I don’t need to hear what they are saying as the Twitter feed scrolls up the page. They cut to an angry-looking man, palms up, presumably explaining why men cheat. He’s labelled ‘sex addict’, and I snigger to myself. I sincerely hope that Jack is labelled a sex addict. I hope that everyone is following this now and they have seen the nine women that he has cheated with.

My bill is ready and before I leave I have one more thing to do. He’s slept with other women in our bed. One of them was wearing my wedding dress. He had a secret baby. Proposed to another with a ring stolen from me. What could be lower than any of that?

I open made-up Monica’s laptop and push in the flash drive with the journal on it. I scroll through the now familiar scenes of him with them until I come to the pictures of Paula. Somehow, even to me, now desensitised, it seems terrible. I don’t really want to see but I have to.

The first pictures are from Janine and Freddy’s wedding. We were both bridesmaids – Janine had six – and in these pictures Paula was doing her ‘pussycat’ look at the camera. When we were teenagers she would stand in her bra and knickers and practise her looks. Pouting, seductive looks that worried me. She was sleeping with her boyfriends when she was fourteen and she would regale me with details of what they got up to.

I told my mother, of course, but she just told me that Paula was on the pill. Did I want to go on the pill? Was I sleeping with Jack? When I told her that we were waiting a while she pulled her lips back and narrowed her eyes. That was part of the problem. Paula was outrageous and I was made to feel bad for doing the right thing.

Paula’s pussycat look was designed specifically to give teenage boys a hard-on. She’d have her friends around on Friday nights when my mother was out and they would dance around in skimpy dresses practising their looks. I was supposed to be ‘looking after’ her. Babysitting. I had to come home from uni at weekends and struggled to keep up, studying while Jack sat beside me and his eyes followed Paula.

I blamed her. Her constant ‘can I practise on Jack?’ and ‘Come on, Caroline, join in the fun’. Of course, Friday nights turned from nights in to nights out. I’d witness the ‘getting ready’ with her pouty friends and the ultra-short dresses. Then sometime after 2 a.m., she would arrive home loudly with a pissed-up man in tow.

Inevitably, I’d be making coffee or studying at the kitchen table when the hungover victim tried to make an escape. I’d nod and smile and lower my eyes and soon I became known as ‘Paula’s nice sister’.