She had scoffed; she didn't believe him. Why did you marry me if you didn't trust me? he could have asked, but the answer was obvious. The pregnancy. The baby. The one which had never materialized. The baby may not have been real, but the flurry of emotions surrounding it had been, at least for her. The desperation; the hope. The grief. She'd never really believed him, never trusted him, but she'd thought being a father would reform him. Now she didn't even have that.

"The truth is it will probably be an entirely banal, perfectly pleasant dinner party," he said. (At least from her perspective, anyway). "And I don't want to go with you."

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