A few weeks after I land in Marrakech, having left my husband, I post a picture on Instagram. It’s me, sitting at a café table with my laptop, writing. An hour later, a message arrives from a neighbour back in Westport, Connecticut, a woman I have been friends with for more than 20 years and have always held in huge affection.
She and my husband are close. I suspect she has a crush on him – she always told me how sexy he was. I read her message, and my heart starts pounding: ‘So sorry you blew up your life for
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