I’d dressed in my gym gear early that following morning, whispered to Paul that I was going for a run, and was out of the house before he could wake. I drove to the walkway along the banks of the River Foyle, where the weekly park-run event set off from, but I knew I had no intention whatsoever of taking part.

I was exhausted. I’d barely slept. My body seemed to have been acutely aware of Paul beside me in the bed with his livid red scratches and his tousled hair and his deception. I’d spent the night clinging to the edge of the bed, reticent to touch him.

When I’d finally come out of the bathroom after we’d had sex, he’d put on his boxers and T-shirt, like he did every night before going to bed, and was sound asleep. I couldn’t get another glance at the scratches and while a part of me wanted to shake him and ask him to explain himself, I held back. Had I been scared of where the conversation might have led? Perhaps, but I’d also been aware of the three glasses of wine swirling around in my stomach, my fuzzy head and my emotional exhaustion. In the cold light of the following morning I knew I’d been overdramatic, jumping from scratches on his arms to murder. It would be laughable if it weren’t so serious.

But jumping from scratches to an affair? That wasn’t overly dramatic at all, especially given that I’d slept with another man just two nights before. Given that I wasn’t sure if I was falling dangerously in love with another man. A man who I’d told myself I’d push aside so I could work on my ailing marriage.

Just five years ago I’d have very confidently said Paul Walker would never, ever have an affair. But I’d have said the same of myself. Things change. We’d changed.

Sitting in my car, I watched the runners stretch and limber up in preparation for setting off on their race. I didn’t envy them given the heat, but it appeared they didn’t want to let anything deter them. I sipped from my coffee cup, the air-con on full in the car. I felt a little lost.