That cheating bastard! All I could think about was Harry. He consumed my waking hours and haunted my nights. Who had he cheated with? That was the question. No doubt some young, designer-vajazzled goddess who could easily guarantee my elimination in a wet T-shirt contest. In the witching hour I’d lie twitching, glaring wild-eyed at the ceiling or staring through the glass balcony doors at the velvety night sky dotted with diamanté stars, racking my brain for clues. It infuriated me that he wouldn’t confess his carnal crime. Every instinct in my body told me it was true; when a husband starts helping around the house without being asked and begins making meals unaided, that’s the signal for a wife to hire a private eye. The trouble is, I thought, tossing around in my bed until I became as twisted as a French braid in the plush linen sheets, that I had thought we were happily married, but he cheated on me, so obviously we weren’t happy at all. I’d been living a lie. This fact filled me with a deep despair that clung to me like melted plastic. If he’d just confess and grovel a bit, maybe we could climb out of this marital Mariana Trench. But grovel, email, text message, WhatsApp or Messenger apology came there none.

I checked my inbox so often I developed RSI from hitting refresh. He was no doubt using his hands for other things – clit-tweaking, or twirling his girlfriend’s nipple rings, whoever the hell she was. Pacing around my deluxe cabin, I ground down my molars until there was practically nothing left but a pile of powdery enamel. Yes, Harry may have graduated top in his year at technical college; yes, he may be the famous Mr Fix-it, but, ironically, Hire a Hubby had broken my heart. It deserved to be a country-and-western song, it really did.

In a pre-dawn, sleep-deprived fury I texted him: We are now officially separated. Surely he’d now be so racked with remorse he’d get carpet burns on his knuckles from crawling back to me? But still nothing.

When there was no word from him when we first left port, I initially tried to convince myself that the cruise line had accidentally outsourced all communication services to one of the more slovenly former Soviet satellites, which was saying nyet to the net.

When there was no word on day one at sea, I had told myself that he was probably too busy buying me ‘make-up’ jewellery; the traditional gem of a way to show contrition.

When there was still no email on day two, I had imagined he was flying to meet me at the next port, or maybe rowing solo across the Pacific to prove his devotion.

Maybe he’s been injured, I’d thought happily, on the third day of radio silence.