayed for a long time with a family friend (who, inevitably, no longer speaks to him), moving out without warning just as a flood of bailiff letters began to arrive for him there, and then moved in for a short while with a woman who had kindly given him shelter in his hour of need when everyone else had abandoned him, the only person he could turn to, so he told me. This woman? Only the person I’d suspected him of having an affair with on and off for the last ten years, the seeds of suspicion sown when, many years before, while looking for screwdriver in his toolbox so that I could assemble some furniture that he had been promising to sort for weeks, I found passport booth photos of Richie wearing a sailor’s cap and a woman with a floral garland round her neck, her arms wrapped around him, kissing his cheek and, with it, a signed card, complete with the message “to my naughty Spanish sailor, I can’t wait to fuck you”. And where did she live, this woman? His saviour, his rock? Oh, you’ve guessed it: Balham. Read Episode 5!