and at one point it seems that she’s peering through the café window, right at me. In that second I see that her face is kind of hollow, even thinner than when I saw her in the Regent’s Park café; and her brow is furrowed. But I don’t have time to draw any conclusions, because she walks away.
I put three pound coins on the table, stuff the laptop and book into my plastic bag with my remaining half-a-banana, and rush for the exit, crashing my thigh painfully against the corner of a table. I stand in the doorway keeping my eyes on Tilda, who’s heading along the pavement before turning towards Shepherd Market. Now I’m half-running, and I follow her down a narrow path and into a cobbled courtyard, filled with evening sun and packed with office people standing outside pubs, drinking and smoking. Tilda is ten metres in front of me, weaving through the crowd, keeping her head tucked down so that no one recognises her and I catch up just as she dodges into a newsagent’s shop. I wait outside, beside the door so that she can’t see me, and when she leaves I tap her on the shoulder. She jolts like she’s been stung by a wasp.
‘For god’s sake, Callie, what the fuck are you doing?’
I’m not hurt by her reaction. In the circumstances, it’s understandable.
‘I just saw you. I happened to be on Curzon Street, and I saw you come out of the flat… Are you okay? You look worried… Shall we go to a pub and have a proper talk?’
‘No, I can’t. I mean, I’m in a hurry – I needed to buy some fags, but I’ve got to get back.’
I check her face and body for signs. She’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, so I can’t see her arms, and she has a thin, grey cotton scarf round her neck, so a lot’s hidden, but I can see her bony knuckles and bitten nails. Her hair seems to me more straggly and unwashed than usual and I’m caught up in anxiety about her when she surprises me. ‘Look, why don’t I meet you for lunch tomorrow? I’ll come to your bookshop at one, and we’ll go to that pub you talk about, the one round the corner…’
‘Really? You can do that?’
‘Sure I can.’
‘Shall I walk back with you?’
It sounds like an innocent offer, but really it’s a test, and Tilda says, ‘No. Don’t do that.’
She leans forward and touches my cheek with her lips which, by the way, are dried up and chapped. I don’t like the look of them and make a mental note to look up chapped lips later on, to see if they can be a symptom of stress.
‘It’s okay,’ I insist. ‘I can walk back with you.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she says firmly. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ve lots to tell you.’
She stresses the word lots and I wonder whether she’s planning to come clean about Felix.
‘Okay. I’ll go then.’ I return her kiss, and set off through the crowds, turning down White Horse Street to Piccadilly, clamping the plastic bag to my chest.
I like getting home. My flat feels like a normal place after the mental onslaught of Central London. It’s on the first floor, and has a small bedroom at the back of the building, overlooking a neglected garden that I’m not allowed to use. I don’t mind. I can open my window to let the fresh air in, and I like the clatter of the trains on the railway track that runs behind the trees. Because of its connection with the outdoors, this is my favourite room and it’s a good place for thinking.
The other part of the flat is the kitchen-sitting room, which is dark because of the bottle green walls that I want to repaint, but somehow never do. It has a breakfast bar and a two-seater sofa and a TV (with DVD player), and a little window facing the bricks in the wall of the next-door house. I cook in that room and watch reruns of Miss Marple and Poirot on television, and Scandinavian crime dramas. But I spend most of my time in the bedroom, sitting at a little table that I found in a skip and put under the window. I eat my meals there and use my laptop – which is what I do the minute I get home after my encounter with Tilda, because I’m eager to go online. I have made friends in the internet forum I told Tilda about – controllingmen.com. They are called Scarlet and Belle, and are both experienced with dealing with abusive relationships. Scarlet joined only a week or so ago – but seems to know a great deal. Belle has been around for ages.
I eat the remaining half of my banana, which is squished now, and I log on, seeing that Belle is online already, but not Scarlet. She notices me immediately.
Hey, Calliegirl. Welcome back.
Hey Belle. Interesting day. Need to talk.
Me 2!!!
I realise I’ll have to hear her news before I can talk about Tilda; sure enough, in an instant, Belle is telling me all about meeting her friend Lavender at Starbucks that morning. They had ordered cappuccinos, she said, and granola bars, and had just put their tray down on a table when, before they had even sat down, Lavender’s husband showed up ‘to keep an eye on the conversation’ so that Lavender couldn’t discuss anything personal.
Classic controlling behavier, Belle writes.
Definitely.
Belle is a geriatrics hospital nurse in York and Lavender is her best friend from school. Belle has shared all the grisly details of Lavender’s life and marriage. Her husband forced her to give up her job because he was worried she would meet another man and now he phones her at home five times a day ‘just to say hello’, and he’s accusing her of loving the kids and not him. Belle thinks their relationship is reaching a crisis point.
Lavender cd not speak. But I no she is READY to leave!
She’s really energised because she thinks Lavender might make a break for it with the children, and go to live in her mother’s house.
All our conversations are anonymous, for obvious reasons. So Lavender is a made-up name and so is Belle. Like me, she is a Befriender – her job is to help a friend, support her in whatever way she can. And Lavender, like Tilda, is Prey – a woman in a relationship with a dangerous, controlling man. The Prey have onscreen names that are colours, and I gave Tilda the name Pink because I regard pink as optimistic. And we call all the men, the Predators in our language, X. So, online, Lavender’s husband is called X, and I always refer to Felix as X. When Scarlet is around, she chats as though she is a Befriender like Belle and me, but actually she is Prey, trapped in a relationship with a control freak (although it’s complicated – she enjoys the weird sex games they do). At first the system seems odd, but you soon get used to it. And I’m Calliegirl, because I got involved before I knew you were supposed to disguise your true identity, and I haven’t told Scarlet and Belle that Callie is my real name.
I’ve been bombarding both of them with questions about Felix, about the way he has come between Tilda and me, about those bruised arms, and the day that he pushed her to the bottom of the Thames, so casually, like it was a normal thing to do. Sometimes I think I’m prey to sinister imaginings, that I’m getting carried away, but Scarlet is direct and analytical, and says that, taken together, the signs are clear – Felix is a danger to Tilda. Belle, also, has no doubts.
Eventually she says:
Whats ur news?
