I had just turned sixteen when I met my future husband. He was twenty. It wasn't love at first sight. It wasn't even attraction. He was not my type.
Anyway, my future husband was my best friend's boyfriend's mate. We'd agreed to meet in one of the local pubs to make up a foursome.
My first view of him was from the back. He was bent over a snooker table, holding the cue, sawing it back and forth, taking forever to execute his shot. Show-off! He wore beige chinos and had a massive mullet: jet black hair halfway down his back, shaved close at the sides. It was the eighties, what can I say. My first instinct was to flee but my friend insisted on me staying. To spare her the pain of having to explain my absence, I stayed.
It wasn't a total disaster. He was funny and chatty which kinda compensated for my lack of attraction to him. He also bought me several Pernods which helped make him less repulsive. By the end of the evening, I hardly even noticed his mullet. He was good company and it didn't seem unreasonable to go out again, and again, and again. Soon, we were going out together, just me and him.
Over the next six months or so, he grew on me – affection resulting from close proximity and familiarity. I was comfortable around him. He flattered me, told me he loved me, wanted marriage, kids, that sort of thing. It seemed like something I wanted at some point too, so why not! Anything to get away from my parents.
I spent more and more time with him. When we weren't together, we were on the phone. Back in those days, there were only house phones, the kind that were attached to a wall. We had only one in the entire house. I spent hours sitting on the stairs, just talking to him, hogging our solitary phone. My parents didn't like this arrangement.
On a few occasions, he called when I wasn't in. I'd return, my parents fuming at the inconvenience. 'He's phoned about a million times, ye know!' I'd feel a rush of excitement, knowing he'd been thinking of me. I was too young to notice the red flags, the obsession. Too naïve to see what was coming. At the time, I interpreted his behaviour as real love. The way it ought to be.
When I phoned him back he'd sound so relieved to hear my voice. Then he'd talk about how upset it made him, that I wasn't there when he called. How it made him feel sad that I preferred to spend time with my friends. He said he couldn't understand why someone as lovely as me would bother with such lousy, two-faced, shallow bitches. He'd say he loved me so much and just wanted to be with me. Only me. He didn't even want to spend time with his friends any more. Just me. I'd say the same back to him, but I remember not feeling it. I loved hanging around with my friends. It was fun. And they weren't lousy, or two-faced or shallow.
This caused me anxiety. I'd hurry home from school rather than dawdling with friends. 'Has he called?' would be the first thing I'd ask. If the answer was 'That frigging pest? Not yet!' I'd feel relief, knowing I'd not disappointed him and could avoid that conversation.
We were seeing each other every night and all weekends now. He was allowed to sleep on the couch, but not on school nights. My parents hated the situation. They didn't like that he bought me ciggies and alcohol and that he was constantly there. They said I should hang around more with my friends, see him less frequently. Secretly, I agreed with them.
I told him what they'd said, hoping he'd see it as a reasonable suggestion. I missed my friends. But he was devastated. Then angry. He told me my parents were jealous, trying to split us up, that they didn't love me and just wanted to keep me miserable. He wasn't having any of it. He wasn't gonna let them ruin our life. He was gonna make me happy. He started to hatch a plan. We would run away. We could go to London, get jobs, be rich, happy and free. No more school for me? Sold! I didn't understand that I'd be taking my jailer with me.
So, we got the train from Liverpool to London. But we got off at the wrong stop and ended up in Luton (near London). We booked into a cheap B&B. This was the start of our new life together. A poky, smelly room, no en-suite, no telly, no radio, nothing. Just him, me and a bed. I didn't get to explore Luton. He thought it'd be too dangerous for me to go out in that area. Didn't wanna put me at risk. He went out to bring back supplies – junk food, ciggies, alcohol – and I stayed in the room alone, waiting, worrying.
Three days later we were on the train back to Liverpool. We'd ran out of money. It was bad planning on our part. All the job centres were closed – it was a bank holiday weekend.
My parents weren't happy to see me but that might've been because I got a taxi from the train station and had promised the driver they would pay. My parents let me in but told my future husband he wasn't welcome. He had to go home to his parents.
Things escalated after that.
Reading Is it Love or Abuse?, by 
Thanks for popping by.
Anj x
