The first pages of the first journal make me think that I was wrong. Completely wrong. There’s an early picture of you and me at nineteen, when we first met. My blondness, your jet-black crew cut – opposites attract. But we weren’t opposites at all, really. We were both fiercely competitive and the darlings of our university year. We married a year later. I sometimes wonder if that’s why things went wrong, because we were too young. Then I remember that things went wrong because you were sleeping with other people.

The phone rings and startles me. Five rings then I let it go to answerphone. Naturally it’s you, Jack. Your voice, calm and controlled, booms around the kitchen.

‘Caroline. I know you have my bag. I’m warning you. You need to give it back. All my papers …’

But I’m not listening to you. I can’t hear the words. I’m listening to the background of the call, ears desperately pricked for children’s voices. Charlie and Laura. Are they there with you? You took them away and not a single moment has gone by in the last year when I didn’t miss them. My babies. Every time I shut my eyes I see my son’s face, terrified, as he realised I wasn’t coming with you. Laura crying as you bundled her into the car. You prevented me from seeing them at every turn and forced fear into my soul.

The call ends and I sink back into the journal. I might pretend to myself that I care about your other women, and I did back then. But what I really care about is getting my children back. And this is a means to an end.

I force myself to turn the pages and see myself age slightly: us in front of the Christmas tree right here in this house, and your handwriting at the side of the picture. Perfect ten. The warm reminiscence turns a little cool. Perfect ten? That’s what you said to me when we first slept together. You said it like I should be pleased, but all it made me do was think of who you were comparing me to.

‘Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls.’

It was a statement, not a question. A warning shot. But you answered.

‘No. I’ve never had a ten before. Eight. Nine. Yeah. But not a ten.’

You said it with a smile, but it niggled and I didn’t know why. I suppose that I was still heavily invested in romance and love back then, and I just didn’t expect you to mark me on my performance. I let it go. I shouldn’t have. Because it led directly to this moment, when I turn the next page and see a picture of a blonde woman.