she adds, closing her eyes. ‘That’s despite knowing their marriage can’t continue while they’re
at each other’s throats. And despite knowing it’s surely better for the children to live with two separated but happy parents – rather than two who are together and at
war.’
‘What do you think is stopping him?’
‘He’s got to work things out before he takes a step like that – money matters, who’s going to get the house, how it would work with the kids. He wants to do the right
thing by all of them, not just disappear into the sunset. I’m not taking any of this lightly, Emma. But I love him. And I can’t live without him. It’s as simple as
that.’
‘I know,’ I reassure her, clutching her hand.
‘You know, part of me thinks Cally’s right. At the end of the day, I’ve been a mistress for the last six months. What sort of bitch does that make me? This goes against all my
principles.’
‘You’re not a bitch,’ I insist. ‘Some relationships in life just aren’t very straightforward, that’s all.’
She sighs. ‘Have I ever shown you a picture of Christina?’
‘You’ve got a picture of his wife?’ I ask, incredulous.
‘I mean on Facebook. Is your computer on?’
Reluctantly, I bring out my laptop. Asha logs onto her Facebook account and clicks onto to Toby’s profile. He hasn’t got many Facebook friends – only twenty-nine – and
it’s clear from the lack of any photos – of his family or anyone else – that he’s joined only recently and is no avid user.
Asha scrolls down his Friends list and clicks on the profile of a woman by the name of Christina Gregory.
I finally put a face to a woman we’ve heard so much about over the last half-year. It strikes me, as I take in her glossy black hair, slightly over-done lipstick and oval eyes, that she
knows nothing about me – but I know dozens more things about her than I ought to.
I know about her sex life. I know about her children. And I know that her husband is sleeping with another woman. It’s not a thought I feel at all comfortable with, certain as I am that
it’s an unworkable marriage.
Asha leans across and moves the cursor, stretching awkwardly as she navigates the site. ‘Some of her pictures are public . . .’ she begins, but I don’t want to see any
more.
I’m about to object when she emits the sort of gasp that you’d expect from someone who’s been underwater for two-and-a-half minutes.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh my God. Oh my God Almighty!
What the hell am I going
to do?
’
Asha’s face blanches and she stands up, then sits down, then stands up again, her mind clearly racing about something, and there are several minutes of hysteria and panic before I find out
what it is.
‘I’ve sent her a “friend request”,’ she shrieks. ‘I’ve sent a woman whose husband I’m having an affair with a bloody
friend
request
!’
Chapter 15
When entering the Genito-Urinary Medicine clinic at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, it is impossible to shake the feeling that you’ve got an enormous neon sign
over your head reading: ‘
I’M A GREAT BIG DIRTY SHAGGER!
’
I’m torn between walking into the department with feigned nonchalance, in the hope that people think I’m an off-duty nurse, or with a severe limp, to give the impression I’ve
taken a wrong turn after having my ankle X-rayed.
I arrive and sit before a smiley middle-aged receptionist who has obviously attended some sort of School for Non-Judgemental Grannies.
‘Hello, lovely, pop yourself down there,’ she beams, as if she’s about to serve me a cream tea. ‘I’m going to take some details.’
After reluctantly parting with my particulars, I am invited into a further reception room, which is literally packed with patients, but at least has the benefit of being women only. Men –
aka the horrible swines who got us into this mess – use another entrance.
I don’t know what I expected from the clientele
at each other’s throats. And despite knowing it’s surely better for the children to live with two separated but happy parents – rather than two who are together and at
war.’
‘What do you think is stopping him?’
‘He’s got to work things out before he takes a step like that – money matters, who’s going to get the house, how it would work with the kids. He wants to do the right
thing by all of them, not just disappear into the sunset. I’m not taking any of this lightly, Emma. But I love him. And I can’t live without him. It’s as simple as
that.’
‘I know,’ I reassure her, clutching her hand.
‘You know, part of me thinks Cally’s right. At the end of the day, I’ve been a mistress for the last six months. What sort of bitch does that make me? This goes against all my
principles.’
‘You’re not a bitch,’ I insist. ‘Some relationships in life just aren’t very straightforward, that’s all.’
She sighs. ‘Have I ever shown you a picture of Christina?’
‘You’ve got a picture of his wife?’ I ask, incredulous.
‘I mean on Facebook. Is your computer on?’
Reluctantly, I bring out my laptop. Asha logs onto her Facebook account and clicks onto to Toby’s profile. He hasn’t got many Facebook friends – only twenty-nine – and
it’s clear from the lack of any photos – of his family or anyone else – that he’s joined only recently and is no avid user.
Asha scrolls down his Friends list and clicks on the profile of a woman by the name of Christina Gregory.
I finally put a face to a woman we’ve heard so much about over the last half-year. It strikes me, as I take in her glossy black hair, slightly over-done lipstick and oval eyes, that she
knows nothing about me – but I know dozens more things about her than I ought to.
I know about her sex life. I know about her children. And I know that her husband is sleeping with another woman. It’s not a thought I feel at all comfortable with, certain as I am that
it’s an unworkable marriage.
Asha leans across and moves the cursor, stretching awkwardly as she navigates the site. ‘Some of her pictures are public . . .’ she begins, but I don’t want to see any
more.
I’m about to object when she emits the sort of gasp that you’d expect from someone who’s been underwater for two-and-a-half minutes.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh my God. Oh my God Almighty!
What the hell am I going
to do?
’
Asha’s face blanches and she stands up, then sits down, then stands up again, her mind clearly racing about something, and there are several minutes of hysteria and panic before I find out
what it is.
‘I’ve sent her a “friend request”,’ she shrieks. ‘I’ve sent a woman whose husband I’m having an affair with a bloody
friend
request
!’
Chapter 15
When entering the Genito-Urinary Medicine clinic at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, it is impossible to shake the feeling that you’ve got an enormous neon sign
over your head reading: ‘
I’M A GREAT BIG DIRTY SHAGGER!
’
I’m torn between walking into the department with feigned nonchalance, in the hope that people think I’m an off-duty nurse, or with a severe limp, to give the impression I’ve
taken a wrong turn after having my ankle X-rayed.
I arrive and sit before a smiley middle-aged receptionist who has obviously attended some sort of School for Non-Judgemental Grannies.
‘Hello, lovely, pop yourself down there,’ she beams, as if she’s about to serve me a cream tea. ‘I’m going to take some details.’
After reluctantly parting with my particulars, I am invited into a further reception room, which is literally packed with patients, but at least has the benefit of being women only. Men –
aka the horrible swines who got us into this mess – use another entrance.
I don’t know what I expected from the clientele
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