She watches as he bundles up his tie and puts it in his pocket. She’s lying on the bed, still naked under the duvet, and he comes and sits next to her, finishing dressing and doing up his belt.

‘I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘Once it’s done.’

She nods. ‘When are you going to tell her?’

‘Saturday or Sunday. I don’t know.’ He looks away, out of the window to the grey sky beyond. She wonders if he’s reconsidering. ‘I need to pick a good moment.’

‘Are you worried about how she’ll take it? Come at you with a meat cleaver? Put cyanide in your Weetabix?’ Freya’s trying to lighten the mood, but it falls flat: he only looks back at her, a dark, thoughtful expression flashing across his features. Then he smiles quickly, seemingly pulling himself together.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he says. He leans forward and kisses her, one last peck to the lips.

He walks to the door, then turns back. ‘I love you,’ he adds as he opens it, as if it’s a casual afterthought.

‘I love you too,’ she says, but the door is already closing.

She hears her front door open and shut, then falls back on the pillow with a groan. She doesn’t allow herself to get her hopes up. They’ve been here before: the declarations of love, the promise he’ll leave his wife. He will this time, he always says, he will.

But then something comes up. It’s usually because of her. Because she’s unwell, or emotional. Freya was joking before, but her comment must have been too close to home. She remembers the look on his face; he’s scared of what she might do.

She used to wonder about this faceless woman and google her, learning all she could through Facebook and LinkedIn and Twitter. This wife: too delicate to be alone, but yet could go out with friends, hold down a busy job, go on holidays, post photos after 5k runs and sponsored walks for charity.

And after a while, she stopped asking. For these few short hours, these stolen moments, he is hers, and that keeps her going. Until the next time she can see him. She knows it’s pitiful. She knows she should think more of herself, and find a man who will commit wholeheartedly, not just profess love, then screw her in her lonely bedroom before going back to his wife.

But this time, something’s different. He seems more serious, more distracted. She believes him. To her detriment, she knows.

Next to her, her phone beeps. One of her friends, confirming time and a place. It’s a shitty club, one she hates, but it’s better than sitting at home.

He will do it this time, she tells herself. He will.

She just needs to wait for his call.

3

‘Try the navy.’