She looked around; there were more faces. Faces she'd seen only hours ago.There was her tanned table-companion: 'call me Vince.' She knew more of him ...han just his face. Next to him was the foul-mouthed surgeon – Greene, she remembered. His lips curled into a sneer; maybe they always did. Then she saw Charrier with his gleaming jowls, at the foot of the bed. He was like a ghost against the darkness behind him.Fleming was present too, of course, and another dinner guest she'd forgotten the name. Once again,I wound up in tears; once again came a heartfelt apology and a promisenever to do it again.That encounter left bruises on my arms. But it wasn't until the nexttime that he actually hit me.The same destructive cycle played itself out too many more times, untilhe left me with a black eye, a bloodied lip, and knocked out a couple ofmy fake teeth. That was when I called the battered women's crisis line,but even then, I had managed to convince myself that I somehow deservedthis treatment.. More

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