With Amber out of the house and the twins finally asleep I pour myself a glass of wine to settle into the sofa when the photo jumps into my head. I’ve tried to block it out, forget about it but it just keeps rearing its threatening image. Maybe I should have a look around the house, check through Tom’s things while he’s not here, see if there’s any sign of another life.

Investigating my husband feels weird. He’s the man I’ve loved and cherished since the day we met seventeen years ago. The man I spent five euros – or was it pounds? – to dance with at a charity fundraising night. We still joke about it, how I got a bargain, how I was robbed. Could this man have kept this secret from me? My heart weighs heavy so I take a sip of wine.

I’ve never spied on him before. I don’t agree with it but some people do it all the time. Check their husband’s phone, computer, receipts from his pockets after a night out. Sienna is a wagon for it, maintaining you can’t trust any man. But I’ve never felt the need to spy on him. Tom has always been up front with me and I with him. Except of course for that one time when it took him forever to admit the mess he had landed us in. But searching through his things, that’s just silly, Tom couldn’t have a secret life. Could he?

If I did have a look it would put my mind at rest, help me forget about the photo. Deciding it wouldn’t do any harm I leave my glass down on the table and reluctantly go upstairs to the bedroom. First stop, his bedside locker. The house is silent when I open the top drawer, the sound of my rummaging breaking the peace. An old driver’s licence, money, business cards. Then the second drawer. Books, books, books. The third drawer. An old instant camera that was never opened. Batteries. Photos. PHOTOS.

Lifting a pile of photos from the drawer I place them on top of the bed and spread them out. The first photo to grab my attention is one of Amber. She’s about three years old, sitting on Tom’s knee, licking an ice cream that’s almost as big as her little face. Tom looks carefree and happy. No secret behind those eyes.

The next photo I see is of our wedding day. Jesus, we look so young. Tom looks like he’s at a debs’ not a wedding and I’m not much better with my homespun make-up and borrowed veil. No indication that Amber was already with us below the ruffle of my dress. Which reminds me: eight thirty, still half an hour before Amber returns home. I better get a move on.