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some
purpose or other.
    "Okay," she said. "Then I won't come to
the restaurant."
    She stood beneath the shower, allowing the water to
bounce off her flesh, and opened her eyes as the stall door was jerked wide.
One look at his face told her that he was in one of his moods. He had them from
time to time, fits of depression when his mind descended into some private
black hell, and when he would seize on any controversial aspect of their
relationship as a reason to quarrel. Often enough it was their different religions. Michael was not a serious Catholic
– none of the Donnellys were, although they went to confession and
attended mass from time to time – and
although she, as an Anglican, had had to agree that the children would
be brought up in the Roman faith, the point was never belabored – when he was in a good mood. But too often, when he lost his temper, criticism of the way she was educating Owen Michael and
Tamsin would be hurled at her. Thus usually she preferred it when he carried on about her job – but this morning
there was an added bite to his aggression.
    "You are one hell of a wife," he declared.
"Talk about supporting your husband. Listen. I am your husband, right? You
are my wife, right? And a selfish bitch who just wants to do her own thing. Now
I want you to come to the Club and then out
to lunch, and you are goddamned well going to do it, right?"
    He was shouting, and she prayed the children couldn't
hear, because suddenly she was angry too, and wanted to shout back. She had
made sufficient allowance for his tantrums in the past, knowing all the time that they were caused by little things, little
failures, little blows to the ego. Just as this one, she knew, was a
residue of his unfortunate first race of the season. He had been waiting for an
opportunity to sound off, let himself go – with her, as usual, as the
target.
    She exploded as she pushed him
aside and reached for her towel. "You dare!"
she snapped. "Selfish? You bloody bastard. You have the right to take off
on your fucking plastic bathtub every goddamned weekend and you accuse me of
being selfish for trying to do a job of work?"
    "You..."
    "No, you!" She jabbed a
forefinger at his chest. "You are the most selfish, irresponsible, self-opinionated bastard who was ever born. You
never wanted a wife and children; you just wanted ornaments to show off when the occasion arose, and someone to organize
your home – for in case you ever need to use it." She paused,
gasping for breath.
    "Have you finished?" Michael asked, eyes
narrowed, his face flushed with anger. "Well, then, this is the only
possible answer to that sewage," and he swung his arm, the flat of his
hand hitting the side of her face and sending her reeling across the bathroom
to cannon into the wall.
    The stinging blow brought
moisture to her eyes – but she wasn't crying: she was too angry. She had fallen on to the toilet
seat. Now she got up, wrapped herself in
her dressing gown. "The usual answer from a brainless fool." She went
into the bedroom and began to dress. "Not the first time you've hit me, is
it, Michael? But I promise you it will be the last."
She tucked her blouse into her skirt, brushed her hair, and picked up
her purse; make-up could wait until she was in the car. "I am going
straight to my attorney."
    "Now, Jo..."
    "I have nothing more to say, at the moment. My
next communication with you will be through
Tom Wilson's office." She left him standing there, open-mouthed, and closed the door quietly behind her. "I'll
drop the children off today, Florence," she said.
    All three of them gazed at her,
apprehensively. They had heard the raised
voices, and her cheek was still red from the blow. But not a word was said, even on the drive to school. She kissed
them both. "See you this afternoon," she said. "We'll do
something together, shall we?"
    Was she already preparing for a
love tug over the kids? She couldn't be
sure.
    Tom Wilson was not in his office; he was in