There were dark hours where I was eaten up with angst, sifting through memories, catching the lies, like the time she told me she was at the theatre and that same night Karl told me he was playing soccer and I had thought it odd that he’d left his kit behind. A drumming panic would take hold. But what could I actually do about it? What choices did I have? She and I were too far immersed in each other’s lives, not just school and the community but our families. By cutting her off I would be creating a trauma for everyone – we’d have to move house, upheave our family, all because I couldn’t hack something that I had brought about. Besides, there was no possibility of not seeing her so I had to find a way of dealing with it: I even flirted with the idea of polyamory. Could the three of us share love? To be honest, Dr. R, I was slightly hurt that neither of them had presented that as an opportunity before starting their own club without me. I’d have thought it might have flitted through the mind of Karl and his cock. Was I just jealous of the fact she had chosen Karl over me?

I tried to find positives in the situation – to enjoy the fact that my husband was attractive enough for the beautiful Ness to have desired him. I was looking for ways to exist without the pain, you see, trying to trick my feelings. But I was much more conventional than I had hoped I’d be. I had two choices: either I grinned and bore it or I made life very difficult for everyone. Karl and my reckless stupid adult decisions must not affect the kids. I had to accept it. The warfare continued but after a couple of weeks I let Karl back into the bedroom.

I changed quite rapidly. My joy had upped and gone and I couldn’t find it. I was cynical and suspicious with everyone – including myself. How could I have been so wrong about these people closest to me? If they were not who I thought they were then therefore neither was I.

In private, I spent hours looking out of the window, finding relief in alcohol or sleep, the children’s needs and demands drifting over me. I had absolutely no interest in writing my book any more. I’d lost all perspective; it seemed ridiculous to be fabricating stories when my own world was replete with such hideous dramatics – I’d found myself living in a bona fide cliché: husband and best friend. Zero out of ten for originality. Home now felt hazardous, a minefield to be negotiated. I could see her house from the back window; every time I went upstairs my eyes glanced over at the goings-on there.