This sounds more like the Gavin I’m familiar with: wooden. Giving me orders. Desire stirs inside me. I shift in my chair.

Should I tell him? If I don’t, he’ll never understand, not really. Can I bring myself to write what happened in an email? The prospect makes my skin prickle.

I click on “reply.” Downstairs, a door bangs shut, making me jump.

“Kids!” I call out. “Don’t slam the door!”

“Not kids. Me. Sorry.”

Adam. Shit.

Terror floods my body, freezing me in place. It’s a few seconds before I can move again. I grab the mouse. “I’ll be down in a sec,” I shout. Please don’t come upstairs.

What will Adam do? I listen for clues, with the cursor hovering over “Sign Out” in the top right-hand corner of the screen. Please go into the kitchen, Adam. I need a few more seconds . . .

I hear the creak of a door—the living room, I’m guessing—followed by Adam trying unsuccessfully to talk to the children. He gives up after a minute or so. I hold my breath, listening for footsteps on the stairs.

Nothing. He must have gone into the kitchen, or to the bathroom.

You don’t know that. Sign out. Don’t risk it.

I type:

Need to go now. Might explain later. No promises, though. Bye. N x

I press “send,” then sign out. Then I go to “History,” click on “Show All History” and delete all the Hushmail entries. I’m so grateful that I can do this. It’s the online equivalent of saying a few Hail Marys and being absolved of all your sins. Thank you, technology.

What next? I can’t think straight. Oh yes, I know: Yahoo Mail, my respectable email account.

Adam pushes open the spare-room door as I’m opening a message from my mum. “Hi, hon,” he says. “OK day?”

“Brilliant, thanks,” I tell him. “You?”

“Why brilliant?”

“Well, actually . . . not that brilliant.” Come on, brain, start working, for fuck’s sake. I have nothing to be excited about, not officially. I must keep this in mind—for the rest of my life, ideally.

It’s a good sign that, after only three weeks and four days of being good, I am already much worse at lying.

I’m not going to start lying to Adam again. I can’t.

“I had to go to school and back four times,” I say. The email from my mother about when we’re next all going to get together is still up on the screen. Not at all secret from my husband, but still . . . I ought to feel more guilty about this ongoing correspondence than I do about the one with Gavin.

If I’m making a list of people to cut off contact with, my parents have surely earned their place at the top.

You’re not cutting anyone off, though, are you? You never will.