Trapped: A strong woman’s triumph over abuse

By Sam Scarborough

She was confident, beautiful and financially secure. When she arrived in London with her daughter and two bags, the future looked bright. She was hoping for a real and mature relationship, at last. But within days, things started to go wrong. Was he manipulating her? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was all in her head? She started a diary, evidence to reassure herself that she wasn’t going mad. According to him, it was all her fault. This true story of an independent career woman’s descent into abuse shows just how easy it is to lose yourself and just how painful it can be to recover. But it also proves that recovery is possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Human & Rousseau
• Release date: Jul 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9780798171311

Sam Scarborough

Sam Scarborough is creative director, author, stylist and children’s decor consultant. Her previous publications include 'Children’s Rooms', 'Cool Spaces for Kids', 'Babies Rooms & Nurseries', and 'Kids’ Market Day'. She runs her own kids decor company specialising in the design of creative play spaces and play ideas for children. Sam regularly presents creative decor workshops, and she is involved in the NGO Rock Girl SA, empowering girls and women.

Book preview

SAM SCARBOROUGH

WITH LOUIS AWERBUCK

Human & Rousseau

PREFACE

The person I am now, and the one I am becoming, are very different from the person I was when I wrote this book. This was my story for six months – a story that many women have told.

INTRODUCTION

I wrote this book because I thought I was going mad.

It started off as a diary, so that I could track what was happening in my life. By writing it down, I thought I would be able to see what was really happening.

When I decided to publish this book, I was going to use a pseudonym. But when I started telling my story I realised there were so many friends, and other women, who wanted to hear it. They begged me for the book, either for themselves or for their friends. I also realised that a pseudonym may suggest I had something to hide. But I don’t, and I am not afraid to tell my story.

This is not a rant and I have nothing to prove. I have never been one to worry about what others think. I am not a victim either. This story is about a failed relationship from which I managed to escape. Luckily. This is about me – my diary about my relationship.

I like bubbles, fresh greens and dark chocolate. I am usually quite funny, most times a bit rude, sometimes a bit sarcastic. Mostly funny, because I say it like it is. But I am not unkind. I am pretty normal, I think. I know the difference between right and wrong. I push the boundaries – often – but am sensible when I need to be. I am on the cusp of Leo and Cancer. My ‘nicer’ days are Cancer; my normal days are Leo. In short, I am no wallflower.

I don’t do organised crime, religion or book clubs. I am no groupie. I am a single parent. My friends say I am an inspiration; they seem to think I make it look easy. It is, sometimes. At other times, it isn’t. But I love my daughter more than anyone could imagine and would not change that for the world. I am not a single-parenting martyr either. I fell in love, got married, had a baby, fell out of love and out of marriage. It is not what I planned. I wish for my daughter’s sake it was not this way, but it is.

I have made it on my own. I am financially secure. I sometimes take time out to enjoy extended travel, but mostly live within my means. I’m maybe not the most intelligent blonde you have ever met, but I am street smart and have a degree. I can spell, and speak in full sentences – unlike some of the men I have dated …

I don’t do married men or men with girlfriends. That’s just my policy. Life is complicated as it is – who needs that deceit and karma? I married a nice man once, which has to count for something. In fact, I have often had lovely men in my life. I have dated a toy boy, a farmer, an arts journalist and a publishing bigwig. Then, for some reason – maybe a need to visit my shadow – I decided to be more open-minded and landed myself the heavily tattooed (ex) drug dealer. Following hot on his heels, while still on my shadow trip, came the English Patient, a big drinker and occasional drugger who broke my heart.

Needless to say, during and after these shadow-period experiences I found myself having to reassess my life, values and exactly what I was looking for in love and in life. My expectations of love were quite simple: an honest and mature relationship. I wanted to love a man who was respectful, kind, open and committed to loving me back.

Although happy enough on my own and not desperate to settle down again, I did want to find my soul mate. Eventually. Who doesn’t?

I didn’t want just anybody. I wanted a deep, meaningful connection – someone to hold me tight at night, someone to belly laugh with me and to share life’s funny and sad moments. I wanted interesting conversation, intimacy (emotional and sexual), and to feel deeply for someone again. I wanted manners; I wanted chivalry. I am not a woman who needs the door opened for her, but it’s a pleasant surprise when a man is chivalrous. Ha! Even writing that word seems so outdated, so … unreal.

I wanted a family for my daughter, a loving and supportive stepdad and maybe a few siblings. Not exactly the 2.4 kids and white picket fence – we could live on a barge for all I cared.

In short, what I really wanted was a lovely man who treated me well, a partner present in my life, and sex on the side (not necessarily in that order). Nothing new here that thousands of other women don’t want for themselves. But listing these wants made them seem more real, concrete. I had set a new course.

Funny how just when we think we have things figured out, a test follows. Right on cue, enter Psycho Charming (PC, as he is now known in my group of friends). If only that stood for Prince Charming.

I met PC while ‘with’ the English Patient, in quite a funny situation.

We were sitting on the porch at my dad’s safari lodge. I was hung-over. The English Patient and I had been on another excessive night out in our torrid, alcohol-induced love affair. (To backtrack: I had met the English Patient at the safari lodge, too. And before you form any connections, no, I do not use the safari lodge as a dating site, and I certainly won’t be meeting any more men there in the future.) The English Patient had come to South Africa for an operation. Over a glass of wine, I developed an instant crush on him. I felt like a schoolgirl again and, among other things, became his chauffeur for the few weeks of his stay. We partied up a storm, against all of his doctors’ orders. We had a whirlwind love affair, fuelled by his dreams of coming to live in South Africa.

Needless to say, he never did.

My first impression of PC was not great. He was having a dirty weekend with an ex-girlfriend of the English Patient. Quick introductions, quick chat. But I didn’t like the disparaging remarks about the girl he was with or the way he and the English Patient were joking about how he had booked her a ‘cattle class’ plane ticket while his was first class. Anyway, to cut a long story short, a year and a half later I moved to London to live with PC. Not the English Patient. Are you keeping up?

When the English Patient (my Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights) and I ended our on-and-off 18-month love affair, PC and I made contact. It was February and I wanted to do the London Marathon, so we started chatting about the possibility of his getting me an entry. Many Skype chats, text messages and phone calls later, he came to South Africa. The London Marathon had been a joke between us when we met and he had dared me to do it in a nurse’s outfit – a reference joke about looking after the English Patient.

PC had offered me an entry as it was very hard to get one from South Africa. The conversation went like this.

Me: How is fabulous London?

PC: How is amazing Cape Town? I would rather be there than London.

He then said that if I loved London so much I should come and visit. I said, Sure, babe, send me a ticket …

He came to visit me in South Africa that May.

PC’s arrival at Cape Town International Airport was where it all started for me. I fell in love with the way he walked through that terminal door. My heart skipped a beat, excitement rushed through me – those love-at-first-sight sensations – yet I was totally calm and had the sense that I had been with this man before. Everything just felt normal, as if I was picking my man up from the airport after a business trip. He had the most beautiful green eyes, a lovely smile, and a very handsome face. He walked with an air of dignity, purpose, and he had the cutest butt.

We spent four wonderful days together – our first time alone. It was so romantic, and comfortable at the same time, as if we had been together for a long time. He wined and dined me, we danced to seventies’ music in the pub after dinner, we went for lazy, long lunches and romantic walks on the beach. The drive back to the airport was so sad – the end of a beautiful weekend. The conversation was punctuated by throwaway remarks of the possibility of me moving to London. After only four days!

I was due to fly off to Thailand in June for a five-week break on a small remote island. We both decided I could not go off into the distance without our seeing each other again. An e-ticket was e-mailed to me the next day, so I flew to London for a quick visit. It was wonderful, amazing, exciting. Superb restaurants, shows, shopping, walking the streets of London hand in hand. He spoilt me rotten. I cried on take-off, happy to be going on holiday to Thailand but sad to be leaving something that felt so right after just nine days. I had such a strong conviction the minute he had walked through the Cape Town International doors that he was my man. Apparently he’d felt the same.

We did my Thailand holiday via text, me on an island in the middle of nowhere, he in London. I’d receive a text as soon as he woke up every morning, banter during the day, and at least one phone call and Skype session every other day. We were inseparable. I had told him I wanted to enjoy my long-awaited holiday without being on the blower to him constantly, but we both ignored this. I thought it was endearing being in constant contact with him, and loved the way he wanted to know how I was every day. It made me feel wanted. I had finally met a man who truly wanted me in his life, who wanted to love me back, who wanted to know what I was doing every minute of the day. It was easy to get carried away with this feeling. Easy, too, to ignore the fact that we were not in an everyday situation. If we had been, the incessant texts may have come up on my radar. But I got used to it really quickly. In my mind, it formed the basis of who we were together – that closeness, that feeling of being a team.

We discussed the move to London and decided we would not do the long-distance relationship thing. We would jump straight in and give it a go. Because the school year started in September in the UK, we decided I would move then, so that my six-year-old daughter could start with all the other kids. Did I mention that he was supportive of my daughter? Another expectation met.

When I got back from Thailand he flew to South Africa and we had a whole week together, a full seven days. It was amazing. We spent the first two days alone in a small seaside village up the west coast. Very romantic. I was convinced I was doing the right thing. He had booked us into a lovely boutique hotel. He treated me like the love of his life. We had the most beautiful room overlooking the crashing waves. We lay on the rocks watching the ocean, feeling the energy between us. We had picnics and went for long walks, drank champagne and planned our lives together. We slept in each other’s arms all night long. Our chemistry was unbelievable. I was the happiest woman on earth, and did not want the weekend to end.

I can still remember it clearly, and feel it.

I planned to carry on designing remotely for my existing clients on a freelance basis in London, and to look for work as soon as I was settled. I upped and left with a few changes of clothes and a bag of toys for my daughter. I had a few months of savings, a UK bank account from previous years in London and my laptop for my freelance work.

Sitting still on the flight over gave me some time for reflection. Because this was all so sudden, the last thing I wanted was pressure on me or him about the longevity of this relationship. So, I decided to lay down some rules that I thought might mitigate the seriousness of what I was doing: for six months there would be no talk of babies, engagement or marriage. I had been told that 90 days was a good test for a relationship, so I chose double that just to make sure. That was it, a six-month plan to get to know each other properly, with no expectations.

Wait – did I just say no expectations? You’re probably wondering what happened to the woman who had her expectations all figured out. Maybe I meant no complications.

I know, now, that I may have expected things to be more perfect than they could ever be. I know, now, that relationships – even really good ones, healthy ones, ones that go the distance – do not stay in a honeymoon phase forever. Now, I know that my expectations could never be realised. So, my thinking that I was arriving in London with no expectations was unrealistic. I get that. I get that I went to London expecting certain things.

Well, I never expected this. Any of it. It came as a huge shock. I still can’t believe I got through it reasonably unscathed. I started writing this diary as a record of my experiences, as evidence of those six months. I had no one to turn to. I thought I was going mad, that it was all me. But deep down I knew it wasn’t me, that I was not to blame, that I was the ‘normal’ one, the sane one. Deep down I knew I was living with a deeply flawed person. But I was in denial.

And stuck in London, with my daughter to think about …

LONDON

Week 1: The honeymoon phase

He meets us at the airport. We drive into London, my six-year-old daughter’s eyes huge. A big change for her. New city. New school. A new man in my life.

The first few days are great. We settle in nicely; my daughter is so cool with everything. It is a lovely house in the middle of trendy Notting Hill, just off Portobello Road. I could not have asked for more. He has the house full of flowers, the fridge full of food. He cooks for us and tidies as he goes, which is such a change from the average South African man who has always had maids, moms or other women cleaning up after him. He has everything organised: a phone with my new UK number, a set of keys, welcome gifts for my daughter, a new set of linen for her room.

Those first few days, we walk down Portobello Road holding hands, and I am totally in love. I love having his hand grip mine. He is always bustling me into shops, buying me presents: a new leather jacket, a scarf, every day a small gift. I have never had a man spoil me. I have never had a man buy me drinks and dinner without expecting the last round to be on me. I have always paid my own way. I feel like a princess. I feel so damn lucky!

Our lovely welcome is followed by a stressful week, meeting his three kids for the first time. Two girls and a boy, his youngest daughter just older than mine. They live with his ex-wife a few suburbs away. Managing my exuberant daughter is a bit of a challenge, reassuring her that his strict words are discipline rather than anything else. It is a lot to deal with. She is so excited to see him when he comes home from work. It is hard for me to tone her down. Two blondes with an African spirit – maybe a bit wild for this Englishman?

Then he goes away for a week with his kids to Spain. He invites us to go with them, but I suggest he goes alone with his kids. I feel it would be too much too soon for them. But when he leaves, I feel strange. Not sure why. I guess when you see someone walk out the door happy to be off with his family, you feel left out – alone, in a new place, a new life that essentially revolves around him. It is an uncomfortable feeling. Well, for me, anyway. I feel insecure.

What is more frustrating is that I am not usually like this. I am one of the most independent people I know. I have always supported myself and my daughter. I made the decision for the sake of his kids. They have only just met us. I was concerned for them because they are at difficult ages. My daughter has always been fine with my boyfriends. She is open and accepting. She has grown up with my friends around her – friends who are gay, straight, single, married, and who come in all shapes and sizes. She has never felt threatened by any of the men in my life and has just gone with the flow. But I realise it could be different for his kids, so I decide to stay.

He flies off to Spain for the week and I am left to sort out the school for my daughter, go to the interview and buy the school uniform. I do this in a day. I am trying to find bus routes and second-hand clothing shops, as Harrods, where her uniform is stocked, is far too expensive for me. The South African rand goes nowhere at this stage.

My daughter is sick: her glands are swollen and she has a bad bladder infection. I don’t know where to take her, or which doctor will sign us up and treat us. We should be registered in our area for the NHS. We land up at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. It is traumatic – the outpatient section is not a nice place. But they check her out, and give us antibiotics.

They ask if she is allergic to penicillin. It’s her first course of antibiotics. I have no idea if