Under the map stood Nick’s writing desk – one of the lovely old roll-top ones with leather and brass all over. It looked so intriguing that I started my search there, lifting the top to find a few letters ready to post, the normal assortment of pens and notepaper; some old correspondence in the drawers; and, in the very bottom one, a clutch of letters neatly gathered in ribbon. Although the ink on the envelopes was fading, I knew the hand: it was the same as in the book that I had stashed under my shoes in our bedroom. With some trepidation, I untied the ribbon. The notepaper was scented – it must have been old because you couldn’t get that sort of paper any more.

It’s one thing to know that your husband was once in love with another woman. It’s another to know that he kept her letters.