He looked up at her.
"You booked me."
"It saved our details," she said. "From last time. All three of us came up on the form together, and I sat there with the cursor over your name, and I meant to take you off it, and I couldn’t." She was looking at the table, not at him. "So I didn’t. And then I went to the study and I got the wallet out of the drawer, and I took all the passports. Yours too. I put it in my bag and I thought, I’ll ring him from the car. I’ll ring him when we’re on the motorway and I’ll tell him: your passport is with me. There’s a seat with your name on it. If you’re coming, come to the airport, and we’ll go together. And if you go home to her instead—"
She stopped.
"If I went home to her," Marcus said.
"Then I’d know."
"And you’d have gone anyway."
She raised her eyes to his. He had always loved her eyes. He had loved them at the barbecue and at the altar and in the hospital at four in the morning when she held their son for the first time, and he had never once seen them like this, perfectly clear, perfectly unafraid, holding nothing back from him at all.
"Yes," she said. "I’d have gone anyway."