It was just as well that Paula hadn’t really wanted children. Imagine if she had… how much more reason she would have had to hate me. Not that it really mattered how she felt; she wasn’t part of Mark’s life, and she wouldn’t be part of ours. They weren’t in touch any more; they weren’t the kind of exes who stayed friends. I’d asked Mark once, ‘Did you break up because of the children thing? Because you really wanted them, and she didn’t?’ and he’d hesitated and said yes, that had been a big part of it, and it had been obvious he didn’t want to talk about it any more and I’d changed the subject.

I knew he’d been as generous as possible when sorting out the financial settlement; he’d let her have the house, which was unusual these days even if a woman had children and was going to be the main carer, and especially if she didn’t and had an income of her own. I hadn’t asked him if he’d done that to try and make the whole thing less acrimonious. It was pretty obvious that was the case. It was just another example of that capacity he had to give big – bigger than most people. It didn’t always work. It hadn’t with Ava, with the present of the red books, though Ellie loved them. And it seemed not to have made a blind bit of difference with Paula.

Anyway, I was never going to meet her, so it didn’t really matter what she thought. But I didn’t like the thought of anyone having cause to hate me.

That night, when I finally got off to sleep, I dreamed about her.

I couldn’t see her face. I don’t know how I knew it was her, but it definitely was. It was dark in the dream and she was walking towards me, and I wanted to run but I couldn’t. Then she said, ‘You’ve made a big mistake,’ and I realised she was coming for me and my baby and then I woke up.

It was still early and Mark was asleep; the room was beginning to get light but only just, and our room service breakfasts hadn’t arrived yet. Later on I’d have to try again to talk to Ava, but for now I didn’t make any move to get up. Instead I carried on lying in bed and remembered how I’d ended up deceiving her.

I’d called Mark three days after our time together. Just the one call – I’d been very restrained. I’d left a breezy, cheerful message, one I’d practised a hundred times.

‘Just wondering how you are, if you fancied meeting up for a drink or coffee or whatever.’

He called me back the next day. A good sign. A great sign. Or so I thought, at first. Before the conversation went the way it did.

‘Jenny, you have to understand that there is absolutely no way we can see each other again. I met up with my wife and we’re back together, and we both really want to make it work. But, Jenny, she can never find out, do you understand? You must never, ever call me again.’