I make my way through the entrance hall, into the designer kitchen that cost more than I earn a year, and out through the French doors, onto the patio...Most of the other guest are still inside, so there’s plenty of space out here. There’s a gentle breeze, but it’s a refreshing change. I take a sip of my fifth cocktail of the evening and close my eyes, savouring the peace and tranquillity that the garden offers.I stay like that until an unfamiliar voice jolts me.“Hey,” he says. “Is this space on. She had gotten bad news from the doctors, he needed to talk to me about it and that he had just wanted to talk.When I had let him in, he had smashed me in the face. He had punched me in the stomach several times and then raped me. I cried as Michael held me and relived the rape in my mind.“You’re mine, you whore. You will come and replace your mother. I need you and love you. You have always been mine,” Brian had told me as he pushed me into the room.I had screamed at him that I was never his. Doing the sides was not a success. She applied the marzipan with a palette knife and thought she had been successful only to see it peel from the top and roll off the cake. Steven heard squeals of anger and frustration from the kitchen."What's the matter, my sweet?" he asked coming in."The wretched marzipan won't stay on the side of the cake." Did you spread apricot jam on the sides first?" No. It didn't say anything about it in the recipe." Ah! Well I remember as a kid my mother always used. With an exasperated sigh and a I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this eye roll, Rochelle waved her friend over. I felt time slow as she approached. I hoped I hadn’t broken out in some kind of flop sweat because my heart was pounding so fast and so loud I almost missed her name as Rochelle introduced her: ‘This is my friend, Anya Taylor.’ A name as mysteriously appealing as the creature who now stood next to me smiling. Rochelle said our names in turn, her tone as caustic as battery acid when she got to.