B. called me yesterday. It had been ages since we’d spoken and she apologised. ‘I’ve just been hanging with my boyfriend,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to work anymore. I don’t want to come down to St Kilda. I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for so long, but I haven’t been this happy in ages. I’m so happy.’

I was stoked to hear from her. She is about the sweetest thing you could imagine and I’d missed her. Her Mum died when she was really young and she was shipped around relations who didn’t really want her, finally going feral, hanging with the ‘bad kids’ and ending up with an addiction that she turned to sex work to support. If you can imagine her; tall, curvy and pretty; she’d look more at home in a country town hairdressers than on the street.

Today I went to see her and meet the guy who was the source of her happiness. She looked great, with a new haircut that framed a face that looked thinner and brighter than I’d seen before. ‘Gemma, this is D., the love of my life,’ she said as I stepped over the threshold of her home. He was a heavyset guy recently out of a four-year stint in prison. I didn’t ask what for, but I guess I’ll find out sometime.

He was pretty out of it, smoking bongs and falling asleep. They’d picked up Valium and Xannies from the chemist so I’m guessing it was a nice cocktail of drugs that kept him keeled over between his occasional slurred sentences. But welcoming enough, he showed me his DVD collection and the Playstation controller he had bought her. He cuddled the dog and you could make out writing on his hand, clearly her writing:

D. (heart)’z Bek for ever

The place was knee-deep in the chaos of new love. Clothes, food, shoes, hats, drugs and booze were all layered artfully across the flat. She apologised for the mess as I perched on the beanbag with the dog. While she talked, he loaded up cone after cone. I realised, with a thud to my chest that felt like I’d been hit, that she had two black eyes. Shit. He was beating her up. Right?

Finally, he gave in to his torpor and peeled off to collapse diagonally on their bed and snore loudly, giving us a chance to talk about boys. We talked about how she was unsure of his love, because she was so mistrustful of someone loving her. She said that they’d broken up briefly because she had taken a job with a regular client, a sort of self-sabotaging thing to do because she didn’t trust herself, or know how to be in a relationship. Though it was mangled up in her other stories, she noted her bruises and said people were giving her funny looks when they walked down the street together.

Amidst all the girly gossip, I made noises that she shouldn’t be too hard on herself and that this was new and scary. She showed me her perfume collection and gave me a Christmas card. We looked at photos and all the while I felt a bit sick. I was trying to reconcile her obvious happiness with the shiners that marred her pretty face. Finally, and with as much tact as I could muster I asked:

‘So what’s with the black eyes, Love?’

‘This chick comes up to us at the casino and is like, ‘Can I have a fucking cigarette?’ And you know me. I’m like, ‘Well you coulda had a fucking cigarette if you asked politely.’ So then it’s on. Her dude punches me in one eye, and she gouges my other eye.’

‘Oh. So hang on. D. didn’t give you the black eyes?’

‘No. I told you that.’

‘No you told me that you and D. had a fight because you cheated on him with an old client. And then the next story you told was that you had black eyes. I was freaking out, I’m like, ‘Great, D. seems awesome.’

‘Ha ha. Nah, it wasn’t him. That’s why people have been giving us funny looks.’

‘Well that makes so much more sense.’

We laughed. Me with relief, her with disbelief that I’d muddled the stories up together. I felt bad that I’d thought the worst. They are just young lovers doing the best with what they’ve got; him, institutionalised and angry at the world; and her, sweet and trusting but suspicious of love. Both on drugs (though they are managing to stay away from heroin) and getting into fights. It’s got all the ingredients for a disaster, but you never know, love just might prevail. He (heart)’z her after all. For ever.