There’s no way on this planet Michael would attack anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl, for heaven’s sake, Romy told herself sternly. I would have known. He wouldn’t have been able to hide such a terrible thing from me. She tried to pinpoint the date in the letter, to recall what was happening at that time, but her mind was spinning.

As the minutes passed, Romy’s heart still pounding in disbelief, she felt a flare of anger. How dare she write such vile things about Michael? And, what’s more, imply that she, Romy, knew what he’d done. Imply she was somehow complicit … ‘assuming you don’t already [know].’ How bloody dare she? Michael was not perfect, not by a long chalk, but he was certainly no sexual predator.

Who is this woman? Romy wondered. She had been around the justice system long enough as Michael’s wife to know that there were people out there with a skewed version of reality, which they nonetheless clung to wholeheartedly … although the contents of the letter seemed perfectly rational. And so detailed.

The train drew into Hammersmith station, the doors opening, life going on for all the other people in the carriage. This was her stop, but Romy was paralysed. She sat with her bag clutched to her body, the letter singeing a hole in the tan leather, like a hot coal, as the train trundled on to Ravenscourt Park, where she managed to lurch from her seat and step out onto the platform.

‘Gemma, it’s me.’ She called her friend, who organized the school trips around the Wetlands Centre. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m on the Tube, but I’m not feeling well. I think I’d better go home.’

Gemma was sympathetic – although Romy barely registered what she said. She quickly crossed to the eastbound platform. As she waited for the train, she wanted desperately to call Michael, then and there, to have him instantly confirm the absurdity of the whole thing. But it felt too exposing to read the letter over the phone in a public place.

The journey home seemed to take an age, each rattle of the train and brush of a passenger almost painful in her state of suspense. Because she knew she wouldn’t get any clarity until she could speak to her husband face to face.

Michael was late home that night. He looked exhausted, dropping his briefcase in the hall with a thud and slinging his dark overcoat – glistening wet from the day-long drizzle – onto the hall chair. Romy stood and watched him from the entrance to the kitchen. She wanted to look hard into his face and find proof of innocence there. Reassure herself that he was the man she thought him to be, the man she had trusted for nearly three decades, before the waters were potentially muddied with denials and justifications, accusations and rage.