Then she would have realised that you can’t. That the choice only applies to things outside the trap of patriarchy. I always used to think of it in terms of high heels. I could be independent, have my own income, but if I spend it on high heels to look good for men, then that’s not feminist choice. It’s conformity.

These days I prefer to think of it in terms of husbands. Other people’s husbands. If you’re a feminist and you tell everybody and go to rallies, then sleep with someone else’s husband, then that’s not choice. It’s not feminism. It’s fucking someone else’s husband.

So in many ways this is the worst of all. She’s one of us. Someone who is trained. The other women probably didn’t realise they were being used. They were just his puppets. But Emma is a real traitor. I Google her and, sure enough, she’s written papers on feminism. She’s lectured on it. She has deep knowledge about the camaraderie of feminism and even rallies other women to the cause, when all the time she’s poaching their husbands.

I look at the pictures again. She’s got an ‘I love feminism’ T-shirt on. When I look more closely, so does Jack. So fucking false. He wound himself around the lives of the women he had affairs with, took them to the places they were interested in. All so he could get them into bed.

This is beyond the pale and my blood is boiling. I Google Emma again but I can’t find any of her other social networking, any clues to where she is. She’ll be wary, in any case, warned by everyone. No doubt DS Percy would have called her and told her that whoever was posting on Facebook would be after her next. I finally see that she is working in Central Manchester. Her coaching practice takes place in a small office in the trendy Northern Quarter and there’s a picture of her recently, thinner and blonder than before.

I start to make an appointment for tomorrow morning from a fake email address but then I remember that she’s missing and that I’m not chasing his women any more. I see that she parks in the multi-storey. She’s got a convertible and it’s decorated with eyelashes on the headlamps and lipstick on the bumper.

I scroll through the rest of the photographs. Jack and Emma in our bedroom. Jack and Emma in her bedroom. At the zoo. With some of our friends. Of course. They all fucking knew really, didn’t they? I was a fool. We could have been out to dinner or at a barbeque with them the week after this. If anyone was in any doubt they certainly aren’t now.