three years ago. Her husband closed her hand in a car door one night,’ I said, as matter-of-factly as I could, still able to recall her bruised, swollen and bent fingers. ‘She’d disobeyed him by leaving the house when he was out, to get medicine for their youngest son who had terrible toothache. It was an arranged marriage. Her family refused to believe that her husband was being violent and abusive towards her.’
‘He did it deliberately?’ asked Sam, horrified.
I nodded. ‘Nadya had to have several operations to fix her hand. She made this for me in one of her occupational therapy classes.’ I shook my head. ‘I … don’t normally talk about this stuff but she’s officially one of our success stories and features on our website. Although she still has problems with her hand. Two of her boys have been signed up to Watford’s football youth academy and she’s completing her second year in accounting and finance at the University of Hertfordshire.’
‘That sounds like a good outcome.’
‘Yeah, it is.’ I stroked the pom-pom before putting it back in my bag.
‘So how long have you worked for the refuge? And where do you work?’
‘I’ve been there for five years. And the location is a closely guarded secret.’
Sam nodded. ‘I get that.’
‘You’re one of the first, then. I’ve lost count of the number of people who say, “But you can tell me; I’m not going to tell anyone.” And then they’re quite offended when you refuse. Which is why I don’t normally talk about my job.’
Sam rolled his eyes in understanding. ‘I know exactly where you’re coming from. I get a lot of “There weren’t autistic children in my day” or “It’s just parents wanting labels” and the best one, “They’re just naughty children”. Why are people so willing to comment on things they know absolutely nothing about? Drives me nuts.’ He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls.
I smiled. Who knew? Long man-hair was definitely growing on me.
As our food was served, we dropped into seamless conversation, gently mining each other’s history, finding out about commonalities and differences. Both only-children. Both went to university. Neither had a burning urge to earn heaps of money.
‘Just as well,’ quipped Sam as we drained our coffee cups, one hand intertwined with mine as it had been since the waiters had taken away our dessert dishes, his index finger idly stroking mine, sending little runaway tremors of giddiness through me. Like a train in headlong flight, clickety-clacking over the lines, we seemed to be exchanging more and more loaded eye-meets, openly holding each other’s gazes with twinkly private smiles that had my heart-rate skyrocketing.
Suddenly the waiter was presenting us with the bill and a pointed look towards the door where a queue had started to form. The last two hours had flown by and there still seemed to be so much more to say. We looked at each other with a small, loaded silence, Sam’s finger freezing.
‘Still early… Do you fancy going on somewhere?’ he asked.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ I grinned at him.
Sam paid, after a small argument which was quickly resolved when I said I would pay next time. His answering grin, so delighted at the quiet acceptance that there was going to be a next time, almost lit up the entire restaurant.
‘So what are you doing tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘I … I haven’t got any plans, as a matter of fact,’ I said. There was no point even attempting to play it cool; Sam could see straight through me.
‘I’d like to take you out somewhere.’ His hand brushed my neck as he helped swathe the navy cashmere throw around my shoulders.
‘I guess you could do that,’ I replied, meeting his warm smile with one of my own. He leaned forward and brushed my lips.
‘It’s a date,’ he murmured.
As we stepped out of the restaurant into the street, the daylight just starting to wane, he looked at his wrist. ‘Do you fancy going to the Ferry Boat? Or somewhere else?’
An image of a crowded canalside, people packed onto the wooden picnic benches and strings of fairy lights illuminating the beer garden, popped into my head, quickly contrasting with the cool quiet picture of the four-pack of beer in the bottom shelf of my fridge, the bottle of white on the inside of the door and the two bistro chairs on my balcony.
And the grey and yellow Aztec print of the crisp, clean sheets on my bed.
‘Would you…?’ I paused, catching