Those Parisian women, who would become my friends, didn't simply tolerate their husbands having affairs. Why not, when they were enjoying illicit sex themselves?
And once it's no longer fun, you move on and there are no hard feelings. I had a place to study English at Magdalen College, Oxford.
Then he would turn up at dawn under my window, proclaiming his love. But our apparent similarities masked a totally different attitude to the most integral part of marriage: sex.
It was like an equation: to prolong the pleasure, you prolong the hunt. So he wouldn't ring for days, leaving me wretched with worry. His mother, Madeleine, came from an aristocratic family and his father, Jerome, an architect, was from the Parisian bourgeoisie.
As though the feminist movement had put them on their guard with women for ever. It was obvious, from the start, that in our sex life he would lead. When I told him I was too young, he wasn't put off.
He simply carried on his pursuit when I returned to Oxford. He knew the way to win me would be to play hard to get.
Laurent was chatting to another male guest, so I wandered next door to see.
When I opened the door, the scene that met my eyes left me reeling with shock.