I noticed Mrs Harris walking in my direction, carrying what looked like joss sticks, but in hindsight would have been unlit sparklers. ‘Oh, Catherine dear, why don’t you use one of the upstairs loos? Second door on the right . . . We don’t want any accidents.’ I wondered for a moment if my gold-digger theory was incorrect and it had actually just been a case of wanker meets wanker.

The chattering of silver spoons quietened as I climbed the lush cream-carpeted staircase. I stopped halfway to check each shoe in case I’d stood in some dog shit or something on the way there. No faeces. Only the ghost of the Primark sticker.

I imagined for a moment it was our house. That the Farrow & Ball-coated hallway was where you’d greet me when you’d return from work and I’d be coming down the stairs after getting our baby off to sleep. You’d be carrying beautiful flowers – tea roses, tipped pink, to show how much you loved us and would never leave.

At the top, temptation surrounded me. Door after door willing me to open them. See how this kind lived. I knew which one the toilet was. But what if I accidentally went to the second on the left instead? An innocent mistake. No harm. My fingers rested on an incorrect heavy brass handle and I pressed down slowly, pushed. It betrayed me with a squeak as it opened into a pastel bedroom cut directly from one of the Country Living magazines in reception. As perfect as the rest of the house. Untouched. Sterile and unlived in. I pushed the door wider and with tiny, quiet steps entered the forbidden space.

‘Are you being naughty, Constance?’

I unavoidably squealed. ‘Sorry. I was just looking for . . .’ I turned.

It was you. Laughing at me.

‘Now, we both know you were having a nosey.’

‘I . . . I wasn’t. I couldn’t remember which room she said the toilet was in, that’s all.’

You tapped your nose. ‘Of course.’

‘Did you follow me?’

‘Now, why would I follow you? I was in the coatroom. Thought I’d lost my phone, surprise, surprise. Thankfully, it was in my jacket pocket.’ You held it up. ‘Did you not bring a coat, Constance? You’ll catch your death wearing that.’

‘It’s got sleeves.’

Perhaps you were drunk? The way you came so close that our bodies almost touched. How with one finger you stroked the flesh that spilt shamelessly over the top of the dress.

‘Why do you keep making me want to kiss you?’ you whispered in my ear.

I snatched a breath and closed my eyes. Awaited your lips to touch mine. But the sound of a toilet’s flush made me reopen them, and when I did, you were much further away and leaning against a section of wall between two doors.