When You Are Mine(18)

I recognise Alison Goodall from her photograph. She looks too young to be a mother of two. She glances skyward, as though judging the weather, before shutting the door.

At a quarter-past eight, it opens again. Darren Goodall is juggling a travel mug and an overcoat. Alison kisses his cheek and helps him into the coat, one arm at a time. He unlocks a sporty-looking blue Saab and waves to her as he leaves. She is standing in the doorway with a toddler on her hip.

More time passes as I debate whether to knock on the door. What would I say? ‘Excuse me, your husband keeps a mistress in a luxury apartment at Borough Market. And he beats her up as well.’ Maybe Alison knows about her husband’s affair. They could be seeing a counsellor, or have an arrangement, or he’s promised her to be a good boy from now on.

The door opens again. Alison is dressed in leggings and a baggy sweater. The toddler is strapped into a stroller. Alison shouts back into the house and a little boy appears. Nathan. He’s dressed in grey trousers and a white shirt and is pulling on a purple jumper. Alison stops to tie his shoelaces and tuck in his shirt.

I remember Nathan’s voice on the telephone, his terrified sobs, his pleading, and the worst sound of all – the phone going dead.

The family sets off along Kempe Road, but only as far as the next corner where tall plane trees shade the playground of a primary school. Other children are arriving, the girls wearing purple and white gingham dresses, and the boys dressed like Nathan.

Alison kisses him goodbye. He wipes his cheek and runs to join his friends. She pauses for a few minutes to chat to other mothers before she pushes the stroller along Chamberlayne Road, crossing the bridge over the railway tracks. Two blocks south, they arrive at a modern-looking sports centre. A membership card swipes her through a security gate. She’s gone.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a young woman behind the counter.

‘I’m new to the area,’ I say. ‘I’m looking to join a gym. Can I get a tour?’

The woman hands me a voucher. ‘We have an introductory deal. The first three classes are free. We have a yoga class beginning at nine thirty.’

I search for Alison in the changing rooms and at the creche. When I finally spot her, she’s following a group of women into a studio with mirrored walls and a sprung wooden floor. Barefoot, in an oversized T-shirt, she unrolls a yoga mat near the back of the room. I ask her if I can squeeze in next to her and she moves over to make room. We sit cross-legged on the floor and begin stretching while listening to the female instructor, who has a sculpted stomach and legs that bend like noodles. Soon we’re moving through the yoga sequences, being told to inhale and exhale; to breathe into our hips and into the ‘space behind our hearts’. I have always liked yoga, but I don’t buy into the ‘deep healing’ and ‘mastery of life’ patter. I like the strength and balance exercises, but I don’t expect it to miraculously cleanse my liver or unblock my seven chakras. I couldn’t name one chakra.

We are asked to pair up and I turn to Alison. Self-consciously, we help each other perform a seated forward backbend and a downward dog pose.

‘She’s very bendy,’ I say, commenting on our instructor. ‘I bet she could fold herself into an origami swan.’

Alison stifles a giggle.

‘Do you find this serene?’ I ask.

‘I guess.’

‘I try to empty my mind, but all I keep doing is making lists and wondering if my boobs look lopsided in this bra.’

Alison laughs out loud and the instructor shoots us a look. We smile apologetically and we’re on our best behaviour until we bow, hands together and bid each other, ‘Namaste.’

‘I’m sorry I distracted you,’ I say, as we roll up the yoga mats. ‘When she told us to go to our happy place, I thought of going home and opening a bottle of wine.’

‘Bit early.’

‘True.’

Alison reties her hair. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’

‘My first time. I’m giving the place a trial run. How about you?’

‘I live nearby.’

Introductions are made as we walk to the changing rooms. I sneak a look at Alison’s arms and neck, searching for signs of bruising.

‘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.