I have noticed that Mr Husband seems less impermeable, recently. He does not bite my head off as often, nor does he object to my eccentric modes, moods and deeds as much.

I remember a conversation we once had, not long ago. Mrs Ex-wife was the subject, but things quickly expanded to absorb current situations and people.

But before I go any further, a little background information about Mrs Ex-wife, who is a bubbly and independent woman who one day decided she had had enough of stability, and ran off with a young builder 'built like a Chippendale', as she made no qualms in telling me the first time we met.

Ah, my first meeting with Mr Husband's Mrs Ex-wife! I knew it would happen sometime. After all, she had to deliver the Suitcase Children at least once a week for the evening with daddy, and every other weekend. For a while I managed to avoid meeting her, as I was trying to concentrate on the Suitcase Children and understand how they felt about me, this new and strange woman in their father's house.

The Suitcase Children were very happy to share their breakfast with me, instead of having to wait for daddy to wake up early enough, at the weekend, to partake with pancakes and nutella. Whilst I found domesticity a suffocating concept, I was also aware of it as a rare currency to possess, and that both parties felt a need for it. Soon, I had negotiated to increase the number of nights they would spend at daddy's, on the basis that there was now a female presence in the house, who would get up in the night if Suitcase Little Girl had a nightmare, and cook a healthy supper to substitute the take-away Indian. Suitcase Master was suitably impressed with my 'Pollo alla Cacciatora.'

I still tried to avoid Mrs Ex-wife. The female in me was worried about the natural comparison; I also stupidly thought that if the Suitcase Children saw me with her, they would look at both of us and hate me immediately. As if they had to choose.

The children, though, seemed amused by my futile attempts to disappear every time the car pulled up the drive. They would call my name and ask that I come downstairs to say hello to their mother. I would pretend I was in the bathroom.

Until, one morning, I sensed that I could not really justify being locked up in the loo every time Mrs Ex-wife turned up; there are only so many nasty tummy bugs or baths to be had at that specific time.

I knew what she looked like: her photos were scattered all over the house, and from the golden frames she smiled, behind the flowers at their wedding, or wearing maternity jumpers, holding baby versions of the Suitcase Children and helping little hands bake birthday cakes.

Her blond hair was perfectly smooth, Eighties style. Her lipstick was a nice shade of fuchsia, the kind of colour that would make me look like I have died and been embalmed. She was a Laura Ashley and kitten heels girl; I was vintage Karen Millen and killer stilettos. She drove a diesel car, carefully; I drove a six-cylinder 3.0 V6 Alfa Romeo, recklessly.

The morning of reckoning, I resolved to look at my best; I laid out my make-up, hoping Suitcase Little Girl would not help herself to the mascara and drop it into the toilet, like the last time; I decided what to wear, short but not too short, tight but not tarty. You know, enough to show my wares to the enemy without making it too blatant.

The message, obviously, would be 'I am here to stay now, and I am good enough'.

Before I started getting ready, though, I thought I'd go downstairs and into the garage, where my rabbits lived. I had two, and they were like babies to me, the childless woman. Every day I'd release them into the garden, free to hop and roam amongst the dandelions and rose bushes. I even had chocolate buttons for them; they were house-trained and came to me when I called them. Crucially, my rabbits did not care what I looked like, and responded whether I was wearing an Armani suit or my white fluffy dressing gown.

It was then, as I had just opened the cage to let my babies out, that Mrs Ex-wife decided to arrive, Suitcase Children in tow. The diesel car stopped breathlessly on the gravel, and I thought it may be the post office van.

When I popped my head out of the garage door, the three of them were standing there, the children with their little suitcases, the sight of which always tugged at my heart, and Mrs Ex-wife with her smooth hair and fuchsia lipstick.

Only... My scraggy hair was up in a messy ponytail, my glasses were askew on my nose. The fluffy white dressing gown had a few brown pellets stuck to its fabric, where I had held and stroked my soft and lovely rabbits before letting them loose. I was wearing silly slippers.

'Hello!', she trilled, with glee. 'You must be Emma.'

No. I am not. Can we do a re-take? You know, you go away and come back in twenty minutes, when I look human, and we can say the lines again.

'Hello'. I didn't smile. I hadn't brushed my teeth yet.

The Suitcase Children were beaming. I picked up their little bags and walked back into the house, wondering whether my bottom looked big in my dressing gown. Probably.

'Are you doing anything nice this weekend, then?' I asked, desperate for any kind of small talk. Mr Husband Material, as he was then, was nowhere to be seen. I hated him.

'Oh yes. Mark and I are going to the Cotswolds on his big and powerful bike. It will be fun!' she said, and winked. I cringed and pulled the belt around my waist tighter. What if 'Mark' were in the car and had seen me too?

'He is supposed to take a rather large cabinet over to a customer, but I cannot think how he is going to secure it on the bike. He could just carry it there, I suppose. You know, he is built like a Chippendale.'

I had a vision of 'Mark' with enormous muscles and tattooed biceps, an earring and a gold chain round his bison neck.

'Children! Would you like some orange juice?' I asked. 'We are going to the park as soon as I am....ready.'

I look back, and analyze that memory of Mrs Ex-wife, and my feelings about it at the time. Mr Husband was abandoned, and hurt. It took him two years to gather up what he had left and look for another girl. And although he is probably as damaged as I am, he hardly shows it.

But I noticed that he makes sure he is always around when the builders come. And, as 'Mark' won Mrs Ex-Wife's heart by playing opposite her at an Amateur Dramatics show, I - who had been playing good parts in my own AD group for years - was never allowed to act again.

‘She never appreciated anything I did for her’, he said, during that conversation we had recently. ‘Some women consider integrity and faithfulness disposable virtues. I meant nothing for her, in the end. Our children meant little.’

‘Was it the affair that hurt?’ I asked.

‘I’d rather not have known about it. It did not last anyway’, was the answer.

‘But the impulse to leave did’, I thought.