I had also been confident that Tom would fall for Leah. I doubt any man could really resist her. The twins have this classic “girl next door” thing going on: long dark-brown hair, all bouncy glossy waves; green eyes; red lips without the need for much makeup; narrow waists and broad hips. “Good, childbearing hips,” my grandmother had told me at my wedding as she motioned toward my blushing bride. And a more than decent pair of breasts. Funny though, Megan was always self-conscious about her appearance, preferring to hide her curves away with bulky jumpers in winter and midi-skirts in the summer. In contrast, Leah would squeeze herself into skintight dresses that stopped just below the crease of her bum. And she had a penchant for dressing up.

“What’s your guilty fetish?” she had asked me one night. “Who would you like me to be?”

“Yourself,” I told her, and she laughed in my face. “OK,” I acquiesced and thought for a few moments. “It’s kind of weird. But I’ve always wanted to do it with a barrister. The whole gown and wig thing.”

The next evening, I arrived at her house and she told me to close my eyes as she led me through to the living room. When she told me to open them, she was standing in the full regalia: black gown drawn close around her, wig balanced on her hair, which was otherwise flowing down her back, and I could just spot a peek of a stiletto heel under the robe. “Sit,” she demanded as she slowly opened the robe to reveal her underwear beneath, that electric-blue set I liked so much. Swishing the robe to one side, she straddled me, wig slightly askew.

But anyway, it wasn’t Leah who Tom fell for in the end. I was a bit surprised by how much he appeared to like the version of Leah that Megan created. Somewhere in the middle of the two of them, but definitely without the immediate appeal that came naturally to Leah. Even when Megan dressed in Leah’s clothes, I always felt there was something missing.

I had watched the taxi pull up to Leah’s house after their second date. Those doorbell camera things are extremely useful, you know. If you know the details you can just log right in from anywhere and keep an eye on your street. Anyway, I watched as my wife, all dolled up in someone else’s clothes, turned back from the third step and went back to the taxi to drag that ginger prick up to the house. She kissed him square on the mouth about three inches from the little camera. Imagine what that looks like when you’re alone in your marital home, and all you can see on the big screen TV is a close-up of the woman who vowed to love you forever kissing some guy. I wasn’t going to let either of them get away with that shit.

You know Megan made me wait? Before she let me into her bed. Not just the standard three dates that “nice girls” like to convince themselves is an appropriate amount of time after which he won’t think you’re a slut. Not even the increasingly fashionable five dates. She made me wait for almost two months! I’d been let in the house for a coffee, an actual coffee not a code, and we’d kissed and stuff. It was ages before she asked me, all wide-eyed, if I would like to stay the night. But the ginger prick she let into her bed—well Leah’s bed, to be precise—after just two dates. I watched him swinging her round and fucking her against the wall in Leah’s living room. I was furious.