Elinor looks like she’s going to explode. Or implode.

“I will not have this!” she suddenly erupts, rising to her feet. “Tattooing! These names! You’re…irresponsible beyond—”

“‘Irresponsible’?” I interrupt in disbelief. “Are you serious? Well, at least we’re not planning to abandon—” I stop abruptly, feeling like the words are too hot for my mouth. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to launch a full-blown attack on Elinor. I haven’t got the energy, for a start. And anyway…I feel distracted. All of a sudden my head is buzzing with thoughts.

“Rebecca.” Elinor approaches the bed, her eyes snapping. “I have no idea if you’re being frank with me—”

“Shut up!” I lift a hand, not caring if I’m rude. I have to concentrate. I have to think this through. I’m suddenly starting to see things clearly, like a tune falling into place.

Elinor walked out on Luke. Now Luke’s walking out on our baby. It’s history repeating itself. Does Luke realize this? If he just saw it…if he just understood what he was doing…

“Rebecca!”

I look up, as though out of a daze. Elinor looks like she wants to pop with exasperation.

“Oh, Elinor…I’m sorry,” I say, all rancor gone. “It was lovely of you to come by, but I’m a bit tired now. Please drop round for tea sometime.”

Elinor looks like the wind has been taken out of her sails. I think she was probably squaring up for a fight too.

“Very well,” she says frostily. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Here are the details of my exhibition.”

She hands me an invitation for a private viewing, along with a glossy brochure entitled “The Elinor Sherman Collection.” It’s illustrated with a photograph of an elegant white plinth, on top of which is resting another, smaller white plinth.

God, I don’t understand modern art.

“Thanks,” I say, eyeing it dubiously. “We’ll be sure to make it. Thanks for coming. Have a nice day!”

Elinor gives me one last, narrowed look, then picks up her gloves and Kelly bag and strides out of the room. As soon as she’s gone, I bury my head in my hands, trying to think. Somehow I have to get through to Luke. He doesn’t want to do this. Deep in his heart, I know he doesn’t. I feel like he’s been lured away by the evil fairies and I just need to break the spell.

But how? What do I do? If I call him, he’ll brush me off and promise to call back later and never will. His e-mails are read by his secretaries…. It’s not exactly a subject for a text….

I have to write a letter.

It hits me like a thunderbolt. I have to write a letter, like in the old days before phone calls and e-mail. God, yes. I’ll compose the best letter I’ve ever written in my life. I’ll explain all my feelings, and his. (He sometimes needs them explained to him.) I’ll put the case before him plainly.

I’m going to save our marriage. He doesn’t want a broken family — I know he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t.

A nurse is passing by the door, and I call out, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” She looks in with a smile.

“Would it be possible to get some writing paper?”

“There’s some in the hospital shop, or…” She frowns in thought. “One of my colleagues has some, I think. Just hang on a moment….”

A moment later she’s back, with a pad of Basildon Bond. “One sheet enough?”

“I may need more than that,” I say momentously. “Could I have…three?”

I cannot believe how much I’ve written to Luke. Once I started, I just couldn’t stop. I had no idea there was so much pent up inside me.

I started off talking about our wedding and how happy we were then. Then I talked about all the things we love to do together, and how much fun we’ve had and how excited we were when we discovered we were having a baby. Then I moved on to Venetia. I didn’t call her by name. I called her the Threat to Our Marriage. He’ll know what I’m talking about.

And now I’m on page seventeen (one of the nurses ran down and bought me my own pad of Basildon Bond) and I’m getting to the main bit. The plea to him to give our marriage another shot. Tears are running down my face, and I keep having to break off to snuffle into a tissue.

In our vows, you promised to love me forever. I know you think you don’t anymore. I know there are other women in this world, who are maybe cleverer and maybe can speak Latin. I know you’ve had an…

I can’t bring myself to write the word affair — I just can’t.