I remember being charmed by Greg’s larkiness. It was so uncharacteristic. I’d thought it stemmed from his therapy, which he’d just begun. For I’d noticed a difference in him: he seemed freer and more relaxed. Happier.

Later, however, I made a calculation and realised why. He’d just started sleeping with Azra. Already she was in his bloodstream, influencing him; that jaunt had her fingerprints all over it.

And she was still in my own heart, even though I’d never see her again. Even though I hated her. Perverse, wasn’t it? But when did love have anything to do with any sort of sense? She was there in the people I glimpsed in the street. A swinging skirt reminded me of the way she strode so fearlessly, those long legs and silver trainers. Her plastic combs were embedded in other women’s hair. A pair of thick eyebrows or a generous mouth reminded me of her jolie-laide allure. Greg must have felt this when he’d first fallen in love. That her spirit was everywhere—in the silver birches across the road, in a cup of coffee—because he was always, always thinking about her.

And I was too; we had that in common. What’s she doing now? Does she ever think about me?

If I saw her again, what would I do?

September arrived, blustery and wild, the nights drawing in. It was the anniversary of Greg’s departure and I was utterly alone. I had no students for the next academic year; I seemed to have ignored the agency’s emails. The boiler broke down. Only Greg understood its incomprehensible electronic panel. I was gripped with inertia and couldn’t bring myself to find a plumber; some days I stayed in my dressing gown until it was time to go back to bed.

I still clung to one routine, however. Every Thursday I left the house, went to the corner shop and bought the local paper.

I know what you’re thinking. That this respectable Muswell Hill wife and mother—a retired schoolteacher, for God’s sake—had morphed into a mentally unbalanced, sex-starved predator, on the hunt for her next victim.

You’re right. That’s just what I was. I knew my compulsion was growing out of control but there was nobody around to stop me. The mere presence of somebody else in the house would have jolted me to my senses. I’d never lived alone and had no idea what it would do to my head.

And sometimes I emerged, blinking in the sunlight, and thought: I’m not doing any harm, am I? In fact, I might be doing a good deed. I might make someone happy! Besides, it might never happen. After all, it was the longest of long shots. What were the chances that I’d strike lucky again—that I would fancy someone and they would fancy me?

But it had happened once, and on the first try too. Despite the disastrous ending, Evan had given me confidence. Against all the odds, we’d felt a real frisson of attraction. He hadn’t considered me too old, either. That had boosted my fragile self-esteem.