‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ I leant in, inhaled her, imagined her with Assi, with Mick, with Valentino, with me. Her satisfying them, wanting them, finding herself, losing herself.

Once, when the kids were toddlers, I’d sprung a semi watching Sarah eat a veggie wrap – it was her mouth, the way it stretched, the tension in her skin. I didn’t mind that her dancing days were behind her, that she’d been dunked headfirst into domesticity. She was a woman of still waters, deep wells, the woman I wanted.

Biddy being with other people – I didn’t enjoy that thought as much. In fact, I fucking hated it. Who knew what state Sarah and I would be in without her. She was supporting us, sustaining our marriage. The well of Sarah and Chris had run dry – the swell, the buoyancy, came from Biddy.

I pushed, pulled, rubbed at Sarah’s back.

‘Ohhhh.’

The weekend away was a birthday treat for Assi; Sarah had paid for the Airbnb up-front. I’d approved the spend, grudgingly, because she had to use our joint bank account, would pay me back when she got her wages.

Romantic Lovers Retreat on the Mornington Peninsula. A veritable wonderland for those craving sensuality and serenity in stunningly sublime surrounds. Pressure-point body rubs available by request.

She’d laid out for the rubs too, the session at the hot springs. They’d drink bubbly in a thermal bath, watch the sun setting over the Peninsula.

‘Have you contacted them about a refund?’

She sighed, head down, nape exposed. ‘Can I show you the letter I sent him?’

‘You sent him a letter?’

The letters we used to write each other … I love you, Sarah. I really do.

‘An email or whatever. I’ve got it here.’ She reached for her phone.

A cough – Sophie’s.

I placed my thumbs on either side of Sarah’s spine, worked my way up past her shoulder blades, shut down my ears, battened the hearing hatches. Yep, I was ready.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘So, I just thought I had to put it all out there, so that I knew I’d been completely clear with him about my feelings.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Rubbing, squeezing, deaf.

‘OK … Right. So …’ She coughed. ‘Dear Assi, I don’t understand what’s happened. I can’t stop wondering –’

– what she was talking about? I couldn’t hear her voice. When sounds cut through they were like words whipped in and out of earshot by the wind at a public rally. I continued massaging until the noise stopped, unbattened the hatches.

‘So … What do you think?’

‘Yeah, wow, that’s pretty clear. When did you send it?’

‘This morning.’

‘And he hasn’t replied?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Right.’

I rubbed, tried not to grip too hard, could either slink off and punch the bathroom wall or get over myself, pull out the stops, support Sarah, get her right back in there, happy, knee-deep in undeserving genitalia.