Their lives and livelihoods were inextricably linked, so that as a younger woman with small children and a business to keep afloat, Annie was too exhausted to seriously consider all the logistical and emotional untangling that leaving would entail.

The first affair was the worst. After the second one, Annie retaliated with a revenge affair. It didn’t last long, and Max never found out about it. She’d thought about telling him, just to hurt him, but that wasn’t really why she’d done it. She’d done it to even the score; it also made it easier to excuse herself for staying if they’d both cheated. The crux of the thing was, she had loved Max back then.

Annie had spent long resentful nights trying to decide if a full-blown love affair was worse than a one-night stand. She came to the conclusion that the longevity of the encounters didn’t matter: Ultimately, it was never okay for a husband to put his dick into someone who wasn’t his wife.

Though she had allowed herself to be wooed and cajoled into giving things another try, a steady erosion had begun after the first affair, and with each unaccountable lateness, unfeasible excuse, or unnecessary errand that followed, the thinning of their marriage became more acute.

Annie met the estate agent outside the first flat. She had been able to pick him out from the crowd as he strode along the street toward her: his gray suit jacket undone and flying open, tie swept back over one shoulder, and the kind of swagger that suggested he’d closed seven deals before breakfast. He shook her hand and introduced himself as Phil. Phil carried a briefcase and wore an earpiece and would spontaneously burst out the word Mate! before holding his hand up to Annie—in the manner of one stopping traffic—and launching into a conversation with the person in his ear.

The first flat was essentially a beautifully decorated bedsit with a view of the pretty town below and a monthly rent that made her say “Pardon!” twice when he told her. The second flat was situated just off the main high street. The smell of stale urine in the narrow passage that led to the front door suggested that this was a popular cut-through after pub closing time. Phil wasn’t overly pleased by Annie’s reticence toward his offerings and warned her that they would be snapped up by someone else if she dragged her heels. She assured him she wouldn’t and that if someone else did snap it up, then it simply wasn’t meant to be. Phil looked at her like she had just flopped out one breast and shaken it at him; clearly, he didn’t go in much for trusting in fate.