I retrieve the holdall and pack it back up, leaving only the briefcase on the kitchen side. The journal is still open on the floor, the pages fat with the evidence of your secret life. I bust open the second journal, which is much thinner. The pages are crammed with your neat handwriting, your thoughts sprawling over the buff. Men are supposed to compartmentalise, but this is ridiculous. It’s almost as if there are two versions of Jack in front of me, and both of them are different to the Jack I knew.

The second journal has lists of books you’ve read, music you’ve bought, galleries you’ve visited on your travels. No surprises with the music. You love American rock and Madchester. I scan the galleries and wonder why on earth you kept your love of modern art to yourself. You’ve read hundreds of books and, right at the back, you’ve ranked your top ten.

You love biographies. Alec Ferguson. Robbie Williams. Roy Keane. Beckham. Obviously. Tom Jones. Lord of the Rings. The Hobbit. Terry Pratchett. Martin Amis. And Nick Hornby, High Fidelity. Really? And you’ve written a review. I can feel my blood pressure rise, the familiar redness sweep over my chest and neck as I read your words.

‘… what a sucker. I’d never do that for Caroline. Apologising to exes? That’d be a long job. Work in progress. LOL. Anyway, she’s too dense to know what it’s all about. Clever academically, but … well …

I close the journal. That’s enough for tonight. The words are shut between the pages with the receipts and the photographs and the condom wrappers. Sordid souvenirs of your life outside our life. It all seems like an anticlimax now as I reach for the blackcurrant-flavoured Absolut vodka.

Too dense to know what it’s all about. I’m momentarily defensive, of course, but you’re completely right. I was too stupid to know what you were up to and, when I did have an inkling, too clumsy. That’s when it started, really. I’d been at your office, waiting outside to surprise you, take you out to dinner.

It was the early days of our marriage, just after our first anniversary. That first year had flown by in a mist of romantic lunches and late dinners. Then, just after we’d returned from a weekend in Paris to celebrate our first year, it tailed off. I’d mentioned it to my friend Anita.

‘It’s as if, well, as if he’s … losing interest.’

It was all I could do not to let the brimming tears out. She’d patted my arm gently over our cappuccinos.

‘Well, I’m surprised it’s lasted this long. Most people just settle back into their lives. But you two are strong. He’s not losing interest. But if you feel like he is, up the stakes. Surprise him.’