Where had they done it? In her flat, no doubt, but had they sneaked into my bedroom when I was away? She said it had begun five years ago. I was still working full time, then, and out of the house all day. Greg was at the LSE, supposedly, or researching at the British Library, supposedly, but his hours were flexible and he had plenty of time to sneak off. Then he’d retired and had all the time in the world. And after that, when he dumped me to ‘find himself’ … the bastard. The bastard … That sorrowing look. We haven’t been happy for years, isn’t it time to part as friends? … I need solitude, to start my spiritual journey. His gaunt, bony face, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. There had always been something of the ascetic about Greg. Not the face of an adulterer.

Of course I was furious. And horribly, horribly hurt. I kept searching through the past for clues. Greg going to a conference in Scarborough and not responding to my calls; Azra, coincidentally, going on a Fiction Writing course in Devon. Funny, when she never read any fiction—in fact, never read any books at all. Greg’s narrow-boat holiday—of course she was with him. Those endless phone calls. Then there was her sudden and surprising enthusiasm for beauty treatments—not her thing at all. She even took me to a spa where we were massaged, bikini-waxed and rubbed with hot pebbles. We had a laugh and drank Sauvignon, very Birds of a Feather. It was soon after Greg left and I thought Azra was simply giving me a girly treat—paying for it, too. In fact, of course, she was buffing herself up to pleasure my husband.

Countless other incidents came to mind. Greg on the phone in another room, Oh it’s just that needy student; Greg taking up running, Ah, the endorphin rush, nothing like it! Greg at the cottage, leaning over Azra and inspecting the boring parsnip soup she was stirring; she was a hopeless cook: That looks interesting, how do you make it? Greg sitting on the beach, watching Azra in her lime-green swimsuit striding into the sea, buffeted back by the waves, laughing, then plunging into the water. Greg watching her, shading his eyes with his hand.

Greg’s therapist, lifting his depression and enabling him to get in touch with his feelings. Ha! Ten guesses who was responsible for this magical transformation?

How could I have been so stupid?

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

Silence.

‘Don’t you realise how I feel?’

‘I’m sorry, Pru.’

‘She’s my best friend. Well, not now, of course.’

‘No.’

‘And she’s going to move in? To our cottage? Without even asking me?’

‘We were going to. That’s why I came up to London.’

‘Do the children know?’

‘They’re not really children.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m going to ring them tonight, now it’s all out.’

‘Why couldn’t you have been honest? With me? With them? You’re totally pathetic, a totally pathetic, lying, pathetic, fucking total creep. I can’t believe you could be so, so …’