“Wow,” Susi would say. She’d raise her eyebrows. “Good job.”

Top of the class for Celeste. What a good girl. What a well-behaved battered wife.

“I’m Rose,” said the woman. “And this is Isabella and Daniella.”

Was she serious? She called her children Isabella and Daniella?

The girls smiled politely at her. One of them even said, “Hello.” Definitely twins with far better manners than Celeste’s boys.

“I’m Celeste. Nice to meet you!” Celeste turned the key as fast as she could. “I’d better—”

“Do you have kids?” said Rose hopefully, and the little girls looked at her hopefully.

“Two boys,” said Celeste. If she mentioned that she had twin boys, the amazing coincidence would create at least five more minutes of conversation she couldn’t bear.

She pushed open the door with her shoulder.

“Let me know if you need anything!” said Rose.

“Thanks! See you soon.” Celeste let the door go, and the two little girls begin to squabble over whose turn it was to push the button for the elevator. “Oh for God’s sake, girls, must we do this every single time?” said their mother in what was obviously her normal voice, as opposed to the polite social voice she’d just used for Celeste.

As soon as the door closed there was complete silence, the mother’s voice cut off midsentence. The acoustics were good.

There was a mirrored feature wall right next to the door that looked like it was left over from an ambitious decorating project in the seventies. The rest of the place was completely neutral: blank white walls, hard-wearing gray carpet. Your quintessential rental property. Perry owned rental properties that were probably just like this. Theoretically, Celeste owned them too, but she didn’t even know where they were.

If they’d saved for an investment property together, just one, then she would have enjoyed that. She would have helped renovate it, picked out tiles, dealt with the real estate agent, said, “Oh yes, of course!” when the tenant asked for something to be fixed.

That was the level of wealth where she would have felt comfortable. The unimaginable depths of Perry’s money sometimes made her feel nauseated. She saw it on the faces of people when they saw her house for the first time, the way their eyes traveled across the wide expanses, the soaring ceilings, the beautiful rooms set up like little museum displays of wealthy family life. Each time, she battled with equal parts pride and shame. She lived in a house where every single room silently screamed: WE HAVE A LOT OF MONEY. PROBABLY MORE THAN YOU.

Those beautiful rooms were just like Perry’s constant Facebook posts: stylized representations of their life. Yes, they did sometimes sit on that gloriously comfortable-looking couch and put glasses of champagne on that coffee table and watch the sun set over the ocean. Yes, they did. And sometimes, often, it was glorious. But that was also the couch where Perry had once held her face squashed into the corner and she’d thought she might die. And that Facebook photo captioned Fun day out with the kids wasn’t a lie because it was a fun day out with the kids, and anyway, they didn’t have a photo of what happened after the kids were in bed that night. Celeste’s nose bled too easily. It always had.

She carried the lamp into the main bedroom of the apartment. It was quite a small room. She’d get a double bed. She and Perry had a king-size bed, of course. But this room would be crammed even with a queen.

She placed the lamp on the floor. It was a colorful, mushroom-shaped art deco lamp. She’d bought it because she loved it and because it was a style Perry would hate; not that he would have stopped her having it if she really wanted it, but he would have winced every time he looked at it, the way she would have winced at some of the gloomy-looking modern art pieces he pointed out in galleries. So he didn’t buy them.

Marriage was about compromise. “Honey, if you really like that girlie, antique look, I’ll get you the real thing,” he would have said tenderly. “This is just a cheap, tacky rip-off.”

When he said things like that, she heard, You’re cheap and tacky.

She would take her time setting up this place with cheap, tacky things that she liked. She went to open one of the blinds to let in some light. She ran her fingertip along the slightly dusty windowsill. The place was pretty clean, but next time she’d bring some cleaning stuff and get it spick-and-span.

Up until now, she had never been able to leave Perry because she couldn’t imagine where she would go, how they would live. It was a mind-set. It seemed impossible. This way, she would have an entire life set up, awaiting activation. She would have beds made up for the boys. She would have the fridge stocked. She would have toys and clothes in the cupboard. She wouldn’t even need to pack a bag. She would have an enrollment form filled out for the local school.

She would be ready.

The next time Perry hit her, she wouldn’t hit him back, or cry, or lie on her bed. She would say, “I’m leaving right now.”

She studied her knuckles.

Or she’d leave when he was out of the country. Maybe that would be better. She would tell him on the phone, “You must know we couldn’t go on like this,” she’d say. “When you come back we’ll be gone.”

It was impossible to imagine his reaction.

If she truly, actually left.

If she ended the relationship then the violence would stop too, because he would no longer have the right to hit her, just like he would no longer have the right to kiss her. Violence was a private part of their relationship, like sex. It would no longer be appropriate if she left him. She wouldn’t belong to him in the same way. She’d get back his respect. Theirs would be an amicable relationship. He’d be a courteous but cold ex-husband. She knew already that the coldness would hurt her more than his fists ever had. He’d meet someone else. It would take him about five minutes.