‘One of our photo albums.’

We have been married for just over twenty years and, in that time, I have seen my husband’s face register dozens of emotions – fear, regret, anger, happiness, sadness and pride – but there haven’t been many occasions when I’ve seen him look the way he looks now, with the colour bleached from his cheeks.

He doesn’t ask me where I found it or who I think put it there. Instead he puts down his briefcase on the chair by the door and folds his jacket neatly over the arm. He traces a finger over the edge of the album but he doesn’t pick it up.

‘You’ve seen what’s inside, haven’t you?’ His question is little more than a whisper.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you rung the police?’

‘Not yet.’

‘“Yet” being the operative word.’ He laughs drily.

A bead of sweat dribbles down my lower back. ‘Tell me what it means, Mark.’

He laughs again. It’s a low rolling sound in the back of his throat. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Why are you laughing?’

His laughter halts and he presses his lips together but the edges turn upwards, his cheeks bulging as he smiles.

‘Mark, talk to me. Tell me what you know about the photo album. Tell me what it means or I’ll ring the police.’

His smile vanishes instantly. ‘Go on then.’ He nods towards the phone in my hand. ‘Ring them.’

Why is he being so weird? I prepared myself for all kinds of reactions – denial, blame, shock, regret – but not this one. Not a smile and a strange, glassy stare.

‘No, Mark, you ring them!’

He ducks as I hurl the phone across the kitchen. It smashes against the wall and then drops to the floor. The battery door scuttles back across the tiles towards me as the phone spins round and round before it finally lies still under the kitchen table.

‘Jesus Christ, Claire!’ Mark stares at me in shock and I’m pleased. Finally, he’s acting normally.

‘Tell me what you know about that!’ My hand shakes as I point towards the photo album. ‘Now. Or our marriage is over.’

‘What’s the point? You’ve already decided that I’m the villain of the—’

‘Stop with the “villain” shit, Mark! What is it with you and that word? You throw it at me every time we have an argument and I’m sick of it.’ I drop to my knees and reach under the table for the phone. ‘If you won’t speak to me maybe you’ll speak to the police.’

‘No.’ There’s a screech of wood on tile as he shoves a chair away from the table and reaches beneath it for my hand. His thick fingers are around mine before they can make contact with the phone. ‘Don’t.’

‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Okay.’ His grip softens. ‘Okay.’

Tuesday 4th November 2014