She raises her chin and stares at me as she struggles out of the jeans, which have become a little too tight during lockdown. Something else I will have to deal with, I suppose. I can’t have my wife not looking after herself.

“That was the right choice, Meggie.” I smile beatifically at her and fold the belt again so the metal end is in my palm. “This is for your own good, remember. I don’t get any pleasure from this at all.”

I take her phones away. The one she uses to ring her mum and text that bimbo Hannah and the other vacuous bitches she chats to. And the one she thinks I have no idea about that she was still using to talk to Tom. Or who she thinks is Tom. Obviously, that whole charade has to stop.

She is now totally alone. I don’t think she had really realized that before. I think she’d had this idea that something would happen, and all this would go away. Even with the police interview I think she still thought it would be OK. But it’s starting to sink in. I can feel her fear now. It’s palpable in the air around her. The brave face she’s been wearing has slipped.

She is starting to unwind in front of me. The old Megan, when she’d been scared of losing her mind and begging me to come to her rescue, was alluring, this greasy-haired mess sitting on the sofa all day eating biscuits is not. It has been three days since we went to the police. She is still obviously uncomfortable sitting down for too long, but I am trying to ignore her pathetic whimpers when she shifts her weight too quickly.

“You’ll feel better if you shower,” I tell her. She pulls another digestive from the pack and nibbles the edges as she ignores me. “C’mon Meggie. This is madness.” It was a punishment that she had well and truly deserved, and this was wearing thin now. To me, unfounded violence speaks of an inability to think coherently, to strategise. I preferred neat words to get people to do what I want, rather than messy fists. But there is a part of me that wants to drag her by the hair and bodily throw her in the shower. “Megan!” The same tone I had used with the dog we had when I was a boy. “Get. In. The. Shower.”

As she washes, I pick her out an outfit. A beautiful floaty summer dress with a fitted bodice and a full skirt. She had bought it years ago for a friend’s wedding, and my heart had burst with pride at how gorgeous she looked. She went without a bra; the plunging back belying the demure silhouette. I remember the way she had sucked in a breath when my fingertips grazed the base of her spine over a dinner of dry chicken in a congealing mushroom sauce, and she’d moved from my touch, leaning in to whisper, “Not here, you’ll make me horny.” Of course I’d carried on, watching her face intently as she crossed her arms over her chest to cover her nipples, a blush staining her cheeks. She had nibbled her bottom lip and looked back at me from under her eyelashes.