‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ I ask.
Alison glances at her phone. ‘Sure. I have to get my little one from the creche.’
‘I’ll wait.’
We go to a café at the entrance to the centre. The yellow chairs and tables are set far enough apart for prams and strollers to fit in between them. I order coffees and buy a juice-box for Chloe, who has corkscrew curls that bounce when she swings her head.
‘How old?’ I ask.
‘Almost three.’ Alison notices my engagement ring, a single emerald on a delicate silver band. ‘That’s pretty.’
‘And new.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘How about you?’
She holds up her left hand. ‘Oh, I’m well and truly married. Seven years.’
‘Isn’t that when you get the dreaded itch?’
‘Only if you have time to scratch.’
She has a slight lisp, a sibilant ‘s’ sound that emerges as a quiet whistle, but only on certain words. Small talk comes easily, but I know I have to steer the conversation to her husband. A part of me wants to blurt out the truth about Tempe and the apartment, but I sense that’s not the way to convince her.
Alison has been talking.
‘I’m sorry. I was miles away,’ I say.
‘I asked what you did … your job?’
‘Oh, right, yes, I guess you could call me a counsellor. Domestic abuse mostly.’
Her body language changes. ‘That must be challenging.’
‘Yes, but also rewarding. I meet women who are trapped in abusive relationships and I give them the strength and the tools to get out; to save themselves … and their children.’
Alison doesn’t reply, I keep going: ‘Often it’s about convincing them that they’re not to blame. There is no shame or guilt in having an abusive partner. Nobody likes to admit that a relationship is failing, but it’s not their fault.’
‘What if they decide to stay?’ she whispers.
‘That’s their choice. Some women take time to decide. Others get defensive or deny the abuse is happening or believe they can change the man they love.’
‘Can they – change him, I mean?’
‘What do you think?’
She looks surprised. ‘Me?’
‘You must have an opinion.’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you know anyone in an abusive relationship?’
‘I mind my own business.’
‘You could help her, you know, your friend—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Some women hold on for the sake of the kids or because they fear being destitute or alone; or there are family expectations. I can’t make that decision for them. I can only urge them to make a plan.’
‘What sort of plan?’
‘It might mean packing some important things in a suitcase; or having a safe word; some agreed signal to let a friend know they’re in trouble and need help. They should also have nominated a meeting place and found somewhere they can hide.’
Alison is staring past me. ‘Who are you?’ she whispers.
‘A friend.’
Her features harden and she picks up her shoulder bag and wrestles the stroller between chairs, knocking one of them over. I try to help her, while apologising to the other patrons. I borrow a pen from the barista and jot down my phone number on a paper napkin.
Alison is outside, pushing the stroller along the footpath. Jogging to catch up to her, I press the napkin into her hand.
‘Take this, please.’
Alison balls it up and throws it away.
I retrieve the paper and push it into her shoulder bag. She keeps walking. I yell after her.
‘A suitcase. A safe word. A friend.’
8
My Tuesday karate class is mixed, full of men and women, mostly in their twenties and thirties. Some have been with me for two years and have moved through the levels, from white to orange to blue. Ricardo is the highest with a brown belt.
We’re just finishing up our session, wiping down the impact bags and stacking the mats when I hear them planning a quick drink in the local pub.
‘Care to join us?’ asks Ricardo, who is Spanish, with a sexy accent and hang-dog face.
‘You ask me that every week and I always say no.’
‘I’m an eternal optimist.’
‘And I’m happily engaged.’
‘Maybe next week,’ he says, giving me his rakish grin, which looks creepy rather than charming.
I change out of my Keikogi, pulling on jeans and a light sweater. I’m locking up when I sense someone behind me, standing in the shadows.
‘Hello,’ says Tempe, stepping into the light. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
I almost don’t recognise her because her face is no longer swollen and her lip has healed.
‘How did you find me?’
‘You told me about your karate lessons.’
‘Did I?’
‘At the hospital …’
I vaguely remember the conversation.
‘There aren’t that many studios in South London,’ says Tempe.
‘You phoned them?’
She nods.
‘Did you send me flowers?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘I wanted to apologise – for what happened.’
We lapse into silence for a beat too long.
‘Your face looks better,’ I say.
‘Less Frankenstein, more Igor.’
‘Hardly.’
Tempe glances through the glass doors into the studio. ‘I was hoping … I thought I might …’
‘What?’
‘Sign up. I want to be able to protect myself. I saw what you did to Darren. You sat him on his backside. The look on his face was priceless …’ She stops and starts again. ‘Could you teach me to do that?’
‘There are classes.’
‘I want you.’
‘I’m not sure that’s wise. It might be seen as a conflict of interest.’
‘Why? I didn’t make a statement.’
She has a point, but I’m still wary of getting involved.
I change the subject. ‘I went looking for you, but you’d left the shelter. When I went to the apartment, I found blood everywhere.’
‘I cut myself.’
‘You trashed the place.’
‘He trashed my face.’ She spits the words, but after a moment of defiance, she lowers her eyes. ‘I was angry. I wanted to punish him.’
‘Why leave your phone?’
‘To stop him finding me.’
‘Is he looking?’
She shrugs. ‘I won’t risk it.’
Unlocking the door of the academy, I grab a business card. ‘You can enrol online. I don’t normally teach private lessons because I’m working shifts, but you can join one of my classes and we’ll take it from there.’
Tempe looks at the card and asks, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘Home.’
‘Do you fancy a drink? There’s a pub on the corner.’
I’m about to say no, but change my mind. Henry is working tonight and there’s nothing at home except leftovers and a wicker basket of ironing. As we’re leaving, Tempe retrieves a small pull-along suitcase from a hiding place beneath the stairs. Extending the handle of the case, she drags it along the footpath, where it bounces over the cracks with a clackety-clack sound.