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You know I’m married,’ he said. ‘You read my cuttings.’ I’ve googled every last reference to you, she told him silently. ‘I’ve never been . . . unfaithful before. I still can’t quite articulate what happened.’ ‘I blame the quiche,’ she quipped, wincing. ‘You do something to me, Ellie Haworth. I haven’t written a word in forty-eight hours.’ He paused. ‘You make me forget what I want to say.’ Then I’m doomed, she thought, because as soon as she had felt his weight against her, his mouth on hers, she had known – despite everything she had ever said to her friends about married men, everything she had ever believed – that she required only the faintest acknowledgement from him of what had happened for her to be lost. A year on, she still hadn’t begun to look for a way out.
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