Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [77]
Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to cook chops and I’d never seen a recipe book, so I had to wait until Peter came home to ask.
‘Just grill them,’ he said and went off to read his newspaper.
Fine, I thought, and turned the grill on. I was in my element. This was what my man was used to. This was what his other partners had done. This was how they’d looked after him. I honestly got a real kick out of it. I just hoped I compared to them.
I was about to find out. Five minutes later I called Peter to the table.
‘Hope you like it,’ I said earnestly, serving his large plate of meat and boiled veg. He grunted – his usual reply when he was reading, but then he did have a lot on his mind – and I turned back to the kitchen area to serve myself. Before I’d even reached the oven, the wall in front of me exploded. I screamed and dived for cover.
Is the house falling down?
‘You stupid cow! Are you trying to fucking poison me?’
I stared at the wall, stunned to see the remains of meat, gravy and veg smeared on it. Had he just thrown his plate at the wall?
No. He’d thrown it at me.
It turned out I’d seriously undercooked the pork. Peter had taken umbrage at that. Rather than ask me to put it back under the grill for a few more minutes, the red mist had descended. I really was lucky not to have crockery wounds in the back of my head. As it was, there were flecks of carrot and pork over me. As the full picture of what had just occurred gradually unfurled in my uncomprehending brain, I began to cry.
I did my best. I didn’t mean to do it wrong. Why did he try to hurt me?
Cowering against the door of the still-warm oven, arms wrapped protectively over my head, I sobbed and sobbed. I just couldn’t work it out. Who throws their dinner just because it’s a bit underdone?
I was down there for just a few seconds, then I knew what I had to do.
‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ I shouted at Peter, who was still sitting at the table. ‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’
I turned and ran towards the bedroom. It would take me about a minute to grab enough emergency things. Before I got to the door, Peter was there. He was amazingly light on his feet for his age. His arm blocked my escape.
‘Don’t hurt me!’ I begged and he looked genuinely shocked at the idea.
‘I would never hurt you, silly,’ he said softly and reached out to take my hand. I flinched. ‘Babe,’ he added, ‘I’m sorry about that. You know how I get about food. I’ve had a hard day. The shit I’ve had to put up with. I’m sorry you were on the end of it.’
Still I didn’t move. ‘You could have hurt me. You could have hurt our baby!’ The last words I virtually spat at him.
‘Cathy, Cathy, Cathy! God, no, how could you think such a thing? I’m appalled. I just threw it at the wall. Look, I’m sorry, so sorry, you have to believe me. It was aimed at the wall, not you.’
He could see me wavering.
‘Come on, babe, we’ll clean it up together. It was just an accident.’
And that was it. A line was drawn under it in his head. For him, the big concession was helping me clear up his mess. I couldn’t understand what had just gone on, but I went along with it. What choice did I have? I was pregnant with his child. I was penniless – and I was proud. I honestly think that was the moment I realized that I didn’t and couldn’t love him. But, more than ever, I was determined: I’m going to make this relationship work.
For a few days afterwards Peter couldn’t have been nicer. It was as if he’d been shocked by his own destructive