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Dan’s face is all over the local news social media today. The story broke, but thankfully not until after the hearing. That’s the problem with the public gallery. Fortunately there’s not much social media footprint for them to find. One of the first things I learned, “flashing [the cash] on Facebook is for mugs”. And don’t use your government name.

The problem with this is it’s fantastic for keeping you out of handcuffs. Also fantastic for completely isolating you from any social circle you may have accumulated over the years. It’s surprising how quickly you are forgotten from the world once you unplug.

And that brings me to today, savouring the only coffee I can have without invoking a bastard migraine from hell. The conservatory lacks the sunny rays of hope it seemed to provide yesterday, with grey clouds threatening the horizon. It never rains but it pours, and right now we’re in the calm before the storm.

Alexa is doing her thing, but today’s flavour of tragic music is apparently Daniel Powter and James Blunt. But I’ve got to change it, what an absolute buzz kill, and there was no buzz to start with. I’m in negative buzz right now. Christ, if I wanted to paint the walls with my brains I’d just upset Harry… haha, lol, kinda. I smirk at my own stupidity, and the abject ridiculousness of my own predicament.

My personal auto-magic-shuffle subscription DJ hits that track. Number 1, Tinchy Stryder and N-Dubz and euphoric nostalgia buzzes through me. Before the bullshit. I can feel his eyes on me again, from the booth. Deliberately turning my back and asking my bestie if he’s still watching. He was. Of course he was. I used to be so pretty. Not nails done every week and a fortune on designer shit. Youthful exuberance, sex appeal, and ready to party.

I’m not some delicate flower that made a bad choice and oh dear woe be me. That would be bullshit. There was a before. Before everything. Before I teased him with my looks and moves. It wasn’t a question then either, not really, but the confidence was intoxicating.

His hands on my hips as I threw it back, tempting him, sensing how badly he wanted me. When he walked, I followed. The velvet rope and the bouncer guarding the booth, the entourage, so much younger back then. Young, and stupid. It was sexy, it was dangerous before I understood what that really meant.

It’s swag, right? The guy eyes you, you follow him to his booth, they buy their drinks by the bottle, have their own security, nobody fucks with them, ever. And the stakes start so low, it’s a line off your tits. Illegal, sure, but who gives a fuck about a line? God, he was so fucking sexy. Tanned from whatever sunny destination he’d just been to. Whatever you want, “not a problem, baby” with a kiss. Nobody looked twice at you, nobody said anything to piss you off.

He was protective, it was sweet, because he cared. Okay so he gets a bit violent with men who get too close, it’s nice to be so wanted and safe. He was protective, he’d never hurt me. He just had a short fuse for disrespect or anyone taking liberties with me.

I had plenty of opportunities to walk away, but it was sexy. They were up-and-coming. Hot new shit. The boys grew into men, the game turned into a business. The stakes got higher.

Every step of the way I got upgraded, from designer bags to jewellery, to cars, to a house. I remember walking through the front door, the marble floor and garish gold bling everywhere. “Fuck we’ve made it” I remember the feeling, like we’d arrived somewhere. My Range Rover on the drive next to his Benz, the house I could see us hosting people in.

We had a two-person party that weekend, it was wild. Strawberries, champagne, chemically enhanced euphoria, I fell more in love with him in that forty-eight hours than I ever thought possible. And we fucked, everywhere. I don’t even know how much of anything we got through that night, it didn’t matter, we could afford it.

Then his phone rang. He basically shoved me off of him. After a weekend of using various parts of my anatomy to do lines from, this one was from the back of his own hand. Something changed in his eyes “baby, where you going?” was all I asked.

“Work” was all I got back; he was never that short.

“You can’t drive…” I was trying to keep him safe

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

“Baby it’s our house-warming weekend, just the two of us… remember?” even my puppy dog eyes, on all fours naked on our bed did nothing, I reached for his hand. The back of his hand found my face. That was the first time.

“Grow up. And put some fucking clothes on, slag” he doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t even stick around to see the damage he did. He was dressed and out the door before I let go of my face.

In hindsight, it was too late by then. I’d burned every bridge to light the path to Dan. I’d basically cut off my friends for warning me about Dan’s reputation. Stopped going out to see the girls. I didn’t need to work because Dan looked after me and he preferred me at home anyway.

There was no bridge left unburned. In tears because the thing I’d been warned about actually happened, there was nobody in my phone that I could call. No contact that wasn’t in his world. Not even old school friends on Facebook. That was the night I learned what loneliness was. Even the car was on a tracker. I was so sure he didn’t mean to hit me, in my very soul. When he came back with flowers, a crying apology, telling me how much he loved me, how he was just scared because of whatever particular business they were dealing with, I believed him. And we picked right up where we left off. It was overwhelming for him, he’d arrived too. It was just too much emotion, and too much gear, and just a moment - “I swear to you, baby, I’d never hurt you. I love you, you know that, right? I love you so fucking much”.

I’ve got no tears left for this whole story any more. I shake my head and chuckle at my foolishness whilst pouring a “2pm acceptable” glass of white wine. Oh to be so young, stupid, and in love. There were plenty of fun times, good times, wild times, hard times. It’s a whole lifetime, and who knows how much of that I’ve got left now, eh?

As the late, great Meat Loaf said: “A misspent youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age”. That said he also sang “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that” and I haven’t found the line I won’t cross yet. Though one thing was for sure; there was evil in the air and thunder in the sky.

And there goes my doorbell app, oh lovely. Hello, Harry. Brilliant timing. I was just about to get to “and a killer’s on the bloodshot streets”. It buzzes again before information turns into action. My stomach starts doing flips. Why the fuck is Harry at my house? Is there any universe, multiverse, scenario or psychic phenomenon that makes this not about to be an utterly shit turn of events?

Bing. Oh I know I know. Wag wag wag. Right. Adjust my boobs. Fuck knows why. Nervous paddle. Bing. Oh will you fuck off Harry I know.

“Oh hiya, you caught me having a nap!” cue the over-egged fake yawn “give me a second I’ll let you in”

Any warmth I felt is sucked out of the house at the arrival of the harbinger of shitty news. Is it Dan? What’s happened to him? What possible reason could Harry have for turning up unannounced at 2pm?

“Hiya darlin’, how you holdin’ up?” he holds me too tight, for a second too long before leading himself into the kitchen. It’s a far cry from the Scarface mansion, but actually it’s a four-bed detached in a nice suburb. Miles away from the madness, and it’s a rental. I’m told that’s important.

“Surviving” I do that polite small fake smile thing “what’s happened?”

“I didn’t know how you were doing for cash” he pulls a thick brown envelope from his inside pocket and raises it to make sure I’ve seen it before he taps it down on the side with an intentional thud “to see you through”.

To see me through what, Harry? That’s a hefty envelope, are we financing small-scale revolutions now?