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Anthony cleared his throat. ‘Time for the gloves, I think.’ He led her away from the punchbag, and gradually everyone resumed their training.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, genuinely mortified.
‘It’s not a problem.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Did it help?’
‘Actually… yes, it did.’
He smiled. ‘Hold out your hands.’
A pair of padded gloves, which weighed a ton, were slid onto her hands. Her arms were definitely going to be feeling the effects of this workout later.
Anthony gestured to a smaller punchbag, this one attached to a heavy spring. ‘Same centred stance, hands held high, we’re aiming for small quick jabs. The idea is to get a rhythm going.’ Once again, he demonstrated how it should be done and she watched in fascination as the punchbag rattled away as he hit it. ‘Your turn.’
Her initial efforts were ungainly and it was hard not to topple off balance.
‘Smaller jabs, don’t follow through.’
Connie imagined Tiffany’s face in front of her this time, and began to fantasise about ripping off her false eyelashes and tearing out her hair extensions, strand by strand. If that woman so much as attempted to attend her daughter’s wedding then she’d burst her implants with her own stilettos! Jab… jab… jab…
‘Good. Keep it going. Soften your knees.’ Anthony circled her, watching her pummelling the punchbag, getting into a rhythm. ‘Think about what you want, Connie.’
‘I want revenge,’ she said, increasing her speed.
He shook his head. ‘You think that’ll make you feel any better?’
‘Hell, yes.’ She punched harder, faster, imagining Tiffany’s face pulped into a mash.
‘A lot of people think that,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard above the rattling. ‘But when it comes to it, revenge can make things worse.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘How would your kids feel if you hurt their father? What about your mother over there, how do you think she’d cope with you charged for assault? All the while, your ex and this new woman are free to live their lives.’
She shot him a look. ‘You’re not helping.’
‘This process isn’t about inflicting physical pain.’
‘You mean, I should focus on causing psychological pain instead?’ She resumed punching, remembering stories about friends who’d subscribed their exes to embarrassing publications or inserted rotten fish into their curtain poles. Maybe she should try something along those lines. ‘You’re right, I need to be more devious in my approach.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘Please don’t tell me I need to accept the situation and move on. I’m sick of people telling me that.’ Her punches became a little wayward – he was distracting her.
‘You’re focusing a lot of energy on other people. People whose behaviour you can’t control. In doing that you’re neglecting your own needs.’
‘I don’t have any needs. I don’t have a life.’
‘Sure, you do. You’ve plenty of life left. Do you want to spend that time bitter and angry? Or fulfilled and happy?’
‘Happy isn’t possible.’ She swung at the punchbag, hitting it with venom.
‘Yes, it is. But you have to let go of your anger first.’
‘Then what, eh? I’m a depressed woman in her sixties with a wobbly middle. I never used to wobble, but I’ve been drinking a lot of wine lately.’
‘So stop. Regain control. In doing so, you’ll regain some of that lost confidence. Use these sessions to get fitter, as well as expelling that anger. You’ll be amazed at how much better you feel. Your husband will soon realise what he lost.’
Connie stopped punching.
