I take a shower and pour myself a large brandy, knocking it back fast so that the roughness doesn’t linger too long on my throat. I run a bath with Mum’s favourite Fenjal bath oil because there’s a part of me that wants to trigger memories and let all the emotion and guilt spill out, now I am alone.

I’ve messed up so many times, starting that bloody night on the Lawns. My failed exams. My disgusting drug use. Mrs Lomas, who I almost killed with my stupid mistake. My career. My future.

Our marriage.

Our baby.

Why has it taken me this long to realize that my mother got it wrong? She believed I was meant to be great, but I never had it in me.

The house wakes me up with its familiar sounds. The heating creaks on, the post drops through the letterbox. I call the ward: Kerry had a comfortable night. I call her parents and update them before I text her to say good morning. When I don’t get a reply, I remember I brought her phone home with me to recharge. When it turns back on, the screen lights up with worried messages from her colleagues. News travels fast.

I start packing a bag for her: a pot of Nivea face cream, the book on her bedside table. Something to replace the nasty hospital nightgown? I pull out the drawers and look for old clothes she won’t mind throwing away afterwards.

The red T-shirt at the bottom is good quality: that would be soft on her body. I unfold it. The logo on the front looks familiar. I turn it over.

Lyonshall Manor Mini-Triathlon, July 2004.

Instantly, I know why it looks familiar. I picture Joel, at the top end of Hazelmere Crescent, his broad chest filling out an identical T-shirt.

He was there, with her. The weekend she was deciding whether to leave me.

I sink down onto the bed.

Maybe I always knew. Even someone as dense as me couldn’t completely ignore the fizz and buzz whenever they were together, like an unstable current. I almost allowed myself to acknowledge it last year, when he delivered that card and I sensed there was something more.

But I chose to ignore my gut.

Was she unfaithful? I want to believe she wasn’t. But even if they didn’t have sex, I know now that you can be unfaithful just by holding hands.

I get up, tear around the house, put the washing on, clear up the kitchen. Anything to stop the noise. But it doesn’t work, my brain speeds up, recalibrating our shared history. Me, Kerry, Joel, locked together, since the last minutes of 1999.