Clearly our earlier conversation is still preying on her mind. I don’t usually talk about my parents, even with Tom. I try not to think about them. But I understand the rules of engagement: Stacey has shared something of her family history, which requires me now to share something of mine.

‘My mother died a couple of years ago,’ I say. ‘My father killed himself when I was in my final year of college.’

Not strictly true, of course.

But close enough.

‘How dreadful,’ Stacey says.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘He beat her. He beat us all. He was a vicious, inadequate man. He spent thousands of pounds on expensive hobbies while Mum went without dinner to pay the electricity bill.’ Ice cubes clink in my glass as I take a sip of water. ‘I used to fantasise about killing him with my bare hands. It was a relief when he did the job himself.’

Stacey tugs at the sleeve of her summer dress. The fabric covers her shoulder now, but I saw the bruises when she was in her yoga clothes.

‘Did your mother ever think of leaving him?’ she asks, without meeting my eye.

‘She should have done,’ I say. ‘She didn’t have the courage. She was too afraid of being alone. She couldn’t support herself: she hadn’t taught since they’d got married, and she was too scared to retrain. She thought it’d be better for me to have a father, but no father is better than a violent one.’

Stacey stares down at the table.

‘He promised he’d change,’ I say. ‘Every time he knocked out a tooth, or blacked her eye, or broke a bone, he’d swear it was the last time he’d ever hurt her. And it was. Until the next time.’ My voice takes on a bitter edge. ‘She couldn’t even leave him for us.’

‘Maybe she was afraid he’d come after her,’ Stacey says.

‘She could have—’

‘Maybe she knew he wasn’t the kind of man to give a damn about things like restraining orders,’ Stacey adds rapidly. ‘Maybe she realised he’d never let her go. He’d kill her first, even if it meant he’d spend the rest of his life in jail.’

The knuckles of her clenched fists are white.

The waitress stops beside our table, notepad in hand. ‘Have you decided what you want, or do you need a bit longer?’

‘Give us five minutes,’ I say tersely.

The girl nods and backs away.

‘There are always options,’ I tell Stacey, once the waitress has gone.

‘Only on paper.’ She looks up, and her eyes are filled with despair. ‘In the real world, might is right. You know that as well as I do.’

My phone rings in my bag. I want to ignore it, but the ringtone tells me it’s Tom, and he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was important.