THE D WORD AFTER SO LONG TOGETHER, IS THIS THE END?

The fault lines in the marriage have been exposed in therapy. But is it time to call it quits – or should they give it one last try?

The couple of days after therapy were miserable. I’d felt safe telling Richard I thought we should split, because our therapist was there, nodding wisely like Solomon in a Boden jumper. But on our own, there was nothing to contain our sadness and anger. I dealt with it by burying myself in work: Skyping clients into the evening in my office, while Richard spent more time than usual leaning on the bar of the village pub, drinking red wine and chatting with the landlord. He’d come back flushed and irritable and crash about ostentatiously in the kitchen, calling: “Will you be joining me for dinner, or are you having a boiled egg alone?”

I wanted to say “a boiled egg alone”, but I’d decided the only way to handle things was to be pleasant where possible and hope a solution would present itself. So I’d go downstairs and we’d eat dinner together as we had done thousands of times, and talk about the news and the local gossip, instead of ruining the food with our feelings.

I knew Richard wasn’t ready for divorce and I wasn’t sure I was either. I’d made my bold statement, but saying something was a far cry from doing it. The practical process of unpicking our marriage – all our shared memories, the children’s security, a shared home, the swift Pitman’s shorthand of shared jokes, layers upon layers of knowledge and understanding built up over the years – made me wonder what had it all been for?

My friend Tara used to say “There’s no point leaving your husband after 40 because you’ll just fall in love with another version of him and have to raise someone else’s kids.”

I’d already raised Richard’s son and my daughter was at university. The idea of scrolling through dating sites, embarking on awkward little flirtations with men who were hoping for a 30-year-old Norland nanny dressed like Miley Cyrus, seemed surreal. I’d want to tell Richard all about it.

But at the same time, Richard and I barely slept together – not for want of nagging on his part – and our communications were punctuated with sighs, irritation and fullblown screaming rows. If therapy couldn’t help, I thought, what would?

“I got an email today,” Richard said, scraping his fork violently. “What about?” I asked. “From John,” he told me. “He says we should go and stay before they sell the villa.”

John was an old friend. I’d met him at university and we’d had a brief fling. But in later life he and his wife Sarah had become mutual friends and now they lived in Spain. They were moving back to England soon.

I thought about kind, attractive John, and how desperate I was to see someone who knew and liked me before I became this embittered scold. “OK,” I said. Richard looked surprised. “Right,” he said. “It’ll be good for us to have a change of scene.”

I hoped so. And I wondered, too, if this trip would finally be make or break.