The two moods of love caught in stark contrast.

The arguing man and woman both stand statue-still now, staring at each other while the world parts like a sea and moves around them. Seconds pass. Her eyes cast down. He steps towards her, takes her in his arms and they embrace. And the screen fades to black.

Two words in white font fade in: Love Actually.

I sit, staring at the screen, doing some quick mental arithmetic, adrenaline spinning through my veins. This video was only uploaded a month ago. But it was filmed while there were still green leaves on the trees in the background. We’re mid-October now and all the leaves have long since turned to burnt amber and red and are gathering in gutters.

Which means Sabine takes her time cutting together her films before uploading them. So just because mine hasn’t been uploaded yet doesn’t mean it won’t be.

She could be sitting in her apartment right now, sipping coffee just like I am, working on my video as she dreams up a white font name for the ending, something like: La maîtresse.

Fuck. I need to do something while I still have time.

I reach for my cup and take a sip of lukewarm coffee. My hand still smells of last night’s cigarettes and as I stare up at the rain splattering on the skylight, I think of the Instagram message I woke up to this morning: Hey, I’m so sorry about tonight. Catch up later? x

Noah sent it at 2.33 am, but I was already asleep by then.

I could reply now and ask him what Sabine said. Ask him what happened. Whether he got her to delete the video.

But I don’t want to.

And not just because he didn’t tell me he was married, not just because he got my private bits caught on video, but because he ran off and left me there on that rooftop, and didn’t bother texting for two whole hours.

Besides, it’s his wife, his marriage on the line. If he can get Sabine to destroy it, he will. A message from me won’t change a thing.

My head is thumping and my synapses are compromised. I get up and head through to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water. I’m thinking of Anne’s bedroom now, of her ensuite, of her medicine cabinet: maybe she has some sort of strong painkiller in there.

I move through her room, into the bathroom, and open the cabinet. Rows and rows of toiletries and orange bottles of pills stare back at me. I reach for a couple and read the labels. There’s a bottle of Ambien on the top shelf which has – I open the top and peer inside – three left. I take the bottle. There’s a yellow box of Doliprane on the bottom shelf. That’s the French version of paracetamol. I grab that too and head back to the kitchen, popping two of the Doliprane out of the packaging. I drop them onto my tongue and take a sip of water, and it’s as I swallow that relief finds me.