But, gradually, the tiny bird unfurling its wings in my belly started to carve out a place for itself. At first, discreetly, then more and more insistently. I caught myself in the middle of a meeting, imagining the child I might have. I didn’t say anything to Matthew, and I didn’t see him for a whole month. I wanted to make the decision on my own, and I also wanted to avoid him discovering the truth. Five weeks later, my mind was made up. The feeling was visceral. I was going to keep the baby. It would be a girl and I’d call her Louise. Matthew would be besotted with us. I’d move to London. We’d be happy.

I prepared a charade in two languages to inform Matthew of the good news. He’d be shocked, of course, but I was certain he’d be over the moon, after the initial surprise. I took the Eurostar and went straight to the gallery, in the middle of the day, a Thursday. It was the first time I’d gone to meet Matthew without warning. He so loved giving me surprises, but this time he’d be on the receiving end for once!

A woman in her forties opened the door at the gallery. Elegant, sophisticated, in a Chanel suit. Frosty. A businesslike smile, looking me up and down scornfully as her eye roved over my H&M clothes and my Bata shoes. I asked to see Matthew, but he wasn’t there. Who wanted to know? Thelma – a friend.

‘I see . . .’ the woman replied.

What did she see, exactly?

‘Matthew has many women friends, you know, he’s a very busy man . . .’

I didn’t like this woman’s insinuations about Matthew at all, and, anyway, who was she? As far as I knew, he’d always run the gallery on his own, like the big man he thought he was. She held out her hand and introduced herself, in an English that was both impeccably polite and condescending.

‘Delighted to meet you, Thelma. I’m Deborah. I help my husband out by looking after the gallery when he’s away. Matthew travels a lot. He’s very fond of Paris and Parisian women. I’m not jealous, I assure you. The agreement we made many years ago allows me to live my life as I please, too. But, I must say, Matthew usually has better taste in women. You really are nothing special. Good day, mademoiselle.’

I never saw Matthew again. I never contacted him again.

He never knew I was pregnant. He’d never seen Louis.

He tried to call several times over the weeks following my encounter with his wife. I didn’t respond. He kept trying. One day, I sent him a text: Deborah is very beautiful. You’re a stupid bastard. Don’t ever try to contact me again.

I was three months pregnant.