My husband rang to say he was in emergency surgery all night. I was looking down through the glass walkway at him at the time, with his arm round another woman and his entire family beside him holding boarding passes. I didn’t go down. I went to a quiet corner and made one phone call.

The divorce finished in the spring.

Anneke Voss wrote to me in the January. Two pages, not asking for anything. She had gone to occupational health, requested a move to a different unit, and left him in the November.

The line I keep is this: I want you to know that when I found out you weren’t separated, the first thing I felt was relief, and I have had to be honest with myself about what that means.

Rosa Farrow has rung me eleven times in the last year. I have not answered.

Bexley wrote. Her letter is about the children and the holidays and how difficult all of this has been for the family, and it does not contain one sentence about what happened at that airport, and I read it twice and put it in a drawer.

Corwin, her ex-husband, I took to lunch in the June. I apologised to a man for not believing him two years earlier and he was extremely gracious about it and then talked about fishing for an hour, which was a kindness.

I am back in the office four days a week. I am thirty-nine and I run my father’s company and I am, for the first time since 2016, actually doing the job.