I used to think open relationships were a recipe for heartbreak – or just a bit tacky. Then we began to experiment. Could seeing other people be the secret to a happy home life?
I settled back into the train seat and pulled a notebook out of my bag: something extraordinary had happened, and I needed to process it by writing it down. Speeding along the south coast, past Arundel Castle and on towards Bristol, I made notes about the night I’d spent near Brighton with a man I’d known for years, but seen again in a whole new context. About how delighted I felt, how hot, how incredibly free.
My body, which had been pregnant in the Covid pandemic, given birth and then dragged itself through several house moves with a baby and a three-year-old, seemed to be renewed, on fire. My mind was blown, and my lips were bruised. I bought a beer and ate crisps. I texted friends, caught eyes with strangers: I wanted to talk to everyone about how I was feeling. Most of all, I wanted to tell my husband.
