Even my hands seemed to belong to a stranger. They were the hands of the old me, of a few hours ago, an innocent. She was there, on my hands, on the fourth finger of my right hand, to be precise – my beautiful petal ring. She had given me that. I spun it around on my finger and removed it, put it on the bedside table and stared at it. I loved that ring. She was there too on the bedside table: three of those books were hers; I slowly reached out my hand and struck them hard and they fell to the floor. She was there on the floor too where the bookmark fell out, a David Hockney postcard she had given me. I picked it up. Darling C, it said on the back, I am eternally grateful for your love and friendship. Love, as ever, Ness. I looked away. She was there on the dressing table: my make-up bag a birthday present. And there she was hanging on the door: my kimono – a gift from Karl. She was the only person, including me, to have worn it. My eyes stung again, I was still reeling from the punch. Even the ceiling wasn’t safe from her – the lampshade was made by her sister-in-law; I’d bought it at a private view that we’d been to. Ness had permeated everywhere, everything, even my husband.

Here’s the thing I can see clearly now when I look back at my idiot self sitting in that bed: of all the conflicting emotions rampaging around me, the root of it was simple. I felt left out. The two people dearest to me had excluded me from their club. I was surplus to requirements. I simply wasn’t wanted. Or needed. I had valued my own worth as being far greater than they had. What a fool! On how many occasions had they wished I hadn’t been around so they could relish each other’s company, sharing grimaces behind my back? The sheer ridiculousness of my presence embarrasses me even now.

I sat there on my bed waiting for hours, head hurting, thoughts that cut like shards of glass while the kids slept peacefully in their rooms. Nothing was as it seemed any more. I kept tripping up at every remembered happiness; how could I not have seen what was right before my eyes? All those people I’d sneered at when they’d said to me, I’d never let my partner go to the cinema/theatre with another woman. How superior I’d felt at such small-mindedness, such possessiveness, such lack of trust. Turned out they were right, and how the disappointment stung.