“And why should I believe anything you say? You lied to me, you and Charlie. You said that there was nothing going on behind my back, that I was being paranoid.”

“I am sorry. I felt guilty—we both did.”

“How long did it go on?”

“It was a few times.”

“When?”

“Why do this? What will it achieve?” she says. “This, in all likelihood, is why Nina kept quiet. I can’t undo anything I’ve done.”

“I want to know.”

“At the villa,” she says. “Whenever we could.”

I feel sick. The picture album I made her for Christmas. The photos were meant to taunt her, to remind her of our argument, but I didn’t realize how horribly accurate I’d been.

“But still, why move back?” I say. “Why now?”

“There were lots of reasons. One being that my relationship had broken down. My ex and I were angry with each other. I needed a change of scene.” She sighs. “Please listen to me, Marie. Nina was a good friend to you. I beg you to leave all this alone. Louise knows that she is the result of a holiday fling. I wish I’d done things differently.”

I give her a dose of some Judy-and-Christian-type silence.

She caves, fills in the gap. “It’s only now, as Louise gets older, that I realize the impact my silence may have on her,” she says. “Naive, I know. Selfish, yes. Young and stupid? Very. Believe me, you can’t say anything that will make me feel any worse.”

I bet I can.

The remainder of the day I’m on autopilot: replying to clients, looking after Goldie, which takes up an extraordinary amount of time, tending to the never-ending household chores.

I went to a New Year’s Eve house party at an old college friend’s place this year because Stuart took the children round to Deborah’s for a meal. It was unexpectedly good fun to be out, and it reminded me how much I’ve sacrificed for Nina’s family by throwing myself so fully into the daily grind. My life isn’t exactly how I pictured it. Yet, knowing what I know now, it helps. Anger is a powerful driving force. No more tiptoeing around guilt and loyalty; I need to move my relationship with Stuart on. As well as being a mother to Felix and Emily, I still crave a baby of my own.

I pour a large glass of champagne and drink half a glass. When Stuart comes downstairs, I hand him one.

“Happy late birthday,” I say. “I thought it would be nice to have a celebratory meal, so we can catch up properly with no distractions.”

“Thank you, Marie. The table looks lovely,” he says.

“But?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I choose a different candle? That one was an anniversary gift.”

All the signs are stacking up that tonight is too staged—it’s just not going to work. If it means so much to him, if he can actually remember little things like this, why was it left in a drawer with all the others? Honestly, what does he expect? I nearly tell him about her wellies, how actually it makes no difference if you use stuff, but instead I summon up all my self-control and outwardly exude an air of patience.