Instead, I sit back down at the computer and type an email to Chris. Telling him all the ways I want to hurt him, all the things I want to call him, insult after insult pouring from my fingertips on to the screen in front of me. I sign it off from Leah. Just as I’m about to hit send and worry about the consequences later, I notice there are four unread emails in her inbox.

As I open them one by one, it becomes clear that it wasn’t only Chris who Leah was sleeping with. She was liaising with at least three other men, who all wrote desperately cloying messages of their declarations. There was also an email notification of a message via a dating app called eLove. From some guy called Tom. I open the app and navigate to his profile.

He looks like a model. Actually, scratch that, he looks like an actor. His face is not symmetrical enough to model, but so enigmatically handsome I can’t drag my eyes away. Green eyes framed by long lashes, straight nose, defined cheekbones. A smattering of subtle freckles across his cheeks. Auburn hair, slightly curly, like a cockapoo. I want to run my fingers through it. His page says he is six foot two, although enough of my friends have warned me about height inflation to pique my skepticism. There are the usual photos used on these kinds of dating sites: walking in a wood with a nice filter to soften the edges a little, one with an older lady who was obviously his mum, another holding a small furry animal—in this case a roan-colored collie puppy. Finally, there was one that looked more like a headshot, taken against a backdrop of high-rise office buildings, a typical corporate picture of the kind used for client-facing websites. In my own, with the Shard in the background, I wore an expensive black shift dress and makeup perfectly applied by a lady brought in to ensure everyone looked the part. The photos of Tom should be off-putting, they should make my skin crawl with the sameness, the cliché of them. But I am drawn to him, imagination firing over being the one behind the camera lens he is staring down.

Tom is forty-two, divorced, a senior investment manager at a large firm in the City—they have an office not far from mine. No kids, but a “devoted uncle to three niblings,” according to his profile. Good sense of humor. Such a redundant phrase to use though; it wasn’t like you were going to put “miserable bastard,” was it?

Intrigued, I pull up Leah’s profile. Unsurprisingly, she had used a photo of her in front of that bookcase, a few choice volumes turned to face out into the room, including her own million-copy-selling one. I scroll through the other pictures. Was there some kind of rulebook, a specific list mandated by these sites? One of Leah hiking; in the kind of shorts favored by Lara Croft, with thick socks peeking out from chunky boots, she looked adventurous but sexy. Another of Leah holding a pint glass in a busy pub, apparently fascinated by some rugby match being shown. Yet another of her in a bikini, taken from behind as she looked out to sea, waves splashing around her ankles. Each picture chosen to show that she was one of “those girls,” the ones who were fun and outgoing and larger than life. Who were sexy and a little bit slutty, just enough that they’d let you do things but not anyone else.