Nora thought I should leave Nick. Or rather, make him leave me. Tell him to move out, give me the house. Be even more alone out here. Madness. I’d just stared at her, then mumbled my excuses. What I had to do was find out who knew about us, who could have left that message in the snow. If it was your wife, what was to stop her going to the police? Did she know somehow I’d been in the car with you – was that why the police were asking questions now? My life could come crashing about my ears at any moment. I couldn’t rock the boat by overturning my marriage, that was a terrible idea. No, I had to find her. Your wife.

How did I find a woman I knew nothing about? Only the barest of details. You had told me, reluctantly, and only I think because you couldn’t avoid it without a scene, that she was older than you.

‘How progressive,’ I’d said, made snide by jealousy.

‘Mmm.’ You didn’t want to talk about her.

We were in the Travelodge. My blouse was half off my shoulder, revealing the lacy black bra I wore for you. After that I became obsessed with her, as you do with your lover’s wife. Was there anyone more hated, even though I was the one stealing from her? Even though she likely had no idea I existed? I remembered asking: ‘What colour hair does she have? Your wife?’

You didn’t want to answer that. After a while: ‘Dark. Black.’

Increasingly, throughout the few months that we saw each other, I thought it might be OK if she knew about us. Then we could leave all this, stop pretending. I wouldn’t be telling you this, obviously, if things weren’t the way they were, but there you go. I used to think shameful things. Accidentally on purpose texting when I knew you were at home. Emailing her, even. But how would I get in touch with her? All I knew was her surname, assuming she’d taken yours, and that she had black hair. You wouldn’t tell me her first name.