The memory is etched in my mind forever. It was the summer of 1988, around 10pm. I was a junior newspaper executive – complete with huge 1980s hair, a power suit and permanent exhaustion – when a friend appeared. I was desperate for the paper to go to press, so I could head home to my gorgeous husband of four years. To my surprise, the friend gave me a huge hug and said, ‘Poor you, no wonder you’re devastated after what you’re going through.’ She added that she was glad I finally ‘knew’. ‘Knew what?’ I asked.
‘That your husband is having an affair. Everyone knows.’
Well, I didn’t until that moment. And it felt as if she’d unloaded both barrels of a sawn-off
