She tilts her head. “Do you think they’re fucking?” I fumble my wineglass, spilling claret across the white tablecloth. “I beg your pardon?” “Your husband and that smug little girl.” “I do not know the customs where you are from, but in England it is not appropriate to discuss such a matter.” I sound as unreal as a marionette, the words falling from my mouth without any genuine emotion or thought.
