Younger than I was then. Around nineteen. Arms linked with yours. That would be around fourteen years ago, just after we married. You’re at The Cabin, a nightclub you worked at as a part-time barman. It’s stuck in with glue and I pull it from the page and turn it over. Christine Dearden. There were more photos, all dated, spanning two years. Then, overleaf, in the bottom right-hand corner of the page, I see it. You marked her too. Eight out of ten. You stuck hotel receipts and even a condom packet between the pages.

I turn the pages quickly. There are nine more women, all marked out of ten.

Julie Carson. Seven out of ten (possessive).

Frances Burrows. Six out of ten. (No BJ).

Pam Harding. Nine out of ten (would have been a ten but couldn’t keep her mouth shut).

Alicia Turnbull. Seven out of ten (expensive tastes).

Lorna Kershaw. Three out of ten (great company but frigid).

Katy Squires. Eight out of ten (drinks too much).

Louise Shaw. Nine out of ten (would have been a ten if she hadn’t wanted a kid).

Paula Lord. Nine and a half out of ten (nearly as good).

And the last one: Emma Parsons. Eight out of ten.

Each of these women had long-term affairs with my husband. Not one-night stands – those were at the end of the journal with a puny line each. Thirty-seven one-night stands, all marked out of ten. I try to tell myself that none of them knew that you were married to me, that we had two beautiful babies. I read the detailed descriptions of your mistresses, months and months of receipts tucked away, I stare at the picture of Paula. If I was in any doubt at all about these women being innocent, this killed it dead. Paula knew I was married to you. Paula was my bridesmaid. Paula is my sister.

My phone is in my hand and, fuming, I speed-dial the last number I had for her. Out of all of the women, this is the worst by far. It doesn’t even ring out. Out of service. I start to dial my parents to see if they know where she is, but stop. They would ask how I am and right now I’m not sure.

I sit for a while on the kitchen floor, my back against our expensive units, my morbid curiosity driving me on to know everything. Somehow it feels like relief, because I knew this all along. I knew. All the times you were on late-night dives, working in far-off quarries, hiking the Scottish countryside, I knew. People would tell me they’d seen you around, and at first I was sure that they were mistaken. Then I saw you myself. I was driving through Manchester and you came out of the dry cleaner’s. I pulled over and watched you walk towards the car park and drive your car away.