I rubbed my face. ‘I’ll get the kids. But fuck knows how I’m going to get them home. Anyway. So … right. What’s his name?’

‘Valentino.’

‘Valentino? Fucking hell. Well, thanks for telling me.’

That was our deal, the only condition beyond condoms: that Sarah would tell me what had happened without holding back for the sake of my feelings, which I’d be hiding as best I could in case my jitters stopped her telling me more.

I craved knowledge of Sarah’s libido, her … fucking arse.

* * *

I pulled on my jeans, my hoodie, got my bike, left the house, started pedalling.

Thanks for telling me sounded weak, like saying thanks for the opportunity when an audition failed or a job interview flopped. Thanks for hating me, I’ve had a wonderful time.

I’d already phoned Kyle, explained that Sarah was stuck at the party, yeah, but I’d be there in like –

‘Mate,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I know. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

They’d be waiting for me – oblivious Oliver, sweetest Sophie.

Kyle worked in finance, drove a nice car, had a nice girlfriend called Himari. He was also a workaholic and recovering alcoholic who’d always promised to be the uncle the kids deserved if things ever calmed down.

I rode quickly under darkening clouds, overtook pedestrians and cyclists on the bike path. Even in that moment, Sarah may have been riding Valentino, and that was … a relief?

The prospect of Sarah being with someone who wasn’t me had been there for a couple of years, since just after Nikau from New Zealand took his life. Our one sexual encounter since then had ended in tears – Sarah’s, not mine – but maybe if …

I’d broached the topic, or maybe Sarah had. It was hard to know, but we’d run with it. Imagine – Sarah screwing someone else. Fucking hell. We’d imagined it, shared our fantasies. Imagine – Sarah wanting to screw me, her life partner, who she’d once ravenously desired. Fucking hell. I’d imagined that too.

Arguing hadn’t fixed our sexless marriage. To me, my logic was sound – we used to have a good sex life, could again – but didn’t convert to action. Guilting Sarah into sympathy-screwing – I was a dutiful dad, a decent provider – always hit the buffers. Blackmail – I could leave her destitute, I really could – aroused little in the way of desire. Rages – I’d flown into so many, fallen to the ground, wings clipped.

These days, just reaching out – even a tentative hand across the mattress in the dead of night – was too much. The shame of real and anticipated rejection was paralysing. She wasn’t interested, said she didn’t feel sexy. But if she could see that men still wanted her, found her desirable … Me, for example – I was a man!