The Widow

By Sally Annakin

Celia Carlton has been mentally and physically abused by her husband, Drew, since the death of their baby some 10 years ago. After a dinner party, Drew goes one step too far and rapes her. Celia starts to fight back and makes plans to escape from the marriage. Raising as much money as she can, and changing her appearance, she obtains false documentation showing her new identity as Chloe Armstrong.

Armed with her new documentation and confidence, Celia books a world cruise, planning to leave the ship at a far off destination and begin a new life. Her plans in place, she drugs her husband then murders him.

Once on board the ship, she becomes friendly with a kindly gentleman, Clive Gunnall, who falls for her and asks her to marry him. Seeing him as a way to consolidate her new identity, she agrees to marry him. However, she is drawn to the wickedly handsome Greek Captain, Andros Faldiki, and has an affair with him whilst planning her future with Clive.

While Celia enjoys herself, living the life of a wealthy widow on board ship, Drew's body is discovered and a major murder hunt, led by DCI Charlie Meadows, is launched. All the evidence points to Celia as the murderer but, unable to locate Celia anywhere, the investigation loses momentum and, as other crimes are committed, the search is scaled down. After weeks at sea, undiscovered, Celia begins to believe she has gotten away with the murder.

Follow Celia as she travels the world, enjoying the attentions of both Clive and the Captain and see if she finally pays the price for her crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2007
• ISBN: 9781466958715

Sally Annakin

I was born in Huddersfield in 1964 and am married to Steve. We have three children between us, Daniel, Claire and Amelia. On approaching my fortieth birthday, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do with my life. I have been whale watching (for a day!) in Norway, flown in a helicopter over the Grand Canyon and gambled the night away in Las Vegas. In August 2005, I decided the time was right to put pen to paper and write the novel which had been forming in my mind for some time. The Widow was born and for the next eight months, Celia Carlton took over my life. The results of those months of hard work are now finished and I hope you will enjoy Celia's story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I am currently writing the sequel to The Widow, the title of which may give the plot away. Suffice to say, Celia Carlton, whether captured or free, still has plenty of life in her and is not about to give up easily!

Book preview

October

Celia lifted her head from where it was resting on the white linen cloth covering the dining table. Her eyes were swollen and red, a solitary tear making its way down her cheek where it paused, briefly, before dropping onto her exposed, bleeding right breast. She looked down and gathered the torn edges of her black dress together before wrapping her arms around herself.

Has it finally come to this? she wondered. Beaten and raped in my own home, by my own husband. There had been violence before, both mental and physical, but nothing like this. The occasional punch, slap, even kicks and bites, but for Drew to resort to rape was the ultimate humiliation she had ever suffered.

The evening’s preparations had started well. Always aware of Drew’s volatile nature and his insistence of perfection, Celia had spent the entire day cleaning, polishing, preparing and arranging. Any surface to be wiped or polished was gleaming. The smoked salmon was laid out on a platter in the fridge, garnished with watercress and lemon slices. Alongside the salmon sat a home made lemon tart which, thanks to Gary Rhodes’ expert advice, was setting nicely. The joint of lamb was slowly roasting in the oven along with the rosemary strewn root vegetables. A bottle of champagne, its golden foiled top visible above the rim of the ice bucket, stood chilling on a cloth lined tray, next to six crystal flutes and a large salver containing canapés.

Before she went upstairs to change into her dress, Celia went into each room and checked to make sure everything was in place. The immaculate lounge, with its cream carpet and chocolate coloured leather suite, looked like a picture from a magazine. She had made the room look cosy using lamps with colourful shades and by choosing lush, dark brown velvet curtains which were now draped over the windows, shutting out the damp, dark October evening. No newspapers or magazines were in view, ornaments were gleaming and the white longiflorum lilies she had rearranged so many times they had started to shed pollen were standing proud and tall at the side of the marbled fireplace. The few photographs allowed to be on display were arranged in their usual order. His mother’s photograph was at the front. Ever watching, thought Celia spitefully. Drew and his mother adored each other and Celia felt like the third party in her own marriage. This picture was flanked by their wedding photograph, both Drew and Celia gazing at each other and smiling happily, and one of Drew proudly accepting his Open University Degree from the Dean. Behind these three photographs stood a picture of their daughter, Helen, who was born prematurely and had lived for just a short period of time. This picture was their only reminder of her. Even though she had been dead for ten years, Drew still would not mention her name and any attempt at conversation would bring about a display of his temper. He had blanked Helen’s death from his memory and had pushed for Celia to do the same. Celia had fought hard for this picture to stay on display and suffered her first black eye as a result. The pain had been worth the victory and the picture stayed.

Pulling herself out of her reverie, Celia went through the double doors into the dining room. Again the curtains were drawn against the autumn evening and the lamplight and flickering candles cast a warm glow over the navy rimmed white china and navy napkins which stood out against the crisp white linen that covered the table. Small posies of flowers formed the centrepiece of the table and both glasses and cutlery gleamed and sparkled.

Their guests that evening were Drew’s partners, Michael Pickering and Peter Moswell and their wives, Jenny and Sarah. From Drew’s caustic comments, late nights at the office and his recent, constant bad temper, Celia had come to the conclusion that all was not well at the offices of Carlton, Pickering & Moswell, Chartered Accountants.

Jenny and Sarah had been good friends to Celia in the past, although their cosy girly lunches had to be put on hold as Drew’s ever increasing violence towards Celia started to leave telling marks. There were only so many cupboards which she could insist she had walked into.

Satisfied she could see no reason for Drew to complain, Celia went upstairs to change for dinner.

At the offices of Carlton, Pickering & Moswell, Chartered Accountants, Drew placed his head in his hands and gave a deep sigh. The accountancy business he had founded with his two friends, Michael Pickering and Peter Moswell, was struggling. Early afternoon, he had heard that a couple of their major clients had been approached by a new company and had taken the incentives offered to them. The day had then gone from bad to worse. Michael and Peter wanted to cut their rates to try and entice them back, but Drew refused. If they cut their rates any more, they wouldn’t earn any profit on those accounts. Life’s a bitch, he thought angrily.

He checked his watch, the small imperfection in the glass annoying him each time he did so. Damn, he would have to leave shortly. He wished he hadn’t asked his partners and their wives to dinner this particular evening. Hopefully Celia would have prepared a decent dinner. God knows, she has little else to do, he reflected resentfully. Drew, full of old fashioned ideas, had not wanted her to work once they were married. He would be the breadwinner and she would keep the house and raise the children. The death of Helen, and Celia’s failure to be able to conceive again, had ruined his dreams. His ideals were now twisted in his mind. To Drew, Celia was lazy and slovenly.

What a life she must lead, he thought. If she only knew what I’m going through, trying to keep this business afloat whilst she swans around at home.

Hearing a knock at the door, he shook himself from his thoughts and straightened.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Peter stuck his head around the door. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘Jenny and Sarah are here.’

‘Give me a couple of minutes.’ Drew replied, indicating the papers strewn on his desk, ‘I’ll just sort this lot out.’

Nodding, Peter withdrew from the room.

The mindless chatter from the ladies in the back of his car was driving Drew insane. Trying to appear cheerful, he took to showing Peter and Michael the gadgets fitted in the car. Even so, the journey seemed interminable. How was he going to get through the evening? The problems at the office didn’t seem to concern Peter and Michael. Don’t they care? he wondered, as he pulled up outside his home.

After a quick shower, Celia decided upon a calf length black shift dress with capped sleeves. She laid it on the bed and turned and sat at her dressing table. She looked at herself. Her pale, drawn face looked back.

No-one would believe I was only 39, she thought to herself, I look years older.

After rubbing in the face cream which promised, on the box, to make her look ten years younger, she put on light makeup, lipstick and ran a brush through her neatly trimmed shoulder length blonde hair. Slipping the dress over her head, she heard the front door slamming downstairs and voices chattering.

‘Celia, where are you?’ shouted Drew. ‘Our guests are here.’

Taking a final look in the mirror and thinking she ought to sue the manufacturer of the face cream, Celia placed black leather ballet pumps on her feet and went out onto the landing. She looked down the stairs at Drew towering over their guests, all six feet and four inches of him. At 45, age and his evening drinking were not being kind to him, his facial features starting to sag and she could see the crown of his head quite clearly through his sandy coloured hair. She ran downstairs to be greeted by a barked instruction.

‘Take the coats upstairs,’ said Drew to Celia. Turning to Michael and Peter, ‘Champagne?’ he asked.

Both men nodded their acceptance. Without asking Sarah and Jenny and, not turning in Celia’s direction, he spoke. ‘I’m sure that even Celia can manage to chill a bottle of champagne. Celia?’

‘Yes, darling, the champagne’s in the ice bucket in the kitchen and the glasses are next to it,’ she answered. As Drew stalked off into the kitchen, she turned to Michael.

‘How are you, darling?’ he asked. ‘You’re looking lovely tonight.’

Celia smiled gratefully at him as he took off his jacket. He then leaned over to Sarah and removed her pashmina from her shoulders. Peter kissed Celia on the cheek.

‘Looking good, as always,’ he said.

Jenny, his wife, removed her coat and, taking the jackets from the men and Sarah’s wrap, looked at Celia. ‘Where shall I put these, sweetie? Upstairs?’

‘It’s alright, I’ll take them,’ she answered. ‘Go into the lounge and have a seat, Drew will be through in a moment with the drinks.’

Gathering the coats in her arms, she scurried off upstairs. Jenny and Sarah looked at each other knowingly. They both had views on Celia and Drew’s marriage and had spent many lunchtimes sipping wine discussing what they would do if they were in Celia’s place. Celia had been a regular attendee at previous lunches, enjoying their friendship, until, concerned, they had questioned the heavy makeup she wore and the swelling of her face. Ashamed to admit it was Drew that had been beating her, she had politely refused to join them again, using excuses which became more lame as time went by. Even their husbands had noticed the way in which Drew spoke and acted towards his wife and the regular dinner parties that the partners used to hold for each other had dwindled over the last couple of years as Drew’s increasingly brutish behaviour towards Celia made for an uncomfortable atmosphere. Jenny and Sarah had not wanted to attend this evening, but did so for Celia’s sake.

After placing the coats onto the bed, Celia ran back downstairs and went into the kitchen to help Drew with serving the drinks. He was already pouring the champagne as she entered the kitchen and crossed over to collect the canapés.

‘Did you have a good day today?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied shortly. ‘What about you, have you spent all day in the garden or sat around doing nothing, as usual?’

The putdown was hurtful, especially after all the hard work she had spent ensuring that the house was painstakingly tidy and the menu would be to his liking. Her eyes started to glisten as tears formed.

‘For God’s sake,’ Drew hissed. ‘Can’t you pull yourself together, just once?’

Picking up the tray laden with full glasses, he marched through to the lounge where Michael, Peter, Jenny and Sarah waited for him. Biting back the tears, Celia took deep breaths before putting on a smile, picking up the canapés and following him.

‘It’s lovely to see you all again,’ she said looking around the room. ‘It’s been ages since we have all got together.’

Dinner, from everyone’s point of view, had been strained. Celia had looked around the table and wondered if anyone could see beneath the false smile and the forced conversation she made. Drew had dominated the conversation, drinking heavily and only speaking to Celia to tell her to pass the vegetables or to instruct her to clear away the dirty plates.

After four uncomfortable hours, both Jenny and Sarah had managed to catch their husbands’ eyes and indicate that it was time to leave. Even Michael and Peter were looking distinctly uneasy as they watched Drew drink the best part of a bottle of port, on top of the several bottles of wine they had all drunk during the dinner. All four had tried, throughout the dinner, to bring Celia into the conversation and to praise her efforts in preparing such a wonderful meal. Drew, however, would have none of it.

‘What else has she to do during the day?’ he had said. ‘The lamb was tough and the vegetables overcooked! Celia, if you can drag yourself away from whatever it is you do all day, you need to speak to the butcher.’

‘My piece of lamb was beautifully tender, darling,’ remarked Michael, feeling desperately sorry for her. Standing up, he looked around the table and asked Jenny if she had the number for the taxi. ‘Must get back,’ he said. ‘Working day tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep.’

Jenny laughed, ‘You’ll need more than a few hours sleep to make you beautiful.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ Drew said, ‘the night is yet young, stay and have another glass of port.’

Eager to leave, Sarah, too, stood up.

‘Shall we share, or do you want to order two taxis?’ she enquired.

‘We’ll share,’ said Jenny, taking out her mobile phone and dialling. ‘Five minutes?’ She looked around the room. ‘Is that alright with everyone else?’ She spoke into the telephone. ‘Five minutes is fine,’ she said and confirmed the address with the taxi company. Celia disappeared upstairs to fetch the coats.

‘I just need to use the bathroom,’ Jenny said, following her up the stairs. ‘Is everything alright, Celia?’ she asked. ‘You look so pale tonight.’

‘I’m fine,’ replied Celia. ‘Just tired, that’s all.’

‘Remember,’ Jenny said. ‘Both Sarah and I are only a phone call away if you need us.’

The unexpected kindness brought tears to Celia’s eyes and, blinking them away and not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. Turning into the bedroom, she felt Jenny’s hand touch her shoulder.

‘Don’t forget,’ Jenny reiterated. ‘We’re here for you.’

Nodding once more, Celia picked up the coats and walked back onto the landing. They both descended the stairs to find everyone waiting.

‘The taxi’s here.’ Peter said, taking Celia in his arms and giving her a big hug. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, sweetheart. Look after yourself.’

Planting a huge kiss on her cheek, Michael also thanked her for the evening. ‘You must come over to us next time.’

‘We’ll hold you to that,’ Drew answered for her, shaking both Michael and Peter by the hand. He turned to Jenny and Sarah and pecked them both on the cheek.

Jenny hugged Celia. ‘Remember what I said,’ she whispered.

Sarah, too, hugged Celia, looking at her with troubled eyes. ‘Call us,’ she said.

Touched at their concern, Celia stepped forward and opened the door.

As they walked up the drive towards the taxi, Jenny turned to her husband.

‘I do worry about Celia,’ she said. ‘She has changed beyond all recognition over these past couple of years.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘But what can we do? We’ve offered her our support, but she is so timid, I don’t think she dare call us.’

They climbed into the taxi. Sarah and Jenny, meeting each other’s eyes, looked back at the house and then at each other.

‘I’ll ring her next week,’ said Sarah. ‘When Drew is at work.’

Nodding her agreement, Jenny rested her head against Michael’s shoulder and thanked her lucky stars she was married to him and not to Drew.

Once the taxi had departed, Drew shut the door, turning to Celia, eyes glinting, he growled menacingly.

‘You tart. How dare you!’

Celia looked at him as he walked towards her. She saw in his expression that the drink had taken hold, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes slightly out of focus, and started to worry.

‘What do you mean?’ she replied nervously. ‘What have I done?’

‘I saw you, all evening, flirting with Michael. A woman of your age, it’s embarrassing.’

‘I haven’t been flirting, I was just being friendly with him, he is your partner after all,’ she said, taking a step backwards as Drew came nearer to her.

‘Don’t try to deny it. I was watching you. Smiling at him, touching his shoulder as you collected the plates, kissing him goodbye. How dare you make a fool of me and with my partner of all people?’

Frightened now, Celia started to stammer. ‘Please, Drew, there’s nothing between us. These are our friends, Drew. Michael and Jenny are friends,’ she repeated.

‘Don’t give me that,’ he said. ‘I know what I saw. Poor Jenny, I wonder if she knows what her husband is up to.’

As she backed away from Drew through the doorway into the dining room, Celia’s heart began to hammer inside her. She knew from past experience that once Drew had started down this line of conversation, it would only end in violence. The question was, just how vicious was he going to be? Shaking, she looked around her for some form of escape but realised that nothing was going to stop Drew tonight.

‘Please Drew,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t, please don’t.’

‘Shut your mouth, you whore,’ he said as he reached out to grab her arm, his fingers digging deeply into her flesh. Pulling her roughly towards him, he used his free hand to grab her by the hair and force her face towards him.

‘What do you do with him?’ he shouted. ‘How do you fuck him? Does he kiss you like this?’ Grinding his mouth onto hers, he forced her mouth open, drawing blood as he did so. ‘Do you like this, bitch?’ he panted as he bit down onto her bottom lip. ‘Do you like this?’

Celia tried to push him away with her free arm. Loosening his grip on her hair, he grabbed it and pushed her back against the wall.

‘I’m going to take what you give him, whore! I’ll show you what a real man is like.’

He pushed her hard against the wall, and let go of her arms. He put his hands to her neck and she flinched. Grabbing the neckline of her dress, he tore open the flimsy material and exposed her breasts encased in their black lace.

‘Please, Drew. Please don’t do this,’ she begged. ‘Drew, don’t.’

Past hearing her and uncaring, Drew bent his head and bit into her right breast. ‘I’ll show you, bitch.’

Celia screamed.

‘That’s it, scream,’ he said. ‘Scream for me, like you scream for Michael!’

‘Drew!’ she screamed again. ‘Drew, please. No.’

‘Shut up!’ he shouted and slapped her across the face. ‘Shut your mouth, you lying whore!’

Putting his arm against her neck and forcing her back against the wall, he reached down and undid his belt. As she squirmed against him, he pressed his arm harder against her neck cutting off her breathing and she could feel the room starting to swim around her.

‘Please, don’t do this to me,’ she cried, tears starting to pour down her cheeks. ‘Please, Drew.’

As he unzipped his trousers and released his erect penis, Celia knew he was crossing a new boundary in their marriage and that nothing would ever be the same again. As the realisation hit her, she slumped against the wall, the shock of what was about to happen leaving her numb. Drew lifted what remained of her torn dress and tore off the flimsy lace panties covering her.

Lifting her roughly, he threw her face down over the dining table, sending coffee cups and dessert plates crashing to the floor. Positioning himself behind her, he leant over her, one arm pressed against the small of her back pinning her down. Fumbling with his free hand, he tried to guide his penis inside her. Grunting, he thrust himself against her, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Through the pain and the tears, Celia knew that whatever feelings she had had for Drew and whatever bond there had been between them was dying with each painful thrust.

Drew pushed himself deeper and deeper inside Celia, his breathing quickening and becoming more ragged.

‘Bitch. Whore. Fucking whore!’ he muttered. ‘Bitch. Fuck. Bitch.’ His words became shouts as he came closer to his orgasm.

With a yell, Drew came, Celia feeling his penis throbbing and the hot fluid shooting inside her. Drew’s weight pressed her painfully against the table as he slumped over her, his energy and strength sapped with the intensity of his orgasm.

They remained locked together for what seemed, to Celia, forever, but was only a matter of seconds. Easing himself out of Celia and standing up, he pulled the tablecloth towards him, using it to wipe his penis clean. Pulling his trousers up from around his ankles, he stared at her disdainfully.

‘Sort out this mess.’ He strode out of the room without a backward glance at her. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Slowly, she pulled herself upright, reaching out to the back of the nearest dining chair to steady her as the movement made her light-headed. Near to fainting, she eased herself into the chair and looked at the mess around her. Feeling the warm semen dribbling out onto her thighs and overcome with helplessness, she put her head onto her arms and sobbed heartbrokenly.

It was after midnight and the candles had long since burnt out when she finally roused herself. Shivering, as the heating had long since switched off, she stood up and wandered into the lounge. Picking up their wedding photo, she wondered what had happened to that happy time when, thirteen years ago, they had made their vows to love and honour each other.

It had been a fairytale romance, their eyes had locked across crowded bar, he had fought his way through the groups of chattering people and, once in front of her, there had been no need for words. She knew, at that moment, that he was the one for her. They had dated for only six months before Drew, in true romantic fashion, took her to their favourite restaurant, knelt down on one knee and proposed to her. Of course, there was no need for her to even ask for time to think about it. Bursting into tears of happiness, she had flung herself into Drew’s arms and they had hugged and kissed, oblivious of their surroundings. The restaurant had burst into clapping and cheers and the owner had brought them champagne to celebrate.

Celia had never known such happiness. Since her mother and father died in a car crash whilst holidaying abroad when she was seventeen, she had felt alone. Now, with Drew by her side, she felt whole again.

On their wedding day, three months later, she had glowed with such radiance that even Drew’s mother who had criticised the match with much venom, seeing Celia as the woman who was stealing her son, grudgingly agreed that they were in love.

Two years later, Celia had discovered she was pregnant and their happiness was complete. The pregnancy had gone to plan, with Drew playing the devoted father-to-be. Nothing had been too much trouble for him, even getting up in the middle of the night to drive out to the 24 hour petrol station to satisfy Celia’s desire for Mars Bars without complaint.

Two days after her 29th birthday, Celia had rung him at work to say that she was bleeding. Breaking the speed limit, Drew drove home to find Celia bent double in the hallway waiting for him.

‘The contractions are coming really quickly,’ she had panted as he bundled her into the car. At the hospital, the delivery team fought to save both Celia and the baby. The labour over, Celia and Drew sat next to the incubator watching their daughter fighting for her life. Helen Louise was christened at nine hours old and died thirty minutes later. Sobbing uncontrollably in Drew’s arms, Celia had felt his body shaking with emotion and, as she glanced up at him, the grief etched on his face was frightening to see. Worse news was to come. The same problem that had caused Celia to bleed so heavily had damaged her ovaries and they were told that Celia would never conceive again.

They had arranged for Helen to be buried. The undertakers collected the tiny body and placed her in their Chapel of Rest. Celia spent most of the next two days at the Chapel, staring down at the perfect doll-like body wrapped in pink satin. Her face showed no emotion, but her body, taunt and tense, rocked forwards and backwards the entire time she was there.

Drew’s way of dealing with his loss was to shut himself away. The day after Helen’s death, he was back at work, door shut, immersing himself in his day-today workload. His boss, David, had told him to go home but Drew had simply looked at him coldly and said he was fine.

The funeral, carried out in the same church they married in, was the worst day of their lives. Barely able to stand through grief, she had followed Drew as he carried the small white coffin down the aisle of the church. At the graveside, heavy rain had fallen as Helen’s little body was put into the earth. Sobbing beside him, she was horrified when he had turned on her.

‘Stop crying,’ he had hissed out of the side of his mouth, looking around at the mourners gathered beside them. ‘Can’t you control yourself, everyone is staring.’

Stunned at the venom in his voice, Celia had stared incredulously at him.

‘Pull yourself together,’ he had repeated.

Bewildered she asked him how she should behave when burying their daughter. He had ignored her words and, from that moment, their marriage was never the same.

Celia was desperate for her husband to take her in his arms and comfort her, but his own grief had made him withdraw into himself. She watched as he started to drink more and became increasingly bitter. This bitterness he started to take out on Celia. Not physically violent to start with, he began to belittle her, never missing an opportunity to put her down, her self confidence slowly being eroded away.

The first act of violence came six months after they had buried Helen. Celia had arrived home from shopping to find the only picture they possessed of the baby missing from the lounge. She found Drew in the kitchen staring at the photograph.

‘It’s time we put this away,’ he had said. ‘She’s gone, there’s no point in keeping this.’ Horrified, Celia argued back. ‘That picture is all we have left, we can’t forget we ever had a child.’

Raising his hand, Drew had struck Celia across the face with the back of his hand, the stone in his wedding ring cutting into her cheek bone. The force of the blow made her stagger backwards and, touching her cheek, she stared in disbelief at the blood that showed on her fingers.

‘That photo will stay,’ she had shouted. ‘You cannot, and will not, take that away from me.’

Drew seemed numbed by his actions. She could see from his expression he realised he had gone too far, losing control of his emotions. Without words, he passed the photograph to Celia, before turning and walking silently out of the kitchen. After hearing the door slam, she watched as he walked down the drive and out into the street. He had returned four hours later, drunk.

The picture was placed back in the lounge and Drew, from that date, never mentioned it to Celia, nor had she ever seen him look at the photograph.

Until now, she had lived with the cruelty but, as she climbed the stairs and crept into bed beside Drew, lying there in the dark, her soul and body aching, a little spark ignited inside her.

‘I will beat him, I have had enough and I will not live like this any more!’ she whispered into the cold darkness. The little spark grew stronger until it felt like a raging fire. Watch out, Drew, she thought. You haven’t beaten me yet!

Celia was awake when the alarm shrilled at six thirty. Dozing only sporadically throughout the night, her mind was churning with ideas for her future. Drew, however, was still comatose. She knew from experience he would wake up with a sore head and a temper. Pressing the snooze button, she nudged him, none too gently.

‘Drew. Drew, the alarm has gone off. You’ll be late.’

He muttered in his sleep as he turned over.

‘Drew,’ she repeated.

‘What? What did you say?’ he said, groaning and reaching up to touch his temples. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six thirty. You need to get up.’ Celia replied.

She hoped he would get straight up, the sooner he was out of the house today, the better. For nearly six hours, she had lain next to him, plotting and planning her escape. Her thoughts had given her hope throughout the darkest hours of the night and she was eager to start putting her plan into action.

‘Make me some coffee,’ Drew instructed. ‘And some toast. I need a shower.’

She watched warily as he heaved himself out of bed and headed into the bathroom, overhearing him swear as he looked into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and clammy, pale skin. She hid a vindictive smile as she saw him grimacing every time he moved his head.

Once she heard the shower start to run, Celia got out of bed, wincing slightly at the ache in her thighs and wrapped herself in her dressing gown. Glancing at the mirror, she grimaced as she saw the marks left on her face, knowing that it would take all her skills with the make-up brush to cover them. She went down the stairs remembering the dining room was still waiting to be cleared from the events of the previous evening. Making sure that the dining room door was closed before going into the kitchen, she shoved the dirty pans and roasting tray into the oven away from Drew’s eyes and took out the coffee beans and grinder.

Drew insisted on freshly ground coffee each morning, just as he insisted on Celia getting out of bed to have breakfast with him.

‘God knows, you do little else,’ he told her often. ‘As I earn the money to keep you, you might as well make yourself useful!’

The coffee brewing, Celia took the bread from the bread bin and cut a couple of slices. The sawing action brought a smile to her face as she imagined a knife and Drew’s neck.

‘Now, now,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t run before you can walk, Celia. One step at a time, don’t rush things!’

Putting the bread in the toaster, Celia busied herself setting out crockery, butter, marmalade and orange juice onto the breakfast bar they used in a morning.

Straightening his tie as he entered the kitchen, Drew briefly glanced at Celia before pulling out a bar stool, sitting down and taking a long gulp of coffee. Deliberately sitting to his left, the swelling on her cheek and the red marks that were gradually turning into a purple bruise in full view, she, too, took a sip of coffee. As she did so, her dressing gown slipped slightly from her shoulder and the swell of her breast appeared showing the reddened, swollen bite marks that Drew left there. There was silence. Not that Celia had expected anything else. Normally, after Drew had lost his temper and had raised his fist to her, he ignored the event, and Celia, until the evidence of his actions had faded.

Rising from his seat, he spoke to briefly to her.

‘Dinner at seven tonight,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll be home at six thirty.’

She listened to his footsteps going through the hall, the door slamming and, moments later, the car engine starting. She stood and went to the kitchen window. Drew’s car was pulling out of the drive.

‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘My turn!’

Like a whirling dervish, Celia collected the dirty crockery from the dining room and loaded it into the dishwasher. All the rubbish was placed in a bin bag, together with the plates and glasses that had been smashed onto the floor as Drew had thrown her onto the table. While she vacuumed the dining room, her heart felt lighter than it had done in many months, even years. Although filled with apprehension, she was eager to start her plan and the stiffness and pain in her body seemed to recede.

Drew must not suspect a thing, she considered. Everything must seem to carry on as normal. Faltering for a second as the magnitude of what she was going to do hit her, she shook herself.

‘Be strong, Celia,’ she said to the empty room. ‘You can’t live like this anymore, he will kill you.’

Rummaging in the freezer for inspiration for dinner, she pulled out two chicken breasts. Placing them on a plate to defrost, she checked around the kitchen, making sure that it was tidy. Going through into the lounge, she picked up a champagne flute which had been missed and cast her eye around. Tidy enough, she thought. After going back into the kitchen and rinsing out the glass, she headed upstairs.

‘Right,’ she said out loud. ‘First things first.’

Celia went into the bedroom and took off her dressing gown. Looking into the mirror, she cast a critical eye over her naked body. Standing five feet and six inches tall and weighing nine and a half stone, she could not, by anyone’s standards, be called petite. Years of being browbeaten by Drew had caused her shoulders to round slightly, so she pulled herself up to her full height. Immediately she looked thinner. Her breasts were still full, and her narrow waist gave way to full hips. Standing erect, even her little protruding tummy had disappeared. Long, shapely legs ending in perfectly pedicured feet completed the picture.

Not bad, she thought. Needs a bit of work, but, not bad.

Showered, her face expertly made up to cover the bruises. ‘God knows, I’ve had enough practice,’ she said to herself as she pulled on a pale blue jumper and black trousers. The blue of the jumper matched her eyes, which, today, shone brightly, not with tears, but with hope.

She reached into her handbag and took out her diary. Wanting to make a list of the things she needed to do first, she pulled out a sheet from the notes section at the back and began to write. Passport, money, change of appearance and, finally, somewhere to hide, all appeared on her list.

Money, she knew would be difficult. Drew had controlled the household expenses and their bank account since their marriage.

‘No wife of mine will ever work,’ he had announced. ‘I’ll look after you.’

At the time and blinded by love, Celia had been grateful for someone to cosset her and take charge of her life.

Her large wooden jewellery box sat beside her. Although cold towards her, Drew had been generous. At first, surprised by his generosity each birthday and anniversary, she had soon come to realise that the gifts were not bought for her with love, but were bought as trophies, to be shown off to his friends and colleagues. Gifts that were symbols of his success and which hid the shambles of their marriage from others.

Celia thought ahead. She could not think of any occasion in the near future where she would be expected to perform as Drew’s dutiful wife. Removing the most expensive items from the box and wrapping them in tissue, she carefully placed them in her handbag. Distributing the remainder of the jewellery, mostly costume, in the three drawers of the box, she tried to spread them out so the missing jewellery wouldn’t be too obvious.

Passport would be easy, she decided. Collect a passport form, have a few photos taken and post the form. Drew was never in the house when the postman delivered the mail, he was either at work or, on Saturdays, playing golf.

She would have to give great thought to changing her appearance. A pair of glasses. Cutting and dyeing her hair. Celia realised that, to carry out the plan carefully to ensure she covered her tracks well would take some time and she just hoped she would have the patience to prepare fully, rather than rushing and perhaps making a fatal mistake. Again, her choice of destination would have to be carefully thought out. She refused to be caught by the police, a life sentence did not feature in her plans. She was going to live a little.

It was now nine thirty. Collecting her car keys and leaving the house, Celia opened up the double garage doors that adjoined the house. Throwing her handbag onto the passenger seat, she climbed into her red VW Beetle sporting the personalised number plate which Drew had bought her for their last wedding anniversary. Taking a deep breath, she sat there for a moment before putting the key into the ignition and starting the car.

‘You can do this,’ she said to herself. ‘Come on, Celia.’

The little pep talk roused her and she drove out of the garage and set off down the road.

For her plan to work, Celia needed a large town where she would be anonymous. Anything out of the ordinary in the little village of Collington would be common knowledge before the day was out. Asking Mrs Roberts, the local postmistress, for a new passport form would certainly lead to questions about future holidays and plans.

Deciding to travel into Leeds, Celia set off and, parking in an almost full multi-storey car park, paid for a full day’s parking. After asking for directions to the main post office, she set off in that direction. Dodging groups of teenagers who surely should be at school and women with pushchairs determined to ram anyone in their way, she passed a hairdressers with a colourful window display. An idea popped into her head. Stopping and retracing her steps, she stared. There, in the window, were wigs and hairpieces.

Perfect, she thought. If I had a wig, I could disguise myself as and when I wanted.

Walking into the shop, she was almost blinded by neon. She looked incredulously at the six foot tall receptionist whose beehive hairstyle added at least another foot to her overall height and who looked suspiciously like a man dressed up as a woman.

‘Can I help you, love?’ said the receptionist in a gruff voice, eyeing Celia up and down and noticing the purple stain beneath the carefully applied make-up. ‘Been in a fall, have you?’

Celia drew herself up to her full height and, with a forcefulness that even surprised her, replied. ‘Mind your own business. I would like to speak to the manager.’

Taken aback, she didn’t expect someone of Celia’s apparent timidity to answer back, the receptionist bellowed into the back of the salon.

‘Henri, there’s a lady here to see you.’

Celia stared as a small man skipped out of a little room at the back of the salon. She had never seen anyone dressed quite like this before. I must have lived a very sheltered life, she thought, as Henri minced towards her. Dressed in a fuchsia suit with a brilliant white shirt, he was sporting an orange tan topped off by the longest black quiff she had ever seen. She had to squint in order not to be blinded by him.

‘Ooohh, darling,’ he lisped. ‘What can I do for you?’

Still in shock at the apparition before her, Celia was lost for words. Swallowing hard, she eventually managed to ask about the hairpieces she had seen.

‘Well, sweetheart. It depends on who you want to be. I can do Tina Turner, Carol Smillie. Oh, don’t we just love Carol?’ he said. ‘Saskia. Saskia, don’t we just love Carol?’ he trilled to the receptionist.

Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, Saskia nodded.

‘Right, darling. Let’s get you sorted. Come and sit over here and tell Uncle Henri what you want.’

Celia sat in the offered chair and looked into the mirror. What did she want? It was only a few hours ago that the idea of changing her appearance had hit her. The thought of cutting her hair and wearing glasses now paled, a whole new world of possibilities had unexpectedly come to light.

‘I want short and black,’ she said decisively.

Ninety minutes later, Celia barely recognised herself. Her own hair had been drawn into a hairnet and the hairpiece placed on top. Cutting and styling the wig to look totally natural, the resulting short, black spiky hairstyle completely transformed her. Fortunately, her natural colouring ensured that the new look didn’t look out of place, her eyebrows being the darker brown her hair, without its monthly trip to the hairdresser, would be.

‘Darling, you look amazing.’ Henri hovered around her, tweaking the final few hairs into position. ‘Amazing,’ he said again.

She had to agree, no-one could possibly recognise her.

Paying Saskia with what little cash she had remaining in her purse, Celia stepped into the street feeling very self-conscious. Looking around her at the crowds of shoppers, she was amazed that no-one was stopping to gape at her. Practically cashless and not wanting to pay for any transactions with a credit card, she needed to concentrate on raising money. Heading towards the post office, ideas whirling round in her head, she decided she needed to take off the wig and return to her normal looking self before she could carry on with the rest of her plan. Nipping into a convenient McDonalds, she disappeared into a toilet cubicle and reappeared moments later, the hairpiece having been removed and placed in her handbag. Looking in the mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair to liven it up from the flat aftermath of the wig.

Leaving the burger bar, she continued down the street towards the Post Office. Moments later, peering down a side street, she noticed a sign showing the three ball symbols of a pawnbroker. Decidedly seedy looking, but, as she thought, beggars can’t be choosers.

She stepped inside the pawnbrokers and looked around. The harsh fluorescent lighting reflected off the plainly painted walls and stained linoleum flooring while two flies buzzed as they bounced around inside the light tubing. Immediately in front of her, a metal grille separated her from a small balding man who appeared to be in his late fifties wearing a stained open-necked checked shirt.

‘Yes, love. What can I do for you?’ he asked, a cigarette hanging precariously out of the corner of his mouth.

Holding back her revulsion at the grubby surroundings, Celia delved into her handbag.

‘I need to sell some jewellery,’ she said timidly. ‘What can you give me for these?’

His eyes lit up as she placed the diamonds and precious stones onto a tray before pushing it forwards under the grille. He picked up the diamond choker and reached for his eye piece. Screwing it into his right eye, he peered at the necklace, turning it several times in his hand.

‘Nice piece, nice piece,’ he said. ‘I take it you are the rightful owner?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What do mean by that?’

He looked at her knowingly, seeing the bruising beneath her eye and the swelling of her jaw. He had seen it all before, battered wives and women falling on hard times, selling their jewellery before the husband found out. Never mind. He could keep his mouth shut, especially for the quality of jewellery that he held in his hand. The only question was, how much would she want for them. Studying the rest of the jewellery laid before him, he asked her the question.

Not expecting to be asked her opinion, Celia faltered.

‘How much can you give me?’ she replied.

‘£15,000, the lot,’ he said, knowing he could get at least double the amount when he sold them on.

Celia’s face fell, she had been hoping for more.

‘Surely they are worth more than that?’ she said.

‘Do you want to bankrupt me?’ he replied. ‘I’ll tell you what, love. You look a nice lady, I can go to £16,000, that’s my last offer. You won’t get any better elsewhere.’ He placed the jewellery back in the tray and started to push it back through the grille to her.

Knowing that he was probably right if she wanted to dispose of the jewellery discreetly, she accepted.

‘Cash, and we have a deal.’

‘I deal in nothing else, lady,’ he replied, disappearing from view for a couple of minutes. He returned with a large wad of notes.

After the money was counted out in front of her and the £16,000 was tucked away inside her handbag, Celia stepped back into the street. She was uneasy at the thoughts of carrying so much money around and clasped the handbag tightly to her side while her eyes darted from left to right as she marched briskly on. A bank appeared to her left and, on impulse, she veered off into the cool interior.

‘Can I help you, Madam?’

Celia turned, a uniformed woman was standing behind a pedestal. Looking at the name badge pinned to the woman’s lapel, she read Margaret Somers, Customer Assistant.

Celia replied. ‘Yes, I’m hoping so. Do you have any safety deposit boxes and, if so, how do I open one?’

‘You need to speak to the manager,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll see if he’s free. Would you like a coffee while I go and find him?’

‘No thank you,’ replied Celia. ‘I’ll just wait here.’

A couple of minutes later, accompanied by Margaret, a soberly dressed man appeared.

‘Brian Johnson, Manager, at your service, Madam. I understand you want to rent a safety deposit box.’

‘That’s right,’ said Celia. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Come into my office,’ he said. ‘There’s a small amount of paperwork to do and I need some form of identification.’

Once she had produced her driving licence, she was amazed at how easy it all seemed. The paperwork was completed and, for a small fee, Celia was handed a key. Brian explained the procedure for accessing her box.

‘For security, you have one key and the bank keeps the other. All boxes require two keys to be used. However, once the bank has used their key, we will leave the room, leaving you to use your key and access the box. Once closed, the box will automatically lock itself.’

He led Celia down a corridor to the back of the bank where a large steel door stood. He pressed a number onto the small keypad at the side of the door which then beeped before swinging open. The door led into a room surrounded by little numbered boxes with keyholes, sparsely furnished with a small table and chair in the middle.

‘Box 7443,’ said Brian, pointing out a box at the far end of the room.

He placed the bank’s key into the box and turned the lock, indicating that Celia was to do the same with the other lock. Pulling out the empty box and placing it on the table, he told her he would wait outside while she completed her business and left the room.

Celia breathed a sigh of relief. She could place the wig and the majority of the money in the box where it would be safe from prying eyes, those of Drew.

Leaving the bank and having collected a passport form from the Post Office, sited across the pedestrian precinct, Celia’s stomach started to rumble. She looked for a small café where she could have lunch. Seeing a wine bar on the corner of the next junction, she headed toward it.

‘Table for one, is it?’ questioned the young waiter, looking over her shoulder as she entered.

‘That’s right, just one,’ she replied, annoyed at his assumption that a woman alone couldn’t dine without company.

She was shown to a small table in the corner of the restaurant and sat down on the wicker chair offered to her by the waiter. Choosing a Caesar salad and, flushed with the success of the morning, she decided to treat herself to a glass of wine. When the waiter left and the salad bowl and large glass of chilled Pinot Grigio had been placed in front of her, she took out the passport form and studied it.

Her heart dropped. She pushed the salad to one side, rested her head in her hands and mentally kicked herself.

How stupid could I be? she thought.

In bed last night, it had all seemed so easy. Now, staring at the form in front of her she realised how naive she was. The information the form was requesting could no way be falsified. Even if she filled in a different name, her existing address would be needed for the passport to be sent to her. Photographs needed to be counter-signed.

There’s no way that I could possibly get anyone to counter-sign a photo of me with black hair and a false name, she thought in despair.

She caught sight of her watch, it was three thirty. With a start, she rapidly folded the form and pushed it back into her handbag. Digging into her purse, she threw a £20 note onto the table and ran out of the restaurant. Walking as fast as she could, half jogging, she reached her car and stood there gasping, trying to locate her car keys. Once in the car she drove away, aware that she was an hour away from home and that everything needed to be as normal when Drew arrived home.

Reversing into the garage, Celia’s mind was racing. There must be a solution to every problem, she thought, marvelling at the difference in herself. Until Drew had taken the ultimate step of raping her last night, she had been prepared for a life of being lonely and cowed and the old Celia would have given in at this first obstacle.

‘I ought to thank him,’ she said out loud, her voice echoing through the garage as she stepped out of the car.

On entering the house, Celia headed upstairs realising that she needed a safe place to hide the key and money. She had decided that her handbag wasn’t safe enough, Drew having rummaged inside for aspirin recently.

Whatever what he would think coming across £1,000 in cash, she reflected.

Many months previously, Celia had started to save small amounts of money she knew Drew wouldn’t miss. The occasional £10 or £20 which was left in a trouser pocket on its way to the dry cleaners or oddments that were left over from a visit to the local supermarket. In total, she had saved in excess of £500 and had hidden the cash in an old shoe box at the back of the airing cupboard covered with old towels. Contemplating whether this would be secure enough, she reasoned that Drew would never go into the airing cupboard. In the past, if he was wet from the shower and there were no dry towels, he would shout for Celia to come and fetch him one. Even if he did venture into the cupboard, there would be enough towels between him and the box for him not to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Later that evening, sitting on the sofa in the lounge watching Drew’s choice of television, some type of documentary, her eyes stared blankly at the screen while her mind continued its search for the answer to her passport dilemma. She thought of, and discounted, asking Jenny or Sarah for help. Her increasingly reclusive existence had ensured that she had no other contact with the outside world except the butcher, greengrocer and newsagent. A small smile crept onto her lips as she contemplated the reaction of Mr Adams, the butcher, as she asked for two pork chops and a false passport!

A small snort from the other sofa brought her back to the present. Drew had fallen asleep. Filled with her new strength of character, Celia was tempted to leave him snoring away but knew that when he woke up cold in the early hours of the morning, she would pay for it. Not with physical abuse, but with hurtful and snide comments. She knew that the time was not yet right to start rocking the boat and that she needed to carry on being the dutiful wife until her plans were complete. Giving Drew a none-too-gentle shove, she woke him up.

‘Drew, come on, wake up. Bedtime,’ she said.

Drew’s eyes fluttered.

‘Drew, wake up.’

Coming fully awake, Drew stretched and yawned. Heaving himself off the sofa, he glanced in her direction.

‘Coming?’ he said.

‘In a few moments,’ she replied, wanting him to be asleep when she climbed into bed.

Sat in the dim light of the lamp, the television switched off, Celia cradled a mug of hot chocolate. An idea was stirring in the back of her mind and, as she concentrated, her brow furrowed, straightening as the idea took form. Half an hour later, convinced Drew would be asleep, Celia climbed the stairs to bed. She was right. Drew was asleep. Silently, so as to not disturb him, she crept around the bathroom before carefully slipping into the bed at the side of him. Although her stomach was churning with apprehension over all she had to achieve during the weeks ahead, Celia was exhausted from her restless night previously and slept soundly.

After a strained weekend, her bruises fading enough to be covered by a coating of foundation, Celia retrieved the safety deposit box key and a handful of the banknotes from the airing cupboard and returned to the city centre. Setting off purposefully, she entered the bank and approached the receptionist.

‘I would like to withdraw something from my safety deposit box,’ she requested.

Filling in the appropriate forms and showing her identification, Celia was shown into the vault.

As promised, the cashier waited outside the room while Celia withdrew the items she needed. Counting out £2,000, she stuffed the money and wig into her handbag. Locking the box and signing out, she left the bank feeling optimistic.

Going into the first opticians she came to, Celia enquired about coloured contact lenses. Giving her name as Claire Anderson, she was told there was an appointment free in half an hour and decided to wait. Sitting in the corner, she started to read a magazine. Engrossed in an article about chutneys, Celia didn’t hear the optician calling out the name Mrs Anderson. A light touch on her shoulder startled her.

‘Mrs Anderson?’ the optician queried.

Colouring slightly as she lied, Celia nodded.

‘Come this way,’ the optician told her, taking her into a small dimly lit room. ‘How can I help you?’

Celia told the optician that, although she did not require glasses, she would like, for purely cosmetic reasons, to have emerald eyes. This was not an unusual request and, after instructing Celia that not everyone was suitable for wearing contact lenses, he sat her down in the darkened room and conducted his tests. Declaring her eyes suitable, he sent her out on an hour’s trial. Leaving the opticians with the lenses in place, Celia could feel them grating on her eyelids every time she blinked.

Blearily, she looked for the nearest shop which would have a ladies toilet. Going into Debenhams, she took the escalator to the third floor and, glancing around her, walked through the restaurant into the toilets. Locking the cubicle door behind her, Celia took a hair net out of her handbag. Pushing her blonde hair into the net, she then pulled out the black wig and arranged it on top of the hair net. Listening against the door for any sound of movement, she was certain that no-one else was in the room. She opened the cubicle door, approached the mirror and checked the hair piece was straight, with no stray blonde hairs showing. Applying a coat of lipstick, she looked at herself. She didn’t recognise the woman staring back at her from the mirror.

Head held high and looking straight ahead, Celia set off down the escalator and out into the street.

As she passed Woolworths on her way to the pawnbrokers, she noticed a photo booth inside the entrance. Checking inside her purse for loose change, she slipped inside the booth, put the coins into the slot and posed. Four minutes later, the photos slithered silently out of the machine.

Thirty minutes had elapsed. With another thirty to go before she was expected back at the opticians, Celia decided to go to Starbucks where she sat down to enjoy a cup of coffee and to gather her thoughts. She cast her mind back over the last few days and was amazed at her cunning, thinking that she would never, ever complain about having to watch thrillers and crime films again.

Taking the last sip of the frothy cappuccino, furtively glancing around, she entered the ladies toilets and removed the wig.

Back at the opticians, the green contact lenses were removed, Celia’s eyes were examined and the optician pronounced the test a success.

‘How often will you be wearing them?’ he asked. ‘Do you need one pair for when you go out or are you planning on wearing them daily?’

Knowing that, in the future, she would be wearing the lenses daily, she told him she planned to wear the lenses often. He took a box containing three pairs of lenses from the shelves and a bottle of sterilising lotion.

‘This is three month’s supply,’ he told her. ‘You’ll need to make an appointment to have your eyes checked before purchasing any further lenses.’ He manoeuvred her to the till. ‘That will be £149.99, including all the solutions,’ he said taking the money from her.

Thanking him, she put her purse away and stowed the items inside her bag.

Celia made her way to the pawnbrokers. The same balding, scruffy little man was behind the metal grille, albeit with a slightly cleaner looking shirt.

‘Morning, love. Got some more for me, have you?’ he questioned.

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I…..’

Stopping for a moment to gather strength, slightly embarrassed about what reaction she might receive, Celia continued.

‘I. Do you? I mean....’

‘Come on, spit it out,’ he encouraged her. ‘There’s not much I haven’t seen or heard in here.’

Taking a deep breath, Celia blurted out her request.

‘I want a passport, in a different name. Can you help me?’

He blinked several times, the question was obviously not one he had been expecting.

‘What?’

‘Can you help me get a passport?’ she repeated.

He gazed at her, remembering the bruising she had sported a few days ago and noticing the heavy make-up still concealing it. He could sense her agitation and see her eyes welling up with desperation and bright tears.

‘Why are you asking me? What do you think I could do?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know what else to do. I thought….. Coming in here last week, you seemed like….’

‘Like a dodgy type of character, is that what you mean?’

Celia stared back at him, her eyes glistening.

‘I don’t know what else to do. I need to get away. I need help. Please, can you help me?’

He looked at her again, something about her was appealing to his better nature. He had seen women knocked about before and he despised the men who did it. They were the lowest of the low. To have a beautiful woman and destroy it was the worst sin in his view.

‘I might know of someone,’ he said after several minutes of silence.