‘Oh, save me the self-pity, for Gawd’s sake, Bri. You can’t have him and that’s that! You have a lot more than anyone of our station could even dream of. You could have more children, but you won’t. Don’t you think I might want a baby, a child of me own? No, of course not. You only think of yourself. Sometimes, Bri, you really wind me up, do you know that? I sometimes dream at nights of a son or a daughter, our child. OURS, not fucking Dumas’. Mine and yours! A red-headed little girl I could take out, could love, or a boy with your eyes and my hair, a boy we could bring up together, could give everything to. So don’t try and put your silly poxy self-pity on to me all the time. I’m sorry, right, heart sorry. But don’t you ever put down my achievements like that again. We worked hard to get where we are and if you would rather give it up for that boy, you’re a fool. Because with him, you’d have been scratching in the dirt, his arse would be hanging out of his trousers, your sisters would be in sweat shops working for a living and the bleeding wedding wouldn’t be taking place tomorrow, because you couldn’t buy your sister a bridegroom!’

Briony stood stock still. Tommy had never spoken like this to her before. It was a shock and a revelation. Suddenly she saw the real loneliness in his face. The sadness in his eyes. He was right, of course, in everything he said. But being right didn’t mean she had to stand there and take it. He had embarrassed her with what he said, stung her to the quick, humiliated her. She felt her face burning and before she could think the words tumbled out of her mouth.

‘I’ll never give you a child, Tommy Lane, you or anyone else. So think on that! You crawl all over me, night after night, and I hate it. I hate everything about it. I allow you to use my body, that’s all. I feel nothing for you physically, and you know it. You’ve always known it. But still you want it, still you’re there, night after night, with your stupid pawing and your wet lips. You sicken me! You’re no better than Dumas, no better than the men who come to our houses. Your prick rules your head.

‘But, not me, mate, not me! I have a child, and if I can’t have him, I don’t want any! Not by you or anyone else.’

As soon as the last words were out of her mouth she wanted to retract them. Wanted to tell him that it was sheer temper talking, that she was upset. Instead she stood silently as he recovered from the blow he had received.