Page 69 of Stella is Starting Over

‘No,’ I say, doubting myself even as I say it. ‘It’s not that bad, it’s just. . . please?’

Dom’s voice sounds strangled. ‘Okay,’ he says.

Then I go out into the bedroom, brandishing my phone. ‘It’s Dom,’ I say quietly. ‘I thought you might want to hear it from him, okay?’

My heart thuds. Was this a good idea? Is this just going to make him angrier? I thought maybe talking to another man rather than to me might appease him, but his face is expressionless. I can’t tell if I’ve actually just spectacularly fucked it up. But at least this way, I think darkly, Richard knows that someone knows where I am and who I’m with. I have witnesses, if he does anything. . . I shut the thought down. I’m going to be fine – this is going to be fine. We’re having a row and we’ll fix the row, and then I’ll calmly tell him that I’m not ready for a relationship, which is patently fucking true because every man I get involved with turns into a complete psycho. Right?

Richard takes the phone from me. ‘Hello?’ he says, his tone even.

I can’t hear what Dom’s saying down the other side. But Richard sounds calm. Friendly, even.

‘I get it,’ he says. ‘I just think, well, you know what it’s like. We’re possessive, aren’t we?’ He even manages a little laugh. ‘All right, well, look, maybe we’ll have a drink when we’re back in London. All right. Good night.’

He hangs up the phone and I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn and smile and apologise. But he doesn’t. He just looks at me. For what feels like hours. He stays completely still, staring at me. Then, without breaking eye contact, he raises my phone, throws it across the room, at the wall, where it hits the pretty Cotswolds stone and smashes, glass splintering from the screen, and lands the floor. My first thought is for all the pictures of Rose that I’ve taken and not backed up, the ones of her licking the spoon while we baked, rolling around in the garden, pulling up daisies.

I stare at him, dumbstruck, expecting him to apologise for his loss of control. But he doesn’t. My skin feels tight, every single fibre of my body is telling me that I need to get the fuck out of this room.

‘What was that?’ he asks, slowly, quietly, in a tone far more menacing than a shout.

‘I thought it might help for you to hear it from him. I knew you didn’t believe me and I thought—’

‘You thought I’d want to talk to him? Are you fucking stupid?’

I don’t know how to answer this but he’s getting closer and there’s nowhere for me to go, no door between us, no exit route.

‘I’ll ask again,’ he says, closer now, far too close. ‘Are you fucking stupid?’

‘Richard, I don’t think you mean to but you’re scaring me right now, can we just take a beat? Just get some air maybe? I might go for a quick walk—’

I try to push past him but he’s too quick and he’s got me against the wall, not exactly pinning me but somehow trapping me.

‘Richard, please,’ I try again, unable to comprehend that I’ve ended up in this situation. ‘Please?’

He’s looking down at me, almost smiling now, and I’m trying to work out if I can push my way past him, or knee him in the balls, or scream, when there’s a knock at the door.

‘Security!’ a man’s voice shouts. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Just fine,’ Richard calls back, putting his finger to his lips, telling me to stay silent.

‘I need help!’ I yell, sounding stupid and pathetic and mad. For a second I don’t know if they’ve heard me. There’s no reply from the other side of the door.

All I can see are Richard’s eyes blazing with anger and all I can think about is that I’m fairly sure he’s going to hit me – and I’ve never been hit by a man before – and all I can hope is that he’ll stop hitting me before anything serious happens.

And then the door clicks and two men push their way in, and Richard jumps backwards away from me. I’m across the room in seconds. The two security guards look at the smashed phone, my flushed face, Richard still fixed to his spot.

‘Is everything okay?’ they ask again.

I shake my head.

‘Do you want to come with us?’

I nod.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Richard says. ‘I’m not paying nine hundred quid a night to be treated like a criminal.’ He storms out of the room.

No one seems quite sure what to do. So I pack my things while the two blokes, both very nice, middle-aged men who apparently haven’t ever had to break up a fight between a couple in all their years of working at the hotel, help me pack. My hands are shaking so Glen, the bigger one, unzips and rezips my suitcase for me. I shove in everything I can, then pick up my phone. Only then do I start crying.

‘They’ll be able to fix it, I’m sure,’ Bill, the smaller one, adds.