She was still feeling battered by the things George had said on Saturday, and the coldness between them that had lasted right through Sunday and the drive to her mother’s house in Beaconsfield. George hadn’t left her keys behind, but he’d made it clear on Sunday morning that he’d returned only to protect David and make sure he was safely delivered to his haven. George had chatted cheerfully on the way out, but on the way back, without David, he’d hardly said a thing. He’d dropped Trish in Southwark and hadn’t even waited until she’d let herself in before driving off. She had spent the evening feeling as though someone had kicked her hard in the gut. The thought of food had made her feel sick. With her mind all over the place, she’d even resorted to Lord of the Rings to try to blank reality out of her mind, but it hadn’t worked. Every year of her life with George had passed in front of her eyes, as though she’d been drowning. All the mistakes she’d made, all the clumsiness that must have hurt him had come back to haunt her.
