I stared at him. Went very cold. It seemed to me I turned to stone on the bench. It was as if Prospero, or Merlin, or some higher celestial being, even, had lightly touched my shoulder and petrified me. I couldn't speak. Tommy let me attempt to absorb it. He waited in silence. "No, he's not," I quavered eventually.

"Yes, he is," he said with quiet certainty.

It obviously couldn't be true. But nonetheless, I was aware of something of great magnitude rolling in, as if from the sea before us: huge, dark and inexorable, not the sunny horizon I stared at. Something forceful and tremendous and indisputable. Nevertheless, I doggedly disputed it.

"But . . . he married me. Christina . . . Married twice."

"Yes."

"But how . . ." Even as I tried to form some sort of question, I knew it was rolling in fast, this force of nature, and to stop it was like trying to hold back the tide. I also knew that this was the huge piece from the jigsaw puzzle of my life that I'd never found. It had been hiding under the lid of the box, or under the table, for years. And somehow, it had finally slid into view.

"But – hang on – no!" Suddenly my mind wouldn't have it. It was too old, this brain of mine: too set in its ways. It could be a strong force, too. I rounded on him furiously. "What d’you mean, he's gay? You can't just say that, how do you know?"

"I found him in bed with a guy at Oxford. I was in college with him, remember. Same staircase. Opposite room. I know."

I was shocked by the sudden visual freeze-frame, but at university. Years ago. I scrabbled around in my brain.

"But – but that could just have been a one-off! An experimental thing – you know – an undergraduate fling, or even—"

“No, he's gay. Or at least was fluid, back then. More so now, I think. More craving a man. Or indeed men. Exclusively."

A hole opened up inside me. Gaped wide. It all made terrible sense. The love for me, indisputably, but the lack of real love. And the paucity of sex, of intimacy.

"But why marry Christina?" I said incredulously.

"Because she's sexually ambivalent, too. Can't you see that?"

I stared. "What d’you mean?"

"Look at her, Flora. Think about her."

I caught her in my mind's eye: in her jeans, same few unisex-style shirts rotated every other day. Blue, green, yellow. I thought back to when I first met her, flying over that stream on a rope, short hair, trainers, huge smile.

"Just because she looks — you know — boyish. That doesn't mean she's gay, for Pete’s sake!"

“No, of course not. And many very beautiful, very feminine women are gay. But she's kinda androgynous, don't you think?"

She was. She really was.

"But . . . do you know?"

"Oh, I know she has girlfriends, if that's what you mean."