‘Yes,’ he says, calmly. ‘Were you hoping I hadn’t?’

‘I’m hoping you can tell me why the hell you thought it was OK to film us having sex and then post it to my computer.’

‘What?’ he exclaims, making a good attempt to sound surprised.

I fall heavily onto the dining chair, knowing that that mortifying video is lurking on the underside of my laptop, waiting to be played again.

How could he possibly think this is OK? Even without everything else that’s going on, he knows more than anyone that I’m an immensely private person who would find this excruciating.

I suddenly feel so desperately alone and vulnerable, magnified by the knowledge that the one person who could make me feel secure again has just invaded my privacy in the most unimaginable way.

‘The video you left running on my laptop,’ I say, impatiently.

‘What are you even talking about?’ he asks, sounding exasperated. ‘I don’t know anything about a video.’

‘You must do!’ I shriek, struggling to hold it together. ‘How else would it have ended up on my laptop? How else would it have been filmed?’

‘You’re not making any sense,’ he says.

‘There is a video on my laptop – of you and me – having sex,’ I say in clipped syllables.

‘Of you and me?’ he repeats.

‘Yes!’ I snap.

There’s a long silence. ‘And it’s definitely us?’

His doubt is so convincing that I feel forced to open my laptop and have another look.

The video has freeze-framed with my face contorting in ecstasy whilst Leon’s head is buried between my breasts, both of us naked. I can’t bear to press play.

‘Oh God, it’s so awful,’ I cry, dropping my head into my hands.

‘Is it us?’ asks Leon, still keeping up the pretence that he knows nothing about it.

‘Yes,’ I choke.

‘Well, where? When?’

‘How often are you in the habit of videoing us making love without my consent?’

‘Never,’ he says. ‘I would never do that to you.’

I press play, shutting my ears off to the animalistic noises we’re both making.

‘Oh my god, we’re in my office,’ I say, turning the sound to mute. ‘It was the other night, when you—’

‘Jesus,’ he exclaims. ‘Has someone spied on us?’

‘I-I don’t know.’

‘Has it been sent to you?’ he asks, his voice thick with trepidation.

Hot bile shoots up into my chest as the possibility, and what it means, worms its way into my psyche.

‘As in blackmail?’ I say out loud.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I can’t see any other reason for doing it otherwise.’

‘But how would somebody have got this in the first place?’ I ask. ‘And why would they try to use it against me?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says wearily. ‘Perhaps it’s the same person you meant to send the text to.’

‘Text? What text?’