I pulled my sweater over my head. “You should have told me,” I said.

“Why would it have made any difference? It was before we met,” he repeated, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then following me downstairs and out on to the street. We stood in silence until the taxi arrived and he handed me in. Being angry, even unfairly angry, made it easier to leave.

The next morning, as soon as I arrived, I opened Milena’s computer and clicked on the email. When the window appeared asking for a password, I typed “juliedelpy.” I was in.

Chapter Nineteen

Was it a dream? A mistake? Shall we do it again? J xx.”

I pressed the semicircular arrow beside Johnny’s message to see what Milena had written in reply: “Tonight, 11:30 p.m. your place. Light the fire.”

The following day: “You left your stockings. Next time, can’t you stay?”

And Milena replied: “Maybe you’ve forgotten that I’m a married woman.”

Two days later: “I can’t leave the restaurant at 10, I’m afraid. Later any good? Thinking of you every minute of the day, J xxxx.”

And the reply, a terse “No,” to which Johnny responded, “OK, OK, I choose you over the crême brûlée. 10 then.”

Three emails she didn’t answer. The first was anxious: “Why didn’t you come? Has he found out? Please tell me.” The second beseeching: “Milena, at least tell me what’s going on. I’m frantic.” The third angry: “Fuck you, then.”

There were dozens and I read them all. Their affair had lasted weeks. They usually met late at night, but sometimes they grabbed an hour or two in the day. They used Johnny’s flat, Milena’s house, when Hugo wasn’t there, a hotel a few times, and once, according to Johnny’s rhapsodic account, which I read with wincing shame, the back of Milena’s BMW. I noticed that whereas Johnny’s emails were often emotional—besotted, elated, grateful, angry or hurt—Milena’s were almost always the same: short, practical, and often in the form of orders or careless ultimatums. She rarely mentioned her husband, and when she did it was as an irritating obstacle; she gave Johnny dates, times, places, that was it. I felt sorry and embarrassed for him: Milena was very sure of her power over him, and in his messages to her, he was not the sardonic and assured man I knew but someone insecure, needy, painfully submissive. By the end his messages deteriorated into abusive accusations about other lovers, deceit and calculating coldheartedness. To these, Milena did not bother to respond.