There had been almost 25 years of an increasingly loveless marriage, total loyalty, dedication to my profession and raising four children, now nearly grown up. Doing the right thing. Then it changed. We met by chance through a work sideline that meant being away from home; away from the routine. We found the work challenging and fun. There were days when the others were ill; we had to go it alone, evenings in hotels. Was this fate?

We laughed, talked and texted light-heartedly. There were dinners and nights in the bar. There was something, I’m sure, in spite of the age gap. I felt elated and free.

I would immerse myself in her company. She talked openly about everything — her husband, children and life; her continuing affair with another man, which intrigued me further. She listened to my deepest thoughts that I had shared with no one before. There was no judgment. She sowed the seeds of change; to put myself first, to listen, to question and to talk openly for the first time.

Then there was the yearning. Her name, her height, her background all seemed perfect. The flaws, the disagreements over work were meaningless. The week until I saw her again was hard to bear. The beguiling need to be in her mind rather than her underwear surprised me most. Then there were the visceral signs: the sleepless nights; the deep-seated ache on seeing her name, on reading a newspaper about her part of the world. The buzz of feeling a text come in. There were tears on listening to the words of love songs as never before. My thoughts defied logic.

I made a pass one evening. She had seemed to go out of her way to rejoin me, and there was a particularly intense and emotional conversation over drinks. The sign was an arm round the waist. I was gently rebuffed; another sleepless night with heart racing. The texts followed; “flattered but my life is complicated enough” was the theme. The next time the reaction was anger. I had misread the signs. It was, after all, my midlife crisis. What could she see in me? We drifted apart. The texts and e-mails dried up. The focus was on the work, and that fizzled out.

Using my new-found skills, I decided to tackle the marital problems — without success. People had assumed that we were having an affair, that we were sleeping together.

It was the affair that wasn’t. Ultimately, her happiness mattered to me more than anything. I wanted her marriage to work, her complicated love life to be resolved. This was the key to her happiness, not me.

For me, now, I can only hope that time will heal.

Do you have an affair to remember? E-mail your 500-word story to loveaffair@thetimes.co.uk

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