I ended up seeing a therapist for a few years in my late twenties because I felt so disgusted by myself. I never knew if it was a comedown from all the drugs I took at uni, or a reaction to how that relationship made me feel. Either way, therapy helped. My therapist told me it was OK to have done those things. That all I have to do is give myself permission to have acted in that way, give myself permission to have been young and unbothered by the consequences. She said all I was doing was role play, the transaction was not important. I was neutral back then; if it wasn’t hurtful at the time, then why should it be hurtful now? She was right. At the time it was OK. Marrying a man contaminated by innocence also helped. I have to beg the question, would Michael have been the man I chose, if I wasn’t trying to mask my shame?

I don’t know the answer to that. As women, we are raised to believe all men want to screw us. When one doesn’t, especially when it’s the man you love, it’s incredibly confusing. It feels like the problem must be me.

Until now. Michael isn’t making me happy. He isn’t who I thought he was. But then look at me; a middle-aged woman regretting my past and present over a gin and tonic while I avoid work and my child. As if that is going to make anything better. I finish my second drink.

A man heads over and sits next to me at the bar. He orders a beer. He didn’t need to sit in that chair, there are plenty of others to choose from.

‘Waiting for someone?’ he asks me.

‘No,’ I reply. Wishing I’d said yes. I really want some time on my own.

‘Drinking alone in the afternoon? That’s usually a sign of one thing.’

‘That I’m a single woman out gagging for sex and should therefore be approached by men I don’t know and hassled until I give it up?’ I say, accusing him, when actually it’s kind of true. I am gagging for it.

He is around fifty, annoyingly handsome, well dressed in quality casual clothes and he blatantly wasn’t hitting on me. I realise that immediately.

‘I wasn’t going to say that, actually. I was going to say that drinking alone in the afternoon usually means you have something you should be talking about. But sure, I’m a man, so presume the worst.’ He picks up his drink and walks away to a table in the corner. I feel like an idiot.

‘Hey,’ I say, calling him back. He stays where he is, so I go over. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.’ He looks up at me.