I lay as still as I could, letting my eyes scrutinize the room. We were in their spare room; I don’t think either of us had had the stomach or the sheer gall to sleep together in their marital bed. The bed was large and comfortable, with deep pillows and a huge feathery quilt that he’d pulled up over us just before we slept. It wasn’t that that made me feel uncomfortable, obviously. His clothes were on the floor, where I’d thrown them the night before. I winced and looked away. There were pictures on the wall—I wished they were generic, so that I could feel superior—God knows I needed to claw back some self-respect—but they weren’t. They were clearly chosen by someone who was interested in art, who loved the pictures and had spent ages deciding on frames and positioning and the way the light would shine on them. The huge bookcase held so many books that were in my house, too, and I knew, I just knew that they were Ruby’s.

I closed my eyes. What an absolute bitch I was. In that moment I hoped that Harry was in bed with Ruby. I hoped he was having a good time and wasn’t giving me a second thought. I felt grubby and tawdry and just like the most antifeminist person I could imagine. I was in another woman’s house and in her bed with her husband. I hadn’t thought I could sink so low.

I needed to get out, to go back home. I cringed as I realized I’d be leaving Ruby’s house where I’d betrayed her so absolutely, to go back to Harry’s where I’d done the same thing to him. I felt ashamed of myself.

The last thing I wanted to do was to talk to Tom, so inch by inch I slid silently out of the bed. I was naked and couldn’t see any of my clothes in that room. I made sure I didn’t open the door any farther—I didn’t want the light to waken Tom—and found my underwear on the landing floor. Quickly I scrambled into it.

Down in the living room the lamps were still lit and two wineglasses stood on the coffee table, one half-full, the other empty. I looked away, disgusted. My dress lay crumpled on the sofa, just where Tom had removed it, and I put it on, trying to ignore the scratches on my back and the soft, tender bruises that were starting to bloom on my wrists and thighs. My shoes were just where I’d left them; I’d kicked them off before I curled up on his sofa.

I swallowed. Their sofa.