"You're both cracked."

"Mother's right about you," I shoot back.

"It must be something in the genes."

"Mother and I are respectable people: we don't wear jeans."

"Respectable? Do respectable people do what you pair of madwomen did to those tropical fish?"

"They were already dead."

"Do respectable people smash cars and..."

"Do respectable people have affairs?"

"So you don't deny it, then?" he suggests.

"So you you don't deny it, do you?" don't deny it, do you?"

"I admit that..."

He stops.

"Go on."

"...I've played around..."

He said it.

"Who is she, then?"

"It's in the past."

"She's dead?"

"No. She's still alive, as far as I'm aware."

"What's her name?"

He turns round. "You've changed, Julie. Instead of coming straight out with it, you've kept quiet. You've been sly. You've gone behind the scenes and spied on me and collected information. You've been a bitch."

"When a man is sly he's a fox. When it's a woman she's a bitch."

"You destroyed my dental surgery, among other things."

"I swear I didn't do that."

"Of course you didn't. And my Porsche. You smashed that too and removed it to some secret location. The painting...the list goes on and on."

"Listen to him! Making himself out to be some sort of sanitized martyr. You're the one who had an affair."

"I want to know where you put my car."

I sit down and pour myself some tea. Unfortunately there's no more than a thimbleful left in the pot. I look up, straight at him. "I am being honest when I tell you, Ronan, that I have not the slightest clue where your car is."

He doesn't believe me. "I can't live like this," he blurts out.

"Like what?"

"Like this."

"Like an adulterer? I'm glad to hear it."

"How do I put this...?" He scratches his crown. "I think that I've..."

"What?"

No reply.

"You think you've what?"

"Nothing," he answers, pacing the small area in front of the sink.

"Fallen in love?"

He stops pacing. "I wasn't going to say that."

"Oh, I see. You think you've fallen out of love."

He starts pacing again. "You said it, not me."

"Have you any guts, Ronan?"

"Okayyes."

"Yes what? You have guts?"

He sighs.

"I see: Ronan has fallen out of love. Strange for someone who doesn't know the meaning of the word. For you, love is just a snooker pocket. Something you fall into if you're lucky. And like a snooker pocket it leaves you the same before and after: empty."

"Excellent metaphor."

"You've no conception of trust. Of loyalty. You have no conception of caring. Of sacrifice..."

"I know what I feel."

"Size 36D tits?"

He stops as if I've just shot him. "How did you know that?" he demands, as if he owned them.

He's asking me how I knew his piece of history wears size 36D tits. It's a fair question. So I tell him. About everything except my liaison with Nicole. I tell him that I returned from holiday to an empty apartment last Thursday and found their clothes scattered all over the kitchen floor. I tell him about the lemon-yellow Wonderbra on the doorknob and in passing I throw in the fact of his being a total moronic idiot for getting caught.

He paces around a bit, pinching his nose, thinking. "How did you link her to the painting?"

"You're determined to make me admit I burnt that painting."

"Well, did you?"

"Of course I did, you thickhead."

"How did you know it was her painting?"

I pause. "I didn't. I just wanted to destroy something you liked."

"I see." He sighs, appearing relieved.

"A work of art," I mock. "That painting was brutal brutal."

He tells me I clearly have no appreciation for art. I tell him not to be such a stuck-up prat. He replies that he's not saying anything radical here: people who grill paintings, he explains, clearly have no appreciation for art. I accuse him of putting the cart before the horse and he boomerangs that at least he doesn't put the art art before the horse, and I slam back that not only is he suffering from personality failure, hair failure and marriage failure, but to cap it all, sense-of-humour failure as well. before the horse, and I slam back that not only is he suffering from personality failure, hair failure and marriage failure, but to cap it all, sense-of-humour failure as well.

"Still," says I, "at least we're communicating."

"Honestly, for once."

"Says the consummate liar. The whole Cliff Castle Hotel idea. What a joke. You just wanted to try that woman out in our bed."

"She wasn't in our bed."

"You know, Ronan, lying has become so inbred with you that to stop would require surgery. Your pathetic attempt to short-circuit me at La Boheme's last Thursday evening. Guess where I was? In the car park, Ronan! Watching you ogle your ridiculous banjaxed Porsche. God love your innocence."

He eyes me sternly.

"And that whole circus you made up about the laundry! How could you do it to me, Ronan? Do you feel good about it? Did it even occur to you that, gosh, perhaps I'm being a bit of a shit here?"

He shrugs. "We all make mistakes."

"Like hell we do!"

"On a scale of one to ten, I think car-smashing and destroying paintings scores higher."

"He's moralizing, for a change."

"Besides destroying my means of livelihood."

"Ronan, I told you that was not me. It was probably that woman's partner."

"Julie."

"What?"

"We made a mistake."

"How?"

"We just...made a mistake."

"Oh, I see. You mean getting married was a mistake."

He looks away.

I approach him. "Well? Answer me. Tell me that getting married was a mistake."

Please don't think I'm particularly trying to hold on to him. I'm not. I'm just determined to make him suffer.

"Go on, say it."

"What's the point? You'll only go berserk."

"Say it, shithead!"

He starts pacing now, colour high, nerves frazzled, asking the kitchen floor whether I want my mother to hear us or not.

"Say it!"

"Maybe it was, okay?"

Now I can hear the clock ticking.

I point towards the bedroom with a strong, raised arm. "If that's how you feel, then why don't you pack your bags? I mean it. Go now. I won't stop you."

"You want me to pack my bags."

He's daring me.

"If you think our marriage was a mistake."

"Hold on. Did you just say you wanted me to pack my bags?"

"Wash your ears, you thick piece of dogshit. I'm talking about you having the guts to take a decision about your future."

"You're a part of this too," says the coward.

"Why, how thoughtful of you."

"If you want me to go I'll go."

I walk up to him and smack him hard across the face.