Eventually we talked about Francesca, of course we did.

‘Have you had any contact with her?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘You would say no. How can I trust you?’ It was my stock reply.

‘I don’t know.’ George looked sad. ‘I can’t tell you how, I can only hope that one day you can.’

‘Did you think about me when you were with her?’

‘Every time. I felt horrible.’

‘Did you think about her with you were with me?’

‘Leah…’

‘Well, did you?’ I wanted to know everything; when it started, how often he saw her, how it felt. I cried every single time, and at first so did he.

I had spoken to Francesca on the phone. Just once. She couldn’t have been more sorry. At first I thought she was worried I’d report her for professional misconduct but as her apologies tumbled down the receiver I realized she was genuine. In her own way she cares about me, as does George. He was just at a loss to know how to help me. I get that. I had no idea how to help myself.

But now I do.

Once I had thought women who take men back after affairs were weak but, although I think sleeping with somebody else is inexcusable, it has taken strength for me to admit my share of responsibility for our problems.

Just like being happy, I could choose whether to forgive or not. I had already lost so much. Mum, Dad, Marie and Carly.

‘You’re stronger than I have given you credit for,’ George told me after I’d explained what had happened in the decontamination chamber with Carly. How my injuries were self-inflected.

‘We have to fight for the ones we love,’ I told him, and that’s what we’re doing. Fighting for love. For each other. The thing I have learned is this: nothing is irreparable. My sense of safety, my trust, my hope. It may feel spiderweb-fragile, easily swept away, but it can be rebuilt if I want it enough.

And I do.

We became gentler as we picked at the cracks in our marriage, peering in to see if there was any way we could possibly fill them, and we are. With hope and understanding, and love. We’re filling them with love. Little by little we’re healing from the inside out.

There’s been a change, a shift. Our conversations are not only deep and heavy but more and more peppered with lightness. Laughter. The do you remember when tales that everyone with a joint history has. The ones that are nice to share. We sip our wine. Hands wrapped around glasses, itching to touch each other. I wanted to take it slow.

We sit on the sofa together now, me with my legs tucked under me, leaning against one arm, him with his elbow resting on the other, still a distance between us, but perhaps not quite so far. I want to bridge the gap entirely.

‘George.’ His eyes meet mine, there’s an unspoken question in them, and then an understanding. Relief. He comes closer, leans in.