‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, shaking my head. ‘This isn’t who I am.’ I walk away slowly, wondering if he will jump on me and make me go through with it. But he doesn’t. I pick up the pace and I run as fast as I can towards Lauren’s house. It’s the only destination I know, but obviously I can’t just pop in so I go into a local pub and order myself a drink.

‘Gin and tonic, please.’ Just the one is OK, I’m craving it. Tommy’s next feed will be a bottle anyway. And I need a moment. I have things I need to think about. These feelings are not right. Do I have post-natal depression? Is that why I suddenly hate my husband and want to have sex with strangers?

But I don’t feel sad. I just feel out of control of myself. Part of the responsibility of being a parent is keeping yourself safe. To think what could have happened. How horrible would it be for Tommy to live his life knowing that his mother was bludgeoned to death in a park whilst being raped by a tall man with a fox mask on. I can’t go back there. That is not the answer.

I can’t believe this is me. I was always a sexual woman. Some might say, too sexual. I lost my virginity at fifteen; not too early, not too late. Boys were never scary to me. They liked me, I liked them. I was a good flirt, a good shag. I didn’t expect relationships from sex and was happy to have the fun. My parents loved me, my influences were good, my friends were not wild. It was all good fun until I got to university and had a boyfriend with a strange quirk. He used to leave money on my bedside table after sex. I’d tell him I didn’t want it. I’d insist he took it back. But he made sure that one way or another I took it. By either hiding it in my bag or throwing it at me then running away.