I slink over to the kitchen and scour the worktops for a tipple. I settle on a big bottle of Plymouth gin and glug as much as decency will allow into the nearest clean glass, before peeking around the kitchen, like a meerkat, on the search for tonic. I soon see a bottle, which is attached to the hand of God, or his nearest approximation on Earth.
My best mate Steve is just back from a glam trip to LA and is filling me in on all the gossip as we nurse giant measures of Amaretto - for some reason that's a 'thing' with us. After a while he settles back and asks me what's been going on back here in the fortnight he's been away. I take a deep breath and tell him.
I learned a lesson and I made a decision; I did not want to cheat again and never have. Needless to say, that relationship didn't work out. I left and gave no good reason. I could have made it easier for him by confessing but I didn't. I kid myself it was to protect him from turning into a woman hater.