‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ she seethed as she slumped against the wall and wiped herself down. Though faint and dizzy, Sybil focused hard as she tried to reapply her scarlet lipstick, which contrasted harshly with her ashen grey face. ‘This really isn’t going according to plan,’ she thought anxiously.

Taking deep breaths to steady her nerves, Sybil walked back into the restaurant, where the sight of the wanton waitress virtually perched on leering Monty’s knee didn’t improve her flagging spirits. Dismissing the silly girl with a haughty glare, Sybil sat down again and realized she simply hadn’t the strength or even the ability to play silly games any more; all she wanted were the facts, and if they weren’t to her liking then for all she cared bloody Monty could go to hell.

‘Please, Monty, just tell me the truth about the requisitioning situation at Mary Vale House?’

Monty feigned a guileless expression. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? The decision is not solely mine to make.’

Weary of his lies, Sybil’s temper began to fray. ‘Then please explain why Sister Ann fawns all over you whenever you visit Mary Vale.’

Going bright red with indignation, Monty muttered through a mouthful of pie, ‘Dammit, woman, I’m getting sick of your bally questions.’ Seeing Sybil looking mutinous, he added, ‘Look at it this way: you’re up the duff and not fit for society – isn’t Mary Vale your best option, for the time being at least?’

Sybil had to bite her lip to stop herself from screaming every known word of abuse at him. She had always known that it suited him to isolate his pregnant mistress in the middle of nowhere, two hundred miles away from any gossip and sideswipe jokes that might reflect on his own misconduct or offend his precious wife. Knowing she was beaten and that he was running rings around her completely defeated Sybil, who once more got to her feet.

‘Take me home immediately,’ she demanded in an imperious voice that everybody in the bar could hear.

Looking both embarrassed and furious, Monty quickly rose to his feet too, wiped his greasy chin on his perfectly laundered napkin and spoke in an overloud, solicitous voice. ‘Not feeling well, are we, dear? Come along, let me help you.’

‘I can manage,’ Sybil muttered as she barged past him.

‘Sorry to cause a fuss – it’s her delicate condition,’ the Brigadier murmured, as he passed the goggle-eyed waitresses and the drinkers at the bar.

Once outside, his tone changed immediately. Livid at her behaviour he demanded, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’