I was able to follow one of the affairs, with a man who signed himself J, as if it was a piece of music. It began, as several did, with memories of “last night” and anticipation of the next time. It wasn’t like reading love letters, more like a series of diary entries, times and places. Then it gradually petered out, although there was a sudden flurry at the end, as the affair finished. The last message consisted of the single ominous sentence: “Well, I can just phone her up, then.” Milena clearly didn’t like being left.

This overlapped a more drawn-out affair with Harvey, who was visiting from the States. He went home and Richard arrived on the scene. During her time with Richard, Milena had a couple of flings: one was with a man much younger than herself, whom she referred to as her “toy boy” and sent packing when he became too insistent. After Richard there had been Johnny. And after Johnny, in the crucial month before Greg and Milena had died together, there was only one other significant player: he never used a name, simply put a couple of crosses at the end of a message. I wrote his address in my notebook.

I stared at the screen until my eyes hurt. Was the anonymous lover Greg? He signed off with kisses and his Hotmail address was “gonefishing”—there were dozens of messages from him, spaced out over three months. They were love letters: they commented on her hair, her eyes, her hands, the way she looked when she smiled at him, the way he felt when he saw her before she lifted her head and saw him too. For a moment I had to stop reading. There was a lump in my throat and my vision blurred. If this was Greg, he had never written to me in that way. And if this was Greg, he was writing to a Milena no one else had known: someone more tender and lovable than the bright, glittering, heartless woman everyone else seemed to remember. And that made horrible sense to me: I couldn’t imagine Greg having a coldhearted affair, but I could imagine him falling in love with a woman, and by his love transforming her into someone different, better. I used to think he had done that to me—discovered a version of myself that only existed when I was with him and that had disappeared when he had died.