James Norrington, financial-whizz-kid-extraordinaire and current star of the beleaguered City, sat ensconced in the leather interior of his Lexus, engine idling as if unsure whether to park in the drive of the Norringtons' Hampshire home or to turn and whisk its owner straight back from whence they'd come.

A vision in pearls and elegant designer clothes graced the doorway atop the sweeping stone steps. "James? Is that you?" he lip-read her enquiry from within his soundproofed retreat.

"Darling!" he cooed, opening the door as he quelled the engine's throb with a flick of the switch, "You look ravishing. What a joy I find in returning to you each weekend!"

"James. Come inside. We need to talk."

"I love you too!" he called insincerely to her retreating back, pretending he hadn't heard the sharpness in her voice, and that his sunglasses had hidden from him the crease that marred her brow. Abandoning the car and its contents to the ministrations of his staff, he dutifully followed in his wife's trail, diverging only to scoop up in an elegant hand the freshly poured brandy left ready for his return.

"Darling, you look quite flustered. Whatever is the matter?"

"Flustered? Flustered!?" her voice increased in pitch, "As well I.... oh, for god's sake James, take those damned sunglasses off and stop hiding from me!" Tucking them into his breast pocket, he sipped some of his brandy. "And stop laughing at me as well!" She paused to draw a calming breath, moderating the tone of her voice to that of barely-concealed rage, commonly heard in polite society. "Tell me what is going on, James."

"I'm drinking my brandy whilst waiting to discover what crime it is I am accused of."

His mild tone caused her to hiss in irritation. "I've been trying to contact you at the flat all week. All week, and there's been no answer. I know you've been at work, so why haven't you been to the flat? Why have you been avoiding me? I half expected not to see you this weekend!"

"Oh. That? I've not been avoiding you, darling, I've been having an affair."

"You've... What... Who?"

"Jack."

"Jack? Jack? Jack Sparrow?"

"Yes."

"But. But... But he's all over the papers!"

"Hence why I've been spending so much time at his home, darling. I'm sure you understand."

"I... I don't... I..." she stopped. Glared at him. "How dare you speak of this in such a... a... reasonable tone of voice!"

"You think I should follow your example and use an unreasonable tone?"

She continued to glare.

"I don't really see why you're being so unreasonable about it anyway, given..."

"Given what?"

"Given Will." She gasped and paled. He took advantage of her discomfiture, crossing to the sideboard to pour a large gin and tonic. In passing it to her, he pushed her back into an armchair, seating himself opposite. "Perhaps we could start again?"

"You're having an affair."

"Yes."

"With Jack Sparrow."

"Yes." He sipped his brandy again, but though it tasted as pleasant as always, it hadn't quite warmed to the point of hitting him for six with its vapour alone. Despite outward appearances, he felt rather in need of that sort of comfort.

"He's a criminal!"

James shrugged.

"He has no class!"

"He has more style than the gardener ever did."

Again, mention of her past misdemeanours left his wife speechless. James wondered why he hadn't bothered discovering this before.

"That is in the past, and is not relevant to this discussion!"

"Oh? I rather thought it was relevant." He shrugged, and drank again. Still not warm enough. "Tell me, then, darling, what are the relevant points I should remember to mention?"

"You've been having an affair with a known criminal!"

"Yes, you do rather seem to be struggling to understand that point. Would it help to know that I was having an affair with him long before it became known that he was a criminal?" He watched the narrowing of her eyes as her anger built, timing his interruption of her thoughts, "No? Oh well, best you forget I mentioned it then." He smiled sunnily.

"What if the papers get hold of it?"

"What if they do? I'm just another rich-kid to them. One headline—if that—and they'll be bored of the story."

"The children..."

"They're away at school, darling. As long as I continue to fund their every whim, and their rooms are kept as they like during the holidays, they'll neither notice nor care."

"You think it won't affect them if they hear that their father is," she stopped, his finger over her lips and his face suddenly close as he bent over her.

"...and now we return to the subject of the gardener," he whispered, releasing her lips from the pressure of his forefinger.

"What do you mean?"

She sounded truly perplexed. James settled himself on the arm of her chair, draping an arm across her shoulders in the manner of a movie mafia boss delivering a threat in a public place.

"You were talking about the boys' father."

"I... but... You." Was all she could splutter-stammer in reply. He laughed; too harsh a sound to be self-deprecating.

"Darling Lizzie, the boys don't look a bit like me. I've known for years. Practically since Jamie was born. You didn't really think I believed he was two months premature, did you?"

She had paled again, and drank deeply from the glass he'd placed in her hand, as if only just realising it was there. "You never said..."

"At first I thought you'd get bored of him, then I reasoned that at least he kept you amused while I was at work, and if you were with him then I knew where you were."

"So why..."

"Why did I confront you about it after so long? Darling, you got careless and indiscreet. The other staff felt uncomfortable. I couldn't have that."

"So you told me to give him up? Told me to behave myself and be a good wife, while you... I don't even want to think what you've been up to behind my back!"

"I never told you to give him up, Lizzie."

"Yes you did! I remember it!"

"No." His tone had lost its lightness of insincerity and mocking, becoming serious and firm. "I told you to choose between us. You chose me."

"I would have lost everything if I'd chosen him!"

"No. You would have lost me, and my money, and the lifestyle my money provides for you. That is all you would have lost, Lizzie."

"But I loved him!"

"You didn't love me?" The mocking tone was back, accompanied by a sardonic lift of the eyebrow.

"I... I..."

"I've known long enough, Lizzie." Finishing his brandy, frustrated that it hadn't ever reached the temperature he preferred, he stood and strode to the door, turning at the scrape of wooden furniture-feet on the polished old oak floor.

"And will you choose, James Norrington?"

"No." He smiled, as a cat greets its prey, watching her tremble with contained anger and fear.

"You refuse to choose as I did?"

"No, Lizzie. I don't need to. I can have Jack and my money, without any choosing at all."

"But what about me?"

He almost felt sorry for her then. Almost, at the despair in her plaintive cry, he recalled how he'd felt for her in the early days of their relationship, before he'd seen where her heart lay. "You are free to choose, Elizabeth. Now, as you were then. But you won't get a thing from me that I don't choose to give you, because I was faithful to you until long after I knew you hadn't been to me." He turned again and left her then, more concerned with wondering how his lover would cope fending off the baying hounds of the gutter press than with his wife who slumped ashen-faced in the expensively bespoke upholstery he'd ordered and paid for at her behest.