In the darkened bar of a hotel in Kensington, London, scores of young women in short, tight dresses are huddled together, sipping white wine. Scattered among them are a few men, usually much, much older, in suits and ties. I also have a base in Paris and New York. I dabble in property. Should I let my husband have his own sex life? What should I do?
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A final error on my part was allowing him to walk me home. He then turned up at my flat saying we should go to the cinema, like he had said in one of his million texts. Then he saw I had a picture with a guy friend from university who had come to stay. In the morning I had to go straight to a brunch thing so asked to use his shower. I was horrified, so after a few minutes I made my excuses, got a taxi and left. He then basically interrogated me about the kind of cancer my dad had, before moving on to discussing his existential crisis for about three or four hours, basically treating me like a therapist. It was going well — we worked in similar fields and loved the same music and shows.