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I scrubbed the back of my hand across my eyes. “You look at other women in relationships like this and wonder – why doesn’t she leave?”

“I have to ask... why didn’t you?” We had just shut the cafe on Friday afternoon and were clearing up.

“Well, to begin with I thought it was just circumstances that were wrong, not the relationship. If Cameron was happier at work, he’d be kinder... And the occasional good days keep you hoping that things are getting better. Do you know, Sarah, I read a while ago that if a reward is unpredictable – and goodness knows, Cameron’s good days were not predictable – that’s the easiest way to make something addictive?”

“Like fruit machines that pay out on a random schedule – yeah, I’ve heard of that. It looks like there’s a system for winning, but there isn’t.”

“So Cameron was my addiction. Besides, I had been so demoralised that it was hard to believe in anything better. And once I stopped hoping that things would improve, I was really afraid of him. I never knew how I was going to get through another evening, another weekend, but I didn’t know what he might do if I wanted to leave.”

“So how did you get away in the end?”

I had reached the stage where I rarely defended myself, but then one day, I couldn’t be passive any more. Cameron was taking his temper out on me as usual. He had had a minor setback – he couldn’t find something, I think, and somehow that was my fault. I stood there in the kitchen and listened passively to his shouting, like I usually did, and then I suddenly thought... what am I doing here? This is rock bottom. I’m beyond unhappy – I hate Cameron, I can’t see any way out, so I don’t care about what happens next. So I told him so, and he grabbed a glass mixing bowl off the table and hurled it at me. Even as I flinched, I wasn’t surprised. Though he’d been attacking me psychologically all this time, that was the first hint of physical violence, and it made my decision so much easier. I think he would have thrown other things, but that was all that came to hand.

I should be grateful that mixing bowls aren’t very aerodynamic, because it didn’t hit me. It shattered against the hard edge of the kitchen cabinet beside me, and he yelled some more about what I’d made him do. I didn’t say anything then, just acted as if I was shocked into silence, waited for Cameron to storm out, then fetched a dustpan and cleared up the broken glass. I was glad I hadn’t been cut by flying shards. But the next day, I waited until he had left for work, got the hidden money out from under the spare toilet rolls, took what clothes and possessions I could easily carry, got on a train and went back to my parents’ house. I didn’t take anything of his (he never did buy me an engagement ring). The rest of my stuff probably ended up on a rubbish dump.

My parents didn’t say anything when they came home from work and found me there. They said plenty later, though not about me. But right then, they just took me in and hugged me while I cried. My mother took me shopping for some stuff I needed, and I camped out in my old bedroom and tried to plan what to do next. I was free but I was miserable – and broke. I was also terrified that Cameron would turn up on the doorstep because it was easy to guess where I would have gone, and I spent a while googling how restraining orders worked and so on - but he never did. He didn’t even phone me, and as soon as I could, I changed my number.

Sarah’s eyes were wide. “You were lucky! What if he had decided that he wouldn’t let you go?

“Yes, I know. I was right to worry about that.” I breathed out. I had to remind myself that over three years had passed. “It took a while for me to realise that things could have got much, much worse after all. It’s a pretty common scenario for women to be beaten up or killed when they try to leave an abusive partner; I’ve seen the statistics. But like you say, I was lucky. Looking back, I think it was Cameron’s style to cut all the ties, move on and pretend he hadn’t done anything wrong. I never met or even heard from any of his family, and he didn’t seem to have any old friends either, just recent acquaintances. You’d think however smitten I was, I’d have noticed that and been suspicious... and I’ve wondered sometimes whether he changed jobs so suddenly to avoid some kind of trouble. I’ll never know. I never contacted him, I blocked him on Facebook, and he’s never contacted me either.”

After I’d been back home a month or so, and my panic was starting to die down a little, I realised I was starting to lose a little weight again. I guess that although I was still anxious, the relief of no longer being with Cameron was stronger, so I wasn’t comfort-eating. I hadn’t weighed myself for a couple of years, but with nobody to manipulate me into eating more than I wanted to, my cheap, ratty size 28 trousers definitely weren’t stretched over my belly as tightly as they used to be; my big men’s T-shirts were starting to feel more roomy. If I made an effort, could I lose more? I borrowed a few diet cookbooks from the library and started to make healthy meals for my parents and me. I got up early and went for walks before the neighbours were up, at first just a slow shuffle around the block, then further as my stamina increased. Then I discovered food blogs and as many healthy recipes as I could possibly want. For the first little while, the weight came off quickly and I can’t deny that it was a boost to my battered ego. Maybe I wasn’t stuck forever being this soft, squishy creature who just let things happen to her.

I have to give a lot of credit to my parents. I was twenty-four at this point, and almost all my choices seemed to have turned out badly. But they stood by me and supported me, and although I spared them the details about what had happened with Cameron, having seen his public face they did understand why I had been taken in by him. I didn’t think of trying to make new friends or reconnect with old ones at that point – I couldn’t face anybody.

One day I was talking with my dad, and he asked what plans I had for the future. I was in such a state that I was touched to think that he believed I had a future. And that was when it came to me that I wanted to train as a cook, professionally. I had been happy working in that café, I was happy when I was cooking for other people. I would train properly and do it for a living.

Once I had the idea, it all seemed to fall into place. It was early spring when I left Cameron, and by autumn I had a place on a two-year catering course. I was still young enough and had now been unemployed long enough to qualify for a training grant. While I was waiting for the course to start I did an online course on running a small business, too. I was in touch with Chloe, but I didn’t offer to meet up with her. She had been wrapped up in launching her career, working very long hours, and then her company seconded her to Hong Kong and a year later to Singapore. Her life couldn’t have been more different from mine, but she still made time to send me encouraging messages and pictures of her travels. As for me, I didn’t share much information. Cameron and I were together, then we broke up: that’s all I felt comfortable talking about with anyone. I let her assume I’d been dumped; most people did. I didn’t tell Chloe I was losing weight, either. Although I no longer really resented her successes, this was mine; she didn’t need to know.

I was still shrinking, encouraged that my mother was now joining in with my healthy eating. I started my course in size 20 whites, but although I was surrounded by food there was rarely time to do more than taste it, and the energy of the hot, noisy kitchen seemed to supercharge me rather than wear me out. Before long I was swimming in those whites and holding the trousers up with a big safety pin. By the time I got around to getting new ones, size 18 was too big as well; I was no longer losing so fast, but smaller changes made a bigger difference. My double chin had melted away, my thighs still touched but no longer chafed painfully and there were hints of bone structure beginning to emerge from the softness that still covered me. I’ll always bear the marks of what I did to myself; although I’m young and my skin is resilient, I had stretched it quite a way. The loose, floppy skin on my stomach is a sight. But with my clothes on, I was beginning to look... normal. I wasn’t thin, but fat? I didn’t really feel fat any more, and now I was slimmer than I’d been at sixteen – and my feet didn’t hurt either. I could see and feel hints of bones at knees and ankles, and even my collarbone was starting to show on the surface. My face was less round than it had ever been, and I was surprised at the difference.

Now that it didn’t hurt to move, I started to feel pleasure in using my body. I dared to buy some workout clothing, and extended the lengths of my walks, and then I bought a secondhand bike and started to ride to college. I got some dumbbells on Freecycle, hoping to tone my flabby arms. Then I bought some running shoes and a decent sports bra, and joined a gym. I went off to my final work placement having lost around eleven stone in a little over two years, and wearing a size twelve.

“And you know what’s happened since, Sarah, ‘cause that was the placement where we met.” I sighed. “So, now you know all the secrets of my past: I used to weigh 22 stone or quite probably more, and I was completely naive and spineless and a terrible judge of character.”

“That’s one way to put it,” said Sarah, looking out into the rain again, and taking off her apron. “You were young. Naive, yes, maybe. But you weren’t a bad person and what happened with Cameron wasn’t your fault. If you’re a different, stronger person, I think that has more to do with ditching the bad boyfriend and finding what you wanted to do, not what you weigh. Though losing half your bodyweight is pretty impressive, I think most people would agree.”

I sighed. “It averages out at about a pound and a half a week, I worked it out...” I took a deep breath, and returned to the subject at hand. “I am in control of my own life now, like you say, and I don’t ever want to go back to how I was. I just can’t. Do you think I can live with Chloe again and not turn into a pushover?”

Sarah looked me in the eyes. “I’ve never thought of you as one. And it’s your flat; if she wants to live there she has to go by your rules. If you don’t want her filling the fridge with junk food or what not, you only have to say so at the beginning.”

She smiled at me. “I know you’re going to say yes. You miss her. And you’ve been obsessing about this full-time for two days now.”

“Hmm...” I was thinking about it. “We’ve kept in touch, but we haven’t actually met up in almost five years. I’m sure you’re right; we’ve both grown up since then. And changed, I expect.”

“She might even be thinner too...”

I laughed. “I’d be surprised! She could be bigger for all I know; she doesn’t put pictures of herself on Facebook. Maybe it’s just as well I have a ground-floor flat...”

“See? You are going to say yes.”

I was.