And to be fair, his rages were often sparked by not knowing where we were. It panicked him. He needed to know at all times where we were going, and who we were seeing. Once or twice, he tried to drive a few friends away, but he never succeeded. Indeed, it was his friends that seemed to dwindle, rather than ours, although we never mentioned it. Never said – what’s happened to so-and-so? He was extremely sensitive and we’d prick his pride at our peril. And naturally, we found our way through all this, as families do. Melissa, living across the road by now, was very helpful. She worked for a big IT firm, and she helped us set up private email accounts to the friends he wasn’t mad about, something I had no idea was even possible, and the children stood their ground on social media and their own phones. I knew he looked at mine, but I had an old pay-as-you-go one, too, locked in a jewellery box in the cellar. Luckily I wasn’t interested in social media and I resisted any suggestion of setting up an account for my books.

By then I’d written a novel, while Michael was in the pub. When he learned of its existence, he’d derided it, but then it was published and he was astonished. He would never sanction me going back to work – we’d had a furious row when I’d said I wanted to cook again, maybe even try and start a catering business – but this was different. This kept me at home, and brought in money, too. We were very short by now. The trust fund, which had seemed so substantial years ago, was now barely enough for two people, let alone four. So although he scoffed at my oeuvre, in a way it played into his hands.

I’d managed to get an agent, Tom, through a friend who wrote, and Michael insisted on coming with me to our meetings. Then Tom left the agency, and Sonia took his place. After that, I was allowed to go alone, although if Ron, the CEO, was present, Michael came too. My publishers were wide-eyed at this and initially, Frankie, my editor, poked fun. But then, when one or two of my plot lines necessitated Miss Sharpe investigating problems of a patriarchal nature, she didn’t joke about it any more. Sonia tried to broach the subject with me once over lunch, but when I clammed up, she stopped. By now Michael had stopped reading my books, dismissing them as nonsense, so I was safe. But whenever I drew a character just a bit too close to my husband, I’d wake up in the night, drenched in sweat. And I’d be at my desk early the next morning, re-jigging it.