Of course I knew. Every time I went into town with Garv we had to call into the electrical department in Brown Thomas and stand before said telly, admiring it in all its twelve thousand pounds’ worth of glory. Though Garv was well paid, he didn’t earn anything like Liam’s telephone-number wedge. And what with our high mortgage, the cost of running two cars, Garv’s addiction to CDs and my addiction to face creams and handbags, funds just didn’t run to flatscreen tellies.

‘Cheer up, it probably broke when it fell off the wall. And one day soon you’ll be able to afford one of your own.’

‘Do you think?’

‘Sure I do. As soon as we finish furnishing the house.’ This seemed to do the trick. With a slight spring in his step, he helped unload the shopping. And that was when it happened.

He lifted out my box of go-on-you-divil truffles and exclaimed, ‘Hey, look!’ His eyes were a-sparkle. ‘Those sweets again. Are they following us?’

I looked at him, looked at the box, then back at him. I hadn’t a clue what he was on about.

‘You know,’ he insisted skittishly. ‘The same ones we had when –’

He stopped abruptly and, my brow furrowed with curiosity, I stared at him. He stared back at me and, quite suddenly, several things occurred at once. The playful light in his eyes went out, to be replaced with an expression of fear. Horror, even. And before the thoughts had even formed themselves into any order in my consciousness, I knew. He was talking about someone else, an intimate moment shared with a woman other than me. And it had been recently.

I felt as if I was falling, that I would go on falling for ever. Then, abruptly, I made myself stop. And I knew something else: I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t bear to watch the downward spiral of my marriage begin to catch other people and spin them into the vortex too.

Shocked into stillness, our eyes locked, I silently beseeched him, desperate for him to say something to explain it, to make it all go away. But his face was frozen in horror – the same horror that I felt.

‘I –’ he managed, then faltered.

A sudden stab of agony shot up into my back tooth and, as though I was dreaming, I left the room.

Garv didn’t follow me; he remained in the kitchen. I could hear no sound and I presumed he was still standing where I’d left him. This, in itself, seemed like an admission of guilt. Still in my waking nightmare, I was picking up the remote and switching on the telly. I was waiting to wake up.

2

We didn’t exchange a word for the rest of the evening. Perhaps I should have been shrieking for details – who was she? How long? But at the best of times that wasn’t my way and after all we’d gone through over the past while, I’d no fight left in me.

If only I was more like my sisters, who were great at expressing pain – experts at slamming doors, crashing phones back into cradles, throwing things at walls, screeching. The whole world got to hear of their anger/disappointment/double-crossing man/chocolate mousse missing from the fridge. But I’d been born without the diva gene, so when devastation hit me I usually kept it inside, turning it over and over, trying to make sense of it. My misery was like an ingrowing hair, curling further and further into me. But what goes in must come out and my pain invariably re-emerged in the form of scaly, flaking, weeping eczema on my right arm – it was a cast-iron barometer of my emotional state and that night it tingled and itched so much that I scratched until it bled.

I went to bed before Garv and, to my surprise, actually managed to fall asleep – the shock, perhaps? Then I awoke at some indeterminate time and lay staring into the blanket of darkness. It was probably four a.m. Four in the morning is the bleakest time, when we’re at our lowest ebb. It’s when sick people die. It’s when people being tortured crack. My mouth tasted gritty and my jaw ached: I’d been grinding my teeth again. No wonder my back tooth was clamouring for attention – making a last desperate plea for help before I ground it into nothingness.

Then, wincing, I faced the repulsive revelation full-on. This truffle woman – was Garv really having a thing with her?

In agony, I admitted that he probably was; the signs were there. Looked at from the outside I’d conclude that he definitely was, but isn’t it always different when it’s your life that’s under scrutiny?

I’d been afraid of something like this happening, so much so that I’d half-prepared myself for it. But now that it seemed it had come to pass, I wasn’t at all ready. He’d got such a glow on when he’d noticed ‘their’ chocolates… It had been dreadful to witness. He must be up to something. But that was too much to take on and I was back to not believing it. I mean, if he’d been messing around, surely I’d have noticed?

The obvious thing would be to ask him straight out and put an end to the speculation, but he was bound to lie like a rug. Worse still, he might tell me the truth. Out of nowhere, lines came to me from some B-movie. The truth? (Accompanied by a curled lip.) You couldn’t HANDLE the truth!

The thoughts kept coming. Could she be someone he worked with? Might I have met her at their Christmas party? I shuffled through my memories of that night, endeavouring to locate a funny look or a loaded comment. But all I could remember was dancing the hora with Jessica Benson, one of his colleagues. Could it be her? But she’d been so nice to me. Mind you, if I’d been having sex with someone’s husband, maybe I’d be nice to her, too… Apart from the women Garv worked with, there were the girlfriends and wives of his mates – and then there were my friends. I was ashamed even to have that thought, but I couldn’t help myself; suddenly I trusted no one and suspected everyone.

What about Donna? Herself and Garv always had a great laugh and she called him Doctor Love. I went cold as I remembered reading somewhere that nicknames were a cast-iron indication that people were up to high jinks.

But then, with a silent sigh, I released Donna without charge: she was one of my best friends, I truly couldn’t believe she’d do that to me. Plus, for reasons best known to herself, she was mad about Robbie the flake. Unless he was an elaborate red herring, of course. But there was one thing that convinced me totally that Garv wasn’t having an affair with Donna, and that was the fact that she’d told him about her verruca. In fact, she’d pulled off her boot and sock and thrust the sole of her foot at him so that he could see for himself just how gross it was. If you’re having a passionate fling with someone, you don’t own up to things like verrucas. It’s all about mystique and impractical bras and round-the-clock upkeep on hairy legs – or so I’m told.