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Stuart kicks his door closed behind us, staring deep into my eyes like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

The next minute, he is lifting my dress over my head, pushing me onto the sofa. Then he pulls off my knickers, positioning himself between my legs, holding me close, moaning and calling my name as he enters me.

We have sex in different positions, ending with me on my knees by the window wearing nothing but a bra, Stuart behind. He is a little rough sometimes, not realising how strong he is. Or maybe he enjoys throwing me around. I don’t know. Maybe all men are violent deep down.

When we’re finished, Stuart asks me again to leave Olly. He can finish his current contract any time. His family have property in the Shetlands.

But Stuart isn’t Olly. Despite his kindness, he doesn’t make me feel the way Olly does. When Olly and I have sex it’s like two souls coming together. We become one person, which both scares and thrills me. And, of course, Olly and I have a child.

So I crawl back upstairs and pray my husband never finds out about another stupid mistake.

Kate

2.45 p.m.

The roads around Steelfield School are rammed with cars, so I park on the yellow zigzag lines right outside, declaring it a social services emergency.

I should park ten minutes away and run to the appointment, arriving hot and sweaty. But increasingly, I’m learning that sometimes rules need to be broken.

The school gates are locked tight with a giant padlock and the playground is eerily still.

Most playgrounds have some life and colour to them. The odd piece of bright litter skating around on the tarmac, at least. But this school has none of that.

Everything is scrubbed and clean and devoid of personal touches. It looks sterile to the point of unused. Like a school that’s only just had the cellophane taken off.

I notice the barred windows again as I ring the intercom buzzer.

A moment later, Mr Cockrun appears from the main door and strides across the playground. He’s well-groomed in a sharp suit and has very red lips. I’d guess him to be nearing fifty, although his dress and haircut make him look younger.

‘Hello there.’ Mr Cockrun’s greeting is cheerful and he’s smiling. ‘You must be Mrs Noble. Welcome to Steelfield School. I would shake your hand, but I need to let you in first. Ha, ha.’

After the long process of removing the padlock, letting me through the gates, then re-clipping the padlock and tugging it vigorously, Mr Cockrun takes my hand and shakes it warmly. ‘Very good to meet you.’

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me at such short notice,’ I say.

‘Yes. Well, you’re a VIP,’ Mr Cockrun replies. ‘Anyone in our hardworking social services deserves the royal treatment. Shall we go for the tour then?’

‘Please.’

‘Did you notice the new exercise equipment?’ Mr Cockrun asks, pointing to some gleaming metal structures sunk into the tarmac. ‘Part of our healthy bodies initiative. Promotes good behaviour too, burning off all that energy.’

‘I hear you’re very on top of behaviour here,’ I say.

‘Very. The only trouble we have is with social services children. But we have good processes. Ways to keep even the most unruly child in line. Provided we’re not handedtoomany of them.’

He leaves the comment dangling, and I can imagine him in the staff room, complaining to the other teachers:It’s disgraceful that they can force these social services scallywags on us. We want well-behaved middle-class children who help us get good results …

‘As you can see, the grounds are excellently maintained,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘The caretaker is an ex-army man.’

We’re crossing the school field now, walking over short grass. On the way, Mr Cockrun stoops to pick up a stray chocolate-bar wrapper.

We reach a patch of woodland near the fence and Mr Cockrun lifts up a branch for me to duck under.

‘The fence that Mrs Kinnock told you about is back here,’ he says. ‘But this is all a storm in a teacup. One parent causing trouble. It’s been very securely repaired for the time being. During the Christmas holidays, the whole fence will be replaced. But obviously we can’t do that during term time.’

‘I don’t see any holes,’ I say, looking for them.

‘That’s because they’re miniscule,’ the headmaster says, following me under the branch. ‘Ridiculous to make a fuss about this, in my opinion. Tom Kinnock’s mother is biting the hand that feeds her. Making problems over nothing. It’s bordering on paranoid. Not to mention ungrateful.’