I stand and breathe in and out in this lovely family bathroom. There are traces of Jen everywhere. Soft grey towels against the polished white tiles. A reed diffuser from Next, a bottle of Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin handwash, with accompanying hand cream. One of those faux cool signs on the wall, black frame, words in black print: Wash your hands, you filthy animal.

Jen is a nice woman. Friendly. Stylish but not overdone. Quiet. A good mother, by all accounts. I have eaten dinner, prepared by her, at her table. I have drunk her wine and laughed with her sons. I have discussed my favourite TV programmes with her, sitting on her sofa, drinking a cup of tea she has made.

But I have also fucked her husband. And not because I love him, because I don’t. I admire him, for the journalist he is. For the life he has led. He can make me laugh and he can infuriate me. He can challenge me and inspire me. But I don’t love him. There is little point. He has made it clear, always, that he will never leave Jen. Not now. Not when the children have grown up and moved out. Not ever.

Not that I want him to. Maybe there was a time when I entertained that little fantasy, but that’s long gone.

I wash my hands, using Jen’s expensive soap, and I dry them on her perfectly fluffed towel.

My breathing is no calmer. I’m horrified to find that the fear I’d felt at home hasn’t eased. It’s not become any clearer to me what I should or shouldn’t do. Whether or not I should call the police. Actually, I know I should call the police. I just don’t want to.

I walk back to the living room, which is as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house. A picture of Ryan, Jen and their two teenage boys smiles down at me from the wall. It’s one of those arty ‘look at us in our jeans and white T-shirts’ shots that screams ‘happy family’.

Ryan is sitting, smiling like the cat that got the cream, on his sofa. Two glasses of a rich red Malbec are poured and sitting on the coffee table in front of the fire.

I sit down on the other end of the sofa. My itch has been scratched and I have no desire at all to be close to him physically any more. Lifting the glass, I fight the urge to down the wine in one go. I don’t want to do anything that will belie my emotional state.

‘Jesus, Ingrid. You’re like a woman possessed. Not that I’m complaining,’ he says with a satisfied grin.

I cringe internally at my own neediness but do my best to keep my expression neutral.