His hands slide to my hips, and he tightens his grip, not enough to hurt but enough to keep me rooted in place. “If your attacker is behind, you can strike the nose with your elbow. Always aim for nasal bones. Go on, give it a try,” he says.
So I do. Even though this isn’t the real thing, he isn’t making it easy on me. I have to work hard out of his grasp to swing my elbow behind me. The thud of it connecting with his cheek causes him to let out anoomph.
“Shit, sorry, Olly,” I say, turning to try and get a look, grabbing his chin between my fingers to scan his face.
His hand covers mine. “It’s fine. I wasn’t concentrating.” His feather-light touch strokes down to the pulse in my neck. Then, opening his fingers, he cups the back of my neck. His eyes lock with mine, and I’m caught in a web—unable to look away.
Something is lodged in my throat, and I swallow roughly. A strange noise escapes my lips; his fingers loosen.
He clears his throat. “The side of the neck is the bigger target, with both the carotid artery and jugular vein.”
He lets go, then holds up his hand, all fingers straight and tight together, his thumb tucked in and slightly bent at the knuckle. “This is a knife-hand strike. With your hand like this, you aim at the side of the neck.” He shows me the motion on my own. “Or if you wanted to cause more of an injury, you could thrust your elbow into their throat while pitching the weight of your body forward. Kind of like when you went for my nose but landed on my cheek,” he says, humour in his voice.
I let out an unamused laugh, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes.
“But all jokes aside, remember, if you can cause them an injury and give yourself a couple of seconds to get away, it can make all the difference.”
I’ve already learnt so much from him; this is the kind of class I wish I had growing up. I wish my daughter could grow up in a world where women didn’t have to be on guard, looking over their shoulder constantly, but this is reality. My worry is that my strength will always let me down.
Chapter Six
RACHEL
I never expected to get so much from an hour and a half self-defence class, but I'm already looking forward to the next one.
Olly is in his element when he's teaching, and there’s something I can't help but be mesmerised by—his eyes. All I want to do is paint them to canvas. Maybe my sketch pad will do until I have enough money to buy more art supplies.
I can't remember ever aching this much and am desperate for a long hot bath. It's a rare night I don't have Molly—Marcus takes her on Wednesdays—and as much as I miss her, it gives me extra time to do all the things I need to get done.
I plug the drain and start running my bath, thinking about my dinner options. It's strange how my eating habits work around being a mum—I know I need to be better, but it’s hard juggling everything. And I find I'm a lonely eater; I like the company of dining with others. It was one of the nicer sides of being in a relationship with Marcus.
I pour in a fair amount of bubble bath, strip out of my clothes, and step in while the water is still running. I let out a satisfied sigh as I sink into the water.
I look at my wrist—the water splashes up and over the edge as I sit up too fast.
Fuck, my watch.
How did I not notice sooner?
I turn off the tap and make quick work lathering up, washing my body and my hair. After pulling out the plug, I rinse under the shower hose, the water peppering my skin, and I groan, not ready to get out.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I cover my hair in a smaller one and grab my phone from my bag. I text Sophie, asking for Oliver's number. She replies with his number and an aubergine emoji.
I hit dial.
"Hello?" His voice is deep and rich, and I almost forget I need to speak.
"Oliver?"
"Yes…Rachel?"
I pull the phone from my ear, making sure I haven't video-called him.
"Hello?" he asks again.
"Sorry, yes, it's me. I forgot my watch. Don't suppose there is any chance anyone is still there so I can come and pick it up?"
I pull open a drawer and grab some clean clothes.
