A Ring at Rock Bottom

Content warning: domestic violence/abuse.

I remember when I first met Callum, vivid and clear like it was yesterday. We were both at a semi-respectable bar with our respective friends, it was a sunny Saturday afternoon, the warmth had brought out the joyful summery mood that goes with drinking in the sun. I know what you're thinking, honestly I'm not like that. He just stood out; a head taller than most, a jaw you could set your watch to, a raucous, infectious laugh. He carried himself with an easy, unshakeable confidence that I just had to be part of. I had to boost my own confidence with a few rum cocktails first, but when we got talking, I could feel the sparks fly. He reduced me to fits of giggles, at one point I laughed so hard I snorted my drink out through my nose. I knew he had to be mine. I broke my own rules, hot-footing it to a taxi with him, our passionate exchange, his taut, firm body. I didn't regret it for a second; rules were made to be broken.

OK, so I enjoyed a steamy night with a handsome stranger. Hardly anything to be ashamed of, and the man was disarmingly charming. Of course I'd love to meet up with him again, and he knew all the fun spots I'd somehow overlooked in my decade-plus living in the city. Mongolian BBQ, ice skating, crunching through leaves in hidden parks, all illuminated by his warm smiling brown eyes. I felt like a movie star, a goddess even; he held doors open, wrapped me in his coat when I got cold, always paid for everything. He was like the sun, rays of gold warming everything I saw. How I snagged a man like that I have no idea.

###

My tenancy ran out a couple months after we started dating, and we moved from jokingly to more seriously discussing moving in together. Of course I was nervous - who wouldn't be? Particularly if, like me, they had a habit of saying just the wrong thing at just the wrong moment. Still, I had spent weekends at his, he wasn't a slob, he had excellent taste. Everything was just so: meticulously groomed peace lily, minimalist abstract canvas, upmarket chrome-trimmed coffee machine. To tell the truth, I was more worried what he thought about my ‘drying rack straight to body’ wardrobe system. “All part of your charm,” he twinkled at me when I blurted out my silly, irrational worry.

I'll be honest, living with the man of my dreams did make me a bit of a worse friend. He was all mine, a live-in hunk, and I struggled to keep my hands off him. I started missing social events, Friday drinks, birthdays, that sort of thing. Socialising was always a bit of a struggle for me anyway, it was easy to just tone it down a bit. It wasn't as though he disliked my friends, quite the opposite. He plied them with his charm when we did manage to go see them, and couldn't do enough for them when they came to visit. I think it's more that our priorities moved a little. If he'd come up with something fun and spontaneous to do I'd happily make my excuses. I wanted him all to myself.

He was so generous, and I never meant to embarrass him. For my birthday, he got me this gorgeous red dress. Probably a bit too gorgeous for me, if anything; I do struggle with body positivity sometimes. It made him happy to see me wearing it, though, which made me happy. “Breathtaking,” he sighed, as I twirled self-consciously, before nuzzling my neck and kissing my collarbone. Not long after, he suggested we meet up with some of his work friends for cocktails, breaking quite a long run of hermit-like behaviour. I said I'd meet them there. I rushed out, running late as usual, to join them all mid-way. A jazzy piano tinkled in the background, dusky lighting filtered through fittings made from glasses and bottles. Callum was the life of the party, chatting, joking, but didn't talk to me much or do introductions. Maybe they were a bit too sophisticated for me, I felt out of place, didn't really fit in the conversation. At the end of the night, I felt a bit sad and deflated, but glad to be going home. There was a coldness about Callum though, he felt distant. Eventually, after a few huffed “it's nothing”s, I managed to get an answer out of him:

“It's just, you have that lovely dress I bought you, perfect for this sort of upscale occasion, and yet you come along like this. Here I am, thinking of what would suit you perfectly, but you don't seem to care.”

I felt so sad, so stupid, to have done that to him.

###

It was a slow, up-and-down process, but if I was to point to when my confidence really started slipping, it was then. I feel like we started drifting apart, too. I got a little obsessed, sometimes I'd hide his shoes, in the hope he'd stay with me instead of going out on his own. 

I'd have silly, insecure worries that would just upset Callum, make him sad, or angry. If I pushed him too far, he'd have to go walk to clear his head. All the while I'd be wanting to curl up into a ball and cry over what I'd done, so stupid, stupid, stupid. The worse our arguments got, the longer he'd be gone for, sometimes he'd be gone till early in the morning, slip in and sleep on the couch, sometimes he'd not come home at all. Sometimes I'd ring my oldest friend Martha and just sob her through my miseries. Martha was all heart, just listened and comforted. I could tell she didn't approve of him, but she was good enough to keep her thoughts to herself. The thing is, she only saw the rocky parts of the road of our relationship. She didn't see him like I did, how sweet and thoughtful and charming he could be during the good times. 

I'm not proud to admit it, but at my worst, after a big fight, on my own, I'd slip into a bottle of cheap wine. I know, I know, zero self control. Without my inhibitions, I'd do spiteful little things, sneaking biros into his fancy shirt pockets for example, or try to follow him. It never made me feel any better afterwards, just more insecure, hating myself for it, yet it was a habit I couldn't drop. Once, in a fit of jealousy, I bought a GPS tracker and slipped it into his jacket, hoping I could find out where he went, just to watch him. It never worked, I think it fell out into a ditch in the woods.

It's taken a while to get back to where I am. I think I realised I'd hit rock bottom one night when I fell asleep on the sofa, wine glass in hand, and I woke as the front door clicked shut. It was about 3AM, Callum was just coming back. I wobbled to my feet, arm still dead from passing out at an awkward angle, as he slipped into the front room, his usually neat shirt crumpled, his face a perfect expression of shock.

In vino veritas, they say, and perhaps it's true that I have a paranoid and suspicious streak. Or had, at any rate. I've been working on it. 

“What have you been doing?” I blurted at him. “Why do you smell of perfume?” A horrible accusation to say. It's not his fault he hit me, mostly as a shock reaction, he's so passionate and didn't mean to get carried away. For a week I had a huge shiner of a black eye to cover up. He felt awful and embarrassed about it, not as much as I did though, I'm sure. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I've been too focused on the negatives though, yet again. It's a real problem of mine. There were also the ecstatic days, where everything went right. Slowly, slowly, we patched things up, came back stronger. We had a carefree holiday together in Cyprus, just me and him. I packed all my most elegant outfits and we went out to all the restaurants and tavernas, evenings filled with the sweet scents of nighttime flowers, giddy laughter and dancing. He was all mine again, nobody I had to share him with. The years just dropped off me like drops of rain in a summer shower, Callum got his disarming grin back again, certainly enough to disarm me out of my dress.

###

It's Saturday. Callum’s out this morning; we've decided it's healthier if we have occasional days and evenings apart doing our own things. I sometimes go to an art class, sometimes just have a walk, watch the ducks demand crumbs at the pond in perfect peace. It's brought my confidence back, and put a spring in Callum's step. Today I haven't got anything planned, but maybe I'll go for a little wander later.

I don't know how I end up in Callum's closet. I know he doesn't like me going in there, says he needs his privacy and wants to know he can trust me. I'm really not there to snoop. I've stopped that since he changed his phone password. For someone so purposeful, it's surprisingly messy. My hand rests on perfumed paper, brushes against a box. A jeweller’s box. I should really put it down and get out. But… it's an engagement ring. It's beautiful, as you might expect from a man with perfect taste. I realise I haven't breathed for nearly a minute. My heart leaps and flutters. Before I know it, I'm holding the ring. It's very tight, in fact it won't go on, not on my “thick-cut sausages” as Callum calls them.

There's a noise behind me. Callum opens the door and I gasp - he shouldn't be back so soon, he must have forgotten something. I look at him. He looks at me, stood in his open closet, then his eyes go to the box. I see his face change.

This isn't anger - I've seen him angry before. This is white-hot fury.

###

“The time is 13:44. Detective Sergeant Amy Barnes, taking interview under caution with suspect for the murder of Callum Smith. Before I begin, do you wish to state anything on the record?”

“I do.”