That just didn’t happen any more.

And so there was never a moment when I could covertly pick it up and start scrolling through my wife’s secrets. But why would I want to do that? I could see that Tara had secrets she did not wish to share. And I did not want to know. I turned my face away. I told myself that it was the imagination of a sexually jealous, stay-at-home dad with too much time on his hands and a knockout, high-flying wife who was constantly out in the world, the eyes of men on her everywhere. My attitude to Tara’s phone changed too. I stared at it clutched in her fist like it was an unexploded device.

And I didn’t want it near me.

But it wasn’t just her phone. There were other ways that I knew something precious had – somewhere, somehow – been damaged.

This cool, calm, supremely confident woman – scared of nothing, my wife – now visibly flinched at the sound of the doorbell or the land line ringing or footsteps coming up the driveway.

What was out there that was so terrifying to Tara?

What did she imagine was coming for her?

And for us?

Then we came home from Leo’s sixtieth birthday party and she realised that she had lost her phone when she fainted.

And that was even worse.

Leo’s party ended earlier than planned. When we were back at home, I was getting ready for bed while listening to Tara’s frantic voice on the landline in the living room, calling the pub again and again and again, asking if anyone had found her phone yet, calling until they had all gone home or decided to put on the answer machine. She came into the bedroom with her beautiful face drawn tight with anxiety.

‘Fancy a bottle of Prosecco?’ I asked, thinking that there was still a way to save the night.

She smiled and nodded, glancing away.

Eye contact, I thought, like Marlon’s headmistress saying hello and goodbye to the children every day. Eye contact!

But when I came back with the open bottle and two glasses, Tara was sitting on the edge of the bed, one palm resting against her head, still woozy and unwell from passing out.

So of course I told her that it didn’t matter, that there would be another bottle when she felt better.

‘I could use a cuddle,’ she said.

But she held me too tight, making the moment bigger than it should have been, and I felt this new feeling again, the sinking dread that there were parts of Tara’s life that I knew nothing about.

And when I woke up the next morning she was already calling the pub where Leo had had his party, asking a cleaner who clearly did not speak much English about the missing phone. I brushed my teeth and went to the kitchen and poured the undrunk bottle of Prosecco down the sink.

And as those flat bubbles went down the drain, I thought – Oh Tara, what have you done?