My husband is home.
He’s supposed to be sixty miles away.
I thought I’d be safe for at least another two hours, but that’s definitely his car I can hear.
Oh God – that’s his key in the lock!
That’s it, then. He’s going to catch me in the act. I feel sick with anxiety, knowing how angry he’ll be – how disappointed.
You see, this isn’t the first time. I did it last year too. Just once, but let’s face it, once is bad enough, isn’t it? After the whole sordid mess was over, I promised I’d never betray him again, yet here I am. And in our bedroom, too. I feel dirty and ashamed.
I try to work out if there’s time to get downstairs but I know it’s too late. He’s in the hall. Perhaps the bedroom window? Oh, it’s hopeless. I don’t even have time to put back on the clothes I so casually shed the moment he left for work.
I hear the creak of the stairs and I brace myself for the onslaught as my husband pushes open the bedroom door.
‘I don’t believe it. You’ve had the central heating on again, haven’t you?’