Madame
I would have handed them over. I was ready to. All he had to do was ask himself. He could have had his letters back years ago if he’d just written to me one final time. Instead, he sent a lackey, a bully-boy and I’ve never allowed myself to be bullied. Just ask my late husband.
I think tomorrow will be the end. Once, I thought the end of the trial would also be the end of me, but my solicitor is clever. He knows people. They know people. It was a risk, but I think it will pay off. I certainly kept my part of the bargain, now it’s a waiting game to see if they keep their word. His word. You’ll forgive my scepticism, but I’ve had his word before and it doesn’t mean much. I love you. I’ll never leave you. And now he’s with her. Five years he's been at her side. Her, with her double-barrelled name. I got mere months. But what months they were! Thrown together in the midst of war, he took me from my own personal hell and catapulted me into a new life. Women who, had they met me in the street, would have crossed the road to avoid the putain, forced to smile and call me Madame, while their husbands, who had feasted from my body, could barely meet my eyes. Did they ask their wives to humiliate them, to beat them until they found fulfilment, or was that reserved solely for me? I knew better than to ask. Knew better than to tell.
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