‘I’m not sure this is me doing my best, do you?’ I look down at my boobs and laugh. He does too.

Thank God this happened with him.

‘Maybe not. But rather than give yourself a hard time for what you did, try and fix the reason you did it.’

‘Your daughter is a lucky girl,’ I say.

‘Yeah, maybe. Maybe not. Here.’ He hands me my trousers and starts straightening the cushions on the couch. I wonder what happened with him and his wife. I know people can’t be judged on one encounter, but right now I feel like if I was married to someone like him, I’d never let him go.

‘Thank you for not making this worse,’ I say, sincerely.

‘Thank you allowing me to fulfil a fantasy I never thought I would.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup, never gone there before. Big box ticked here so please leave feeling charitable.’ He smiles again. ‘Can I get you a car?’

‘No, I’ll be OK. Thank you.’ I kiss him on the cheek and leave.

I’ve done it now. I’ve cheated on my husband. I am that wife.

Lauren Pearce – Instagram post

@OfficialLP

The image is of Lauren’s left hand, a diamond glistening in the light. It is laid over a man’s hand, presumably Gavin’s.

The caption reads:

Days to go. I love this man. Feeling so so lucky. Commitment, together … bring on forever!! I dedicated my life to you, my love. Is it Saturday yet??? #LOVE

@genedder: You deserve happiness, you bring nothing but light.

@happyguuuuuu: You help me get through my day. You bring such joy. Keep being you!

@nailedforeveryours: The DREAM

@yellagain: More pictures of Gavin please!!!! Can’t wait to see your dress

@unitednotabit: Excuse me while I vomit into my shoe.

Beth

‘What happened to you, you look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards,’ Michael says to me as I walk into the house. The word ‘backwards’ rebounds in my head. All I hear is ‘anal, anal, anal’. It’s like he knows.

I feel like I just murdered someone and buried their body. This secret will kill me. I cheated. I never thought I would actually do it, but I did. I am that person.

‘Lauren wouldn’t stop talking so I couldn’t pump. Look, I’m leaking everywhere. I have to go and shower,’ I say, calmly.

Michael looks at my soaking chest when I open my jacket and looks suitably horrified by the mess of it.

‘You’re drenched.’

‘I know. I missed Tommy so much today, I think it sent my milk supply into turbo speed and I had no time to pump.’

‘OK, well go and have a shower and I’ll bring the pump to the bedroom and leave it out for you, OK?’

He is being nice. Which is confusing. I need him to remain horrible now, because of what I just did. I rebelled against a husband who was mean. I need him to stay mean.