I filled the sink and began scrubbing at pots and pans, the water so hot it almost scalded my hands and arms. My emotions were a mess of hurt and confusion and despair that things could ever be put right again. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the image of Izzy out of my mind – the image of her as she walked up into the clearing in the woods, summoned by a message from my husband’s phone. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became that Izzy was the one – it had been her all along. She was the only single one among us. Her home town connection with Sean had finally turned into something more intimate, more dangerous. More destructive.

Our conversation on her first day here came back with a sick, deadening realisation that she had virtually admitted it to me.

‘He’s married, isn’t he?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘Does his wife know?’

‘I think she might have her . . . suspicions.’

How could I have been so blind?

I had vowed to find answers, to find the source of Sean’s betrayal. And now I knew. I knew more than I had ever wanted to know.

Only one question remained.

What am I going to do about it?

But I already knew the answer to that one.

Sean appeared beside me at the sink, tea towel in hand. I could smell beer on his breath, on him, surrounding him like an invisible cloud. Something else too, something stronger. Tequila. I felt myself stiffen.

‘Need a hand?’ he said.

I didn’t look at him.

‘If you want.’

He picked up one of the frying pans dripping on the rack and began to dry it. His movements were slow, exaggerated, like he was concentrating hard on not dropping anything.

‘Daniel’s tucked up in bed reading his book,’ he said. ‘Going to turn out his light in ten minutes.’

‘Good.’

There was a lengthy silence while I scrubbed violently at fragments of pasta stuck to the bottom of a pan. I wanted to throw my anger at him, wind it up and hurl it at him with all the strength I could muster.

Why her? What does she have that I don’t? What the hell are you thinking?

How could you do this to me? To the kids?

With one of my best friends?

He put the frying pan away and carefully picked up another from the rack.

‘Are you OK, Kate?’

‘Do you care?’

A pause.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Of course I care.’

‘I’m fine.’

He looked away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

I stopped scrubbing.

‘For what?’

‘That we argued.’

I stared into the soapy water in the sink.

Tell him. Tell him you know. Confront him now.

‘What else are you sorry for?’

‘Well now, let me see.’ The joviality was forced. ‘How long have you got?’