It was a Saturday evening three years ago, and my husband and I were watching a movie at home. My mobile phone rang and I got up from the sofa to answer the call.
I scurried into the kitchen for some privacy. There was no caller ID, but I knew exactly who was getting in touch. I had been waiting for this call for over four months, wondering if it would ever come.
“‘Hello, Patrick*?’ I answered, nervously.
“‘Jean?” he replied.
The air around us hung heavy. Patrick and I had never spoken before, so the atmosphere was a little awkward. I’d got in touch with him out of the blue after I discovered that David* – my husband of eight years and the father of my two children (with one on the way) – was having an affair with another woman.
That other woman was Patrick’s wife.
I didn’t know Patrick personally. But I found out on social media that we shared distant mutual friends, so I’d badgered one to put us in touch. I had no idea if Patrick knew that our partners were having an affair, so I’d fabricated a story to persuade him to call me.
He worked in the medical industry, and as I was eight months pregnant, I had pretended that I needed some health advice. He’d kindly agreed to talk to me.
“Jean,” he said, his voice terse. “You’re too late. I have already divorced her.”