I was still in the honeymoon period. I was, I think he never had one. To me, he was so brilliant, so sophisticated, so much older than me. I was bowled over by him. I was staggered that he had chosen me.
In hindsight, I can tell he loved me for what I was – fresh meat. A young, teenage girl, with stars in her eyes, seduced by a man, not one of the fumbling boys who I normally socialised with. A real man.

It was early Summer, and I loved how he’d turn up in his big, black, shiny car and whisk me off to wherever. I loved how he talked to me: like I was intelligent, like a lady. We’d go to deserted beaches, and
he’d take pictures of me with his black and white film camera. I’d be blue from the cold, with purple lips. When he kissed me he’d always say “The kiss of the dead”. It made my heart yearn for him
even more, I fell for him, hard. There was nothing I could do.

Then he paraded me around his friends, all much older than me. I’d hang off him like a new fashion accessory, looking all sultry and seductive. Many of those men gave me eyes, I’d just gaze back at
them, give them a ghost of a smile and turn back to my man, catch their eyes once more, and kiss him. Just like he’d told me to.

He liked making them jealous. He loved it when I teased them. He brought me clothes of luxury materials – velvet dresses, lacy underwear, cashmere jumpers. I revelled in it. My friends had given up warning me about him, and just gave me jealous looks when I walked around in my new clothes. They kept telling me I’d changed, I’d become mean, bitchy even. I just looked at them, sneered.

My favourite item that he got me was a long, black velvet dress. It was sliced up my thigh, and down almost to my belly button. Going out in it and I’d get amorous glances, jealous glares and anything I wanted from him. He loved me in it, I could control him in it. It was my key to power.

Maybe I should have realised, then, when I woke up one morning and found it ripped to shreds, that I was loosing my control over him. It spooked me, seeing the beautiful material in tatters all over his bedroom floor, and finding him crying in the bathroom. I held him as he sobbed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” I murmured. But it wasn’t going to be.