Page 48 of Someone to Love Tracy Corbett

But she was here at the request of her GP, who’d assured her that providing a vent for her anger would help, so the least she could do was give it a go.

Looking around, she realised her expectations of finding a viewing gallery were somewhat ambitious. The best she could offer her mother was a plastic chair shoved along the side of the workout area.

‘Waitrose has gone downhill,’ Doris said, tutting her disapproval as Connie helped lower her onto a chair. ‘They used to have a nice cafe, now look at it.’ She nodded towards the boxing ring where two muscled men were beating the crap out of each other. ‘The staff aren’t even fully dressed.’

Connie removed her mum’s knitting from her bag and handed Doris the intricate garment. Her mum’s mind might be shot, but her dexterity skills were as sharp as ever.

‘This should keep you occupied while I do my session, Mum. Can I get you a cup of tea?’ Even though she had no idea whether the vending machine sold tea.

‘No, thank you, dear. Are we meeting Jim here?’

Connie touched her mum’s shoulder. ‘Gym isn’t a person, Mum. It’s the name of the building.’

‘Funny name for a building.’ Doris began knitting.

‘It’s a gym, Mum. As in a gymnasium? You know, for sports.’

Doris subjected her daughter to a patronising look. ‘I know what a gymnasium is, dear.’

‘Silly me. Of course you do.’ A stab of guilt reminded her it was wrong to underestimate her mother. Doris wasn’t totally lost to the disease.

But then her mother said, ‘It’s where they make cheese,’ and Connie felt like she was living in a parallel universe where she was the lunatic and everyone else was lucid.

Happy her mum was content to sit quietly and knit, Connie headed into the changing rooms and swapped her boots for trainers. She was already dressed in leggings and a sports top, which was just as well, as it wasn’t a space she’d want to undress in.

Exiting the changing rooms, she was greeted by a muscular Black man with intricate tattoos and a shaved head. ‘Mrs Lawrence?’ he said, and Connie was surprised at his clipped Surrey accent, which felt at odds with his homeboy appearance. Not that she knew what a homeboy was – she’d just heard the phrase used in the filmStraight Outta Compton… which disappointingly hadn’t turned out to be a film about the small village of Compton in Surrey, but a rather alarming story of a group of hip-hoppers igniting a culture war in America. And she’d wondered why she was the only person over sixty in the local indie cinema?

‘Call me Connie,’ she said, accepting the offer of a handshake and nearly buckling under the strength of the man’s grip.

‘I’m Anthony, I’ll be your coach. Have you done any boxing training before?’

‘None.’

He jotted something down on a chart. ‘Any strength training?’

‘Only swimming.’

‘Swimming is good, keeps the heart healthy.’

‘My heart doesn’t feel very healthy,’ she said, rubbing an ache away when her chest twinged.

Anthony kept his eyes on the chart. ‘The referral says you have anger management issues?’

His bluntness made her flinch. ‘I’ve never actually acted on them, it’s all in here,’ she said, tapping the side of her head. ‘This is where the rage storms.’

‘Then let’s try to address that for you. We’ll start with some light skipping to get you warmed up.’

Following him over to a small side area, she noticed the suspiciously stained floor mat. ‘How does this work? Do you ask questions, or do I just talk?’

‘It’s boxing,’ he said, handing her a skipping rope. ‘Not therapy.’

‘But it’s been prescribed by my GP, so there must be a process?’

He stepped away, indicating for her to start. ‘It’s more about enabling you to release your anger.’

‘By skipping?’

‘By releasing endorphins and expelling the tension you carry in your muscles.’ He lifted the stopwatch hanging around his neck and clicked a button. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

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