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Authors: Ron Shillingford
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draftiness of the house still sent shivers down her spine.
Melanie’s fondest memory of 43 Oakhampton Avenue was the day she
moved out to a rented apartment nearby.
“Thank God I’ll never have to live there
again. Holloway prison must be more luxurious.”
A studious type, she clicked with Justin
through researching for long hours in the library. The library was
certainly warmer and less draughty than home.
Melanie made a point of never taking him to
her family house. Ashamed of the scruffiness and smallness of 43
Oakhampton Avenue, it was off limits to all her friends, especially
Justin. In fact, any time she had to see her parents it would be in
a diner, café or a family member’s home. Not wanting him to know of
her shame, Melanie always avoided discussing the issue. Justin
first met her parents in a curry house.
With Paul, life had moved on further than her
wildest expectations and she was enjoying an envious style. So it
seemed.
All the Reardon kids, aged from 17 to 23,
were still at home but living their own lives. Two girls and two
boys, all students, they treated dad as personal banker and Melanie
was only called on for occasional support.
There was emptiness in her life, which
Justin’s Facebook messages helped fill.
All her friends and family longed for her
idyll. But they didn’t know the whole truth. Paul turned
uncharacteristically nasty when drunk, lashing out on his wife at
the flimsiest excuse. Initially just verbal put downs, then
shoulder punches which evolved into full blown thumps to the
thighs, where permanent damage was less likely detected than on
softer body spots, and bruises were easier to hide. Rarely on the
face. A swollen eye, busted lip or bruised cheekbone could not be
easily explained away.
Dr Reardon had a reputation to uphold in the
community. Paul was inordinately jealous, suspecting her of
infidelity at every opportunity, which couldn’t have been further
from the truth.
If anyone was guilty of playing away it was
him. A frequent visitor to strip clubs, there were overnight
absences that Melanie accepted his flimsy explanations for. Turning
a blind eye was less painful than getting a black one.
Visiting tradesmen at their villa, Golden
Brace, were suspiciously watched by Paul who rearranged work
appointments to monitor them.
He felt he had every reason to be jealous.
Melanie was in great shape at 52. An hour-glass figure kept firm by
regular runs on the beach, Pilates, yoga and a low-carb diet, she
sometimes passed as an older sister to her children. Too scared of
plastic surgery, only her stretch marks gave away her motherhood
status. At least Sheeba Raye cocoa butter helped.
Paul eyed every kiss and embrace with male
friends suspiciously, no matter how innocuous. No conversation was
allowed to last longer than exchanging pleasantries.
If a man danced with his wife, Paul watched
them with the instincts of a pouncing predator.
Melanie stopped going on girls’ nights out
because it meant interrogation and potential thumps after. Despite
the domestic violence, she still worshipped Mr Perfect. In a good
mood the charismatic, wisecracking man she fell in love with still
made her heart flutter.
It was just the violence that hurt,
psychologically as well as physically. Their conversations after an
attack always followed the same pattern.
“Why Paul? What have I done to deserve
this?”
“Sorry Mel. I don’t know what comes over me.
It’s as if I morph into a beast. It’s just my irrational sense of
women being unfaithful. Two girlfriends cheated on me at
university, which scarred me for life. My mum cheated on my dad too
for years. She thought I didn’t notice, but the signs were there.
Dad was such a kind, trusting man; I didn’t have the heart to tell
him. If he knew, he hid it well. I didn’t want to see them break up
either.”
There would be an uneasy truce before another
attack. Always at night in the privacy of their bedroom. Their
children did not
Melanie’s fondest memory of 43 Oakhampton Avenue was the day she
moved out to a rented apartment nearby.
“Thank God I’ll never have to live there
again. Holloway prison must be more luxurious.”
A studious type, she clicked with Justin
through researching for long hours in the library. The library was
certainly warmer and less draughty than home.
Melanie made a point of never taking him to
her family house. Ashamed of the scruffiness and smallness of 43
Oakhampton Avenue, it was off limits to all her friends, especially
Justin. In fact, any time she had to see her parents it would be in
a diner, café or a family member’s home. Not wanting him to know of
her shame, Melanie always avoided discussing the issue. Justin
first met her parents in a curry house.
With Paul, life had moved on further than her
wildest expectations and she was enjoying an envious style. So it
seemed.
All the Reardon kids, aged from 17 to 23,
were still at home but living their own lives. Two girls and two
boys, all students, they treated dad as personal banker and Melanie
was only called on for occasional support.
There was emptiness in her life, which
Justin’s Facebook messages helped fill.
All her friends and family longed for her
idyll. But they didn’t know the whole truth. Paul turned
uncharacteristically nasty when drunk, lashing out on his wife at
the flimsiest excuse. Initially just verbal put downs, then
shoulder punches which evolved into full blown thumps to the
thighs, where permanent damage was less likely detected than on
softer body spots, and bruises were easier to hide. Rarely on the
face. A swollen eye, busted lip or bruised cheekbone could not be
easily explained away.
Dr Reardon had a reputation to uphold in the
community. Paul was inordinately jealous, suspecting her of
infidelity at every opportunity, which couldn’t have been further
from the truth.
If anyone was guilty of playing away it was
him. A frequent visitor to strip clubs, there were overnight
absences that Melanie accepted his flimsy explanations for. Turning
a blind eye was less painful than getting a black one.
Visiting tradesmen at their villa, Golden
Brace, were suspiciously watched by Paul who rearranged work
appointments to monitor them.
He felt he had every reason to be jealous.
Melanie was in great shape at 52. An hour-glass figure kept firm by
regular runs on the beach, Pilates, yoga and a low-carb diet, she
sometimes passed as an older sister to her children. Too scared of
plastic surgery, only her stretch marks gave away her motherhood
status. At least Sheeba Raye cocoa butter helped.
Paul eyed every kiss and embrace with male
friends suspiciously, no matter how innocuous. No conversation was
allowed to last longer than exchanging pleasantries.
If a man danced with his wife, Paul watched
them with the instincts of a pouncing predator.
Melanie stopped going on girls’ nights out
because it meant interrogation and potential thumps after. Despite
the domestic violence, she still worshipped Mr Perfect. In a good
mood the charismatic, wisecracking man she fell in love with still
made her heart flutter.
It was just the violence that hurt,
psychologically as well as physically. Their conversations after an
attack always followed the same pattern.
“Why Paul? What have I done to deserve
this?”
“Sorry Mel. I don’t know what comes over me.
It’s as if I morph into a beast. It’s just my irrational sense of
women being unfaithful. Two girlfriends cheated on me at
university, which scarred me for life. My mum cheated on my dad too
for years. She thought I didn’t notice, but the signs were there.
Dad was such a kind, trusting man; I didn’t have the heart to tell
him. If he knew, he hid it well. I didn’t want to see them break up
either.”
There would be an uneasy truce before another
attack. Always at night in the privacy of their bedroom. Their
children did not
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