Last summer I reached what surely must be the nadir of my marriage. During the annual village party my husband and I hold at our home, I found myself helping his beautiful 40-something mistress who had drunk too much and was vomiting in my cloakroom loo.
As I held back her long silky hair, she told me how much she loved my husband, what a lucky woman I was to have him and how devastated she was that things had cooled between them of late.
She was totally unabashed, seemingly confident that I knew all about her — and indeed I did. But I certainly wasn’t going to indulge her with a conversation about how ‘lucky’ I was. Instead, when she had finished, I popped a glass of water with two paracetamol on the side of the sink and suggested she fix her make-up.
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