I can hardly wait to see if Emma Parson’s has a Facebook profile. I search Facebook for her but all the Emma Parsons are not her. So I look at Jack’s profile and go straight to his friends list. He knows lots of Emmas, so I type ‘Parsons’. Nothing. I type Emma and scroll down the list of women called Emma. I don’t have to scroll very far until I find her. Emma Atkinson. He fucking married her. He married her.

I kind of know what she looks like from the pictures, but when her profile picture appears it looks familiar. I wonder who it reminds me of and then I realise. Me. She looks just like me. Long blonde hair. Tall and slim. She even dresses like me. Or like I did. Jeans and plain T-shirts. Short jackets.

I look at her biography. I don’t believe it. She’s a psychologist. She trained at the same university as me. The one I work at. She’s a couple of years younger than me, but you’d never know it. I’m just beginning to think she’s a carbon fucking copy of me.

I flick back through her photos and there are the standard ones of Jack and her. Holding hands. Drinking champagne. On holiday. In our bedroom. It still hurts me. He took all of them there. It must have been the danger of getting caught. I suddenly realise that I’m desensitised. I’m so used to it now that I’m searching for something worse than my grandma’s engagement ring. A baby. My wedding dress. How much worse could it get?

There are a series of photographs at a rally. Jack with his arms around Emma’s waist. Her with a placard that I can’t read. These are the pictures in the journal. I push the flash drive into the laptop and scroll through the journal. Emma. Nine out of ten. Lies. He told Katy she was a ten. I magnify the second picture and read the placard.

I LOVE FEMINISM.

What is it about some women?

I check again and Emma Parsons did the same training course as me. She trained as a research psychologist. Instead of working at a university, she set up on her own as a coach. So I know that she would have had the same grounding in feminism as me.

She would have learned all about the way women are marginalised and seduced by misogyny. She would have studied Simone de Beauvoir and understood that feminism means choice. At first she would have been puzzled by that – how could that be right? How could you choose anything?