The first time it had happened, I’d cried myself to sleep – in retrospect, more through shock than grief – but I’d had small children at the time. Also, things weren’t so bad. It was early days. I’d thought about it, at length, and decided I didn’t want a divorce, so no, I hadn’t confronted him. Instead, I’d confronted her. In a manner of speaking. When Michael was away, I’d contacted the lady in question and asked her if she’d like to play tennis. I knew her vaguely – I usually did, indeed once it had been a friend of mine – and I knew she played. I’d done my research. I remember her surprise, but she’d come. We’d had a game at my club, and then I’d bought her lunch afterwards. She was rather nice, actually. They usually were nice. Over lunch, I learned that she loved modern art, and so I later bought tickets to the Hockney exhibition at the Royal Academy. I invited her. Michael was still in America, seeing shows on Broadway. By the time he came back, it was all over. His embryonic affair, I mean. Sally was too pleasant and too well meaning to countenance an affair with a man whose wife she liked, and contrary to public opinion, not all divorced, middle-aged women are predatory bitches.

So that’s what I gambled on: conscience. Only once, it nearly hadn’t worked. Had threatened to backfire. A rather sharp, married woman called Tara Harding – an actress in a play Michael had given a rare good review, I wonder why? – had refused to play ball. On arriving at our house for supper at my invitation, she’d flirted outrageously with Michael all night, right in my face, as if to say – bad luck. Fortunately this had infuriated her small, balding, screenwriter husband who, the following week, decamped the entire family to the South of France for the summer, where Michael was too lazy to follow. That was the other element I relied on: Michael’s laziness. Unless it was easy, and on a plate in front of him, he couldn’t be bothered.