Page 1 of The Good Girl

HOTEL GOTHAM, MANCHESTER CITY CENTRE

He’s so beautiful. Those are the words I said to myself every time I saw him. I was infatuated, utterly invested, which is probably why I didn’t care about the wrongs of what I was doing and all I could see, cared about and craved, were the rights.

And look where that got me, alone in a huge city, staring at the pissing rain as it soaks the pavements.

I spent my last night in England lying in a king-size bed in a superior suite feeling like the lowest of the low.

Torturing myself as I often do these days, unable to sleep, either manic or depressed.

And now I’m waiting for the concierge to flag down a black cab, still with far too much time on my hands to think about it all. About him.

He was my dopamine, adrenaline, caffeine hit and heroin high, and I needed my fix whenever I could get it regardless of the risks.

I lusted after him. Wanted more and more even after a marathon session where he taught me what a man could do for a woman, and what she could do in return.

I would watch greedily as he headed to the shower after our lovemaking, his naked torso toned from hours at the gym, perfectly tanned from a week in Antibes. Was I in love? Hell yes.

The remnants of my common sense told me we had no future and it was na?ve to think otherwise. I had my life to live and he was never going to be part of it. Still I didn’t care.

I chose to ride the wave and when we were together, or I received a message that made me blush to my core, or his hand caressed mine in a daring moment that made the risk of what we were doing even more of a thrill, I buzzed off it.

And then, like a blast of icy air came the gut-churning low when I wondered why. Why did he choose me?

He could have had his pick of any of the beautiful women in his circle.

That’s a fact. I’d seen their eyes fall on him when he entered a room, then follow him out again.

There was just something magnetic about him.

His feral scent that sent your pheromones wild.

The grey-blue eyes that changed in the light and burrowed right into my soul when he told me I was his special girl.

His firm jaw, smooth and kissable when clean-shaven and when dusted with midnight shadow it chafed every inch of my skin as it explored the deepest parts of me.

His ebony hair, greying ever so slightly at the sides, gave him a hint of worldly wisdom and maturity, even when he was playing the joker and making the whole room laugh.

And his kindness – he was so caring that everyone loved him.

Well, not everyone, but I never allowed myself to think of her . That’s the word I used to make it all easier, harden my heart, dehumanise and blot out the woman whose husband I was sleeping with. Her. My time with him was precious and I wouldn’t let her, or anyone else, spoil it.

He was my prize. My secret. I was his. I thought it would go on forever or until it couldn’t, and I was adamant that would be my choice, not his.

I believed what I wanted to believe. That all the things he promised and said and did were just for me – but I was wrong.

So very wrong. I wasn’t his one and only.

What a fool I was. I was his victim but that doesn’t absolve me, even though knowing what he did makes it all so much worse.

And now it’s over and I’ve ended up like this.

Losing almost everything and everyone I loved for a man I came to despise so intensely that it’s rotting me from the inside out.

Turning my thoughts to acid that’s poisoning my brain.

Only I know the whole truth. Not another soul knows what I did. What he did. Which is why I have to decide here and now what to do. Self-preservation is my ultimate goal but to achieve that, I have to make a choice. From one extreme to another.

Should I walk into a police station and confess – wham bam thank you, ma’am – to cleanse my soul and face the consequences, repent and start afresh one day.

Or should I take it to the grave and set myself free, in body not mind, and hope that as time goes by I can learn to live with it all. Somehow be clean and whole again.

It’s a gamble either way and I have to make the decision.

Be brave or take the coward’s way out. The sky above has gone from snow-sludge grey to charcoal.

The thunderclouds bringing the promised storm are rolling in, darkening my mood further.

My paranoia tells me they are a portent of doom and as the first fork of lightning illuminates the city in a flash of white, I imagine it’s the finger of fate, pointing right at me.

The taxi is here, my suitcases are piled high in the lobby and the concierge has flipped open a huge umbrella, waiting to shepherd me outside into the deluge and the cab.

All I have to do is tell the driver where to go.

As I step onto the pavement the ferocity of the storm whips at my legs and coat and I swear I can feel its anger as keenly as I feel my shame.

I slump into the back seat and sigh as the concierge slams the door shut and the driver, eyes front, asks me where I want to go. I really only have two choices.

Prison or the airport.