And then there were the little white lies about the car. Like all men, Harry thinks he’s an excellent driver. The first time he got a note under his windscreen that read ‘parking fine’, he presumed it was a complimentary comment on his driving skills. I know that he also secretly believes that every woman is bad behind the wheel – which is why I’ve never, ever, let slip when a postbox had dented my door or another car had failed to take evasive action when approached by my bumper bar. I would just sneak over to my brother-in-law, the Dent Boss himself, for some surreptitious chassis restoration, bribing Alessandro with a slab of beer to keep schtum.

What else had I lied about in my marriage? I pondered, pouring myself a vodka from the minibar. Allergies. Yes, I’d developed some imaginary late-onset allergies to a few things, but this wasn’t deceit so much as survival. One of life’s great mysteries is why people are divided into those who like the outdoors and those who like the indoors, and why they invariably end up married to each other. On our honeymoon, I’d foolishly confessed how much I hated camping, only for Harry to then spend every holiday for the next five years trying to convert me. A couple of nights under canvas and I discovered that the worst aspect of tents is that it’s so hard to be tense in them; it’s just not so dramatic, storming out and slamming the flap. But I soon realised it was easiest to keep my loathing of camping a secret from my husband and invent some allergies – to flies, ticks, flowers, frogs, even fresh air itself. We’ve been holidaying in comfy coastal rental cottages ever since. But was that really such a terrible crime on the morality rap sheet?

What else had I lied about in our 28-year union? I lay on the soft cream couch in the cabin and contemplated this query. Well, as far as Harry knew, I was sponsoring a goat in an African village; I saw no need whatsoever to tell him it was actually an entire goat herd, and all of the village’s goat herders and their extended families.