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When I get to the church, I turn around and walk back, striding purposefully towards home, a woman with things to do, somewhere to go. Normal. I watch the people I pass – the two men running, backpacks on, training for the marathon, the young woman in a black skirt and white trainers, heels in her bag, on her way to work – and I wonder what they're hiding. Are they moving to stop drinking, running to stand still? Are they thinking about the killer they met yesterday, the one they're planning to see again?

I'm not normal.

I am not the girl I used to be. I am no longer desirable, I'm off-putting in some way. It's not just that i've put on weight, or that my face is puffy from the drinking and the lack of sleep; it's as if people can see the damage written all over me, can see it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way I move.

I found out the way everyone seems to find out these days: an electronic slip. Sometimes it's a text or a voice mail message; in my case it was an email, the modern-day lipstick on the collar.

I just enjoyed feeling wanted; I liked the feeling of control. It was as simple and stupid as that. I didn't want him to leave his wife;I just wanted him to want to leave her. To want me that much.

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