I mean... become more of a bastard? Should I have hit her, or cheated on her?”
I realized he wasn’t really talking to me; it was like in a play, when a character just talks out loud for no apparent reason.
I knew the answer to his question, however. “No, Raymond,” I said. “You would never have done either of those things.”
I finished my cup of wine and poured some more. “I lived with a man called Declan for a couple of years.
He used to punch me in the kidneys, slap me—he fractured twelve bones, all in all.
He stayed out some nights and then came home and told me about the women he’d been with.
It was my fault, all my fault. But still, I know he shouldn’t have done that. I know it now, anyway.
Raymond stared at me. “Jesus, Eleanor. When was this?” “Several years ago,” I said.
While I was still at university. He saw me in the Botanic Gardens one day, just came up and started talking to me.
I know it sounds ridiculous, looking back. By the end of the week, he’d moved in.
“Was he a student too?” Raymond said. “No, he said reading books was a waste of time, boring.
He didn’t work either; couldn’t find a job that suited him, he said.
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