‘I made you some eggs and bacon, Elaine, with a couple of lightly grilled tomatoes.’ George’s voice was once more meek and mild. ‘I poached the eggs for you because of your diet.’ He placed the tray across her knees and smiled at her shyly.

Elaine glanced at the food on the plate, anything rather than look into his face.

‘I think you’ll feel better after a couple of days off work, don’t you?’

She picked up a fork and began to push the food around the plate, the livid blue of the willow pattern a focal point in her need to ignore George.

He hesitated for a few seconds, waiting for an answer. ‘Well . . . I’ll leave you to enjoy your breakfast then. I rang your manager and told him you had a bug. See you tonight. I’ll cook you a lovely dinner.’

Please go, George, she thought.

He went and she felt a moment’s lifting of her spirits as she heard the front door close.

Close, not slam, because George slamming a door would be like the Pope joining the Chippendales.

But he had attacked her.

She pushed the laden tray to the other side of the bed. George was capable of violence. He had attacked that poor girl on the train that time. The doctor had said that he was full of unhappiness and bitterness due to his childhood and his overbearing mother. That Elaine’s condition and the impending birth had put a strain on him that had caused him to act out of character.

Why had she felt that it was all her fault?

Why had she stayed with him, stood by him?

Because she hadn’t known what else to do, that’s why. ‘For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health.’ Why hadn’t it had anything about in prison or out of it in the ceremony?

Her head was aching. She closed her eyes and saw Hector. Good old Hector who had told her that he loved her. Hector who laughed all the time and wanted to have fun. Nothing more or less, just fun.

She smiled to herself slightly. And what fun they had had. She couldn’t give Hector up! Hector was her life support. Her passport to a happier land.

She lay back against the pillows and surveyed her bedroom. It needed decorating. The whole house did. Years before George had been a handy DIY merchant. They had spent hours looking at paint charts and choosing colour schemes and papers. But that was before his trouble, as they referred to it - when it was ever referred to at all.