I returned home from a business trip to discover the man I was married to had changed. It wasn't a vague thing – there was a stranger in my bed.
When pressed to define his problem, he relented, saying he couldn't stand the thought of sleeping with only one woman for the rest of his life – and that was that.
Our lives changed forever. I descended through the three stages of betrayal.
Forensic: Sifting through our lives for incriminating evidence, I found a single strand of yellow hair, a new shirt and a phone bill with lots of calls to an unusual number.
Judicial: I confronted him with the hair, the shirt and the bill. He wanted to deny it, but his body betrayed him. He went white with horror.
Postal: Using a fork, I shredded the shirt, which had been a gift to him from the blonde. I stabbed it in the pocket, in the back, in the chest, in the stomach. I dragged the fork through the white loose weave (a lovely Egyptian cotton) until the tines twisted, the head bent back and there was nothing left but a sad, tattered flag of defeat.
He moved out.
They say it takes half the length of a relationship to get over it. I don't know if that's true, but I definitely spent the same amount of time in agony that I spent in ecstasy.
While he was trying to find himself in Thailand, I was fumbling around our kitchen cupboards trying to find some Horlicks – at 4am. You know that story about some butterfly flapping its wings in Tokyo making a banker weep in New York? My crisis started like that.
The Horlicks was in an overhead kitchen cupboard – one of those four-door jobbies that's undivided out the back – so when my blind hand reached in, it pushed some tea bags to one side, which pushed a can of peaches, which nudged a pack of muesli, which pressed a wine glass against a cupboard door, opening it. Out onto the sink leaped the wine glass – snapping the stem in two.
I stood there blinking in disbelief. How, while being so reasonable, could I end up with such a disastrous result?
It was all connected. Even the particular glass – a wedding gift from Sparkles, my first boyfriend ever. I picked up the two pieces and considered if they could somehow be fused back together.
Who was I kidding? The glass was ruined. We were ruined. It had been a beautiful thing, but now it was ruined. I threw the pieces to the ground where they smashed to smithereens.
Hmm. That felt good.
In the kitchen was a whole drawer dedicated to broken crockery – shards of love waiting for Araldite. Not any more.
The first thing I saw was a birthday present from him, a willow-patterned Burleigh Ware cup that had lost its handle. It fitted so neatly into my hand. I pitched it into the floor where it created a most satisfying shatter.
I pulled the drawer out and one by one methodically smashed the lot. Even now I can feel the shiver of pleasure that rose from deep within my guts. Anything chipped, cracked, ugly or his. Smash. Smash. Smash.
An adorable Carlton Ware milk jug we bought on our honeymoon, now cracked, like us. Smash. A Wedgwood breakfast teacup, a tender something from my matron of honour, its pretty Picardy pink flowers chipped from washing it in the sink with other cups. Smash.
By the time I'd cleaned out all the cupboards I was exhausted, and piled back into bed for the best sleep I'd had in months. Je ne regrette rien.
The next day was sunny and soundless as though a strong wind had blown all the noise away. I padded into the kitchen. You should have seen how much bone china was smashed on the kitchen floor. There were even shards in the bathroom. It took all morning to clean up and, with a deep spiritual calm, I stepped onto the landing holding a garbage bag full of remnants and into my neighbour, who seemed to be waiting for me.'
"So, how are things?" he asked with unusual tenderness.
"Good," I said. "Really good."
"You're getting along all right by yourself in there?"
"Yeah. No. Good. I think I'm doing all right."
"Okay. Well, take it easy then."
What was I thinking? I lived in a block of flats and I'd broken every plate, mug and cup in the apartment at four in the morning.
My life had completely stalled. And through the emptiness of this moment floated the word "America". It was as far away from Australia and my current life as I could imagine.
I had wanted to run away from home when I was little, only my childish brain couldn't work out how to convince my mother (the love of my life) to come with me. America was where we would have gone, the land of sitcoms with happy endings and weekly comedy shows. It was Disneyland, the Muppets, and sandwiches made with that most mysterious combination – peanut butter and jelly.
Growing up in Australia, everything seemed to focus outward. I could recite the American Declaration of Independence by heart. I loved Lucy. I knew the excitement of prom night and Halloween even though they weren't celebrated in my country.
As the youngest of five kids, my world was about long fights and short showers. I never saw that on TV. All I saw there was America – the real world. If I could just get there, everything would be all right. Like the memory of an old friend, that idea washed through me – run away to America.
We had been trying to conceive using IVF, which had proved as fruitless as my other ventures. I worked in a production company developing television shows for executives who didn't buy them. I was in my mid-30s and I wanted more.
There are some things you can do which strike a chord with everyone. Buying a flash American tank of a car and driving across the US is one. The only person who couldn't see the romantic majesty of this gesture was my mother, Joy.
"Darling, if you insist on letting this problem devolve into full-blown crisis, can't you at least do it closer to home where I can keep an eye on you?"
Mum and I are good friends. I love her but, more importantly, I like her. She's courageous and generous. She used to be in marketing and can put a positive spin on almost anything – but running away from your problems isn't one of them.
"This mad peregrination – you simply haven't thought it through. Where will you go? What will you use for money? Scotch may be the same in every language, but a woman can't live on whisky alone.
The way I saw it, my husband had left and I was taking his cue to do the same. If Mum wanted to convince me of the folly of my plan to run away and drive across America, she'd need to helicopter in the cavalry.
She went one better and called Sue. Sue came to Sydney from Wales as a "Ten Pound Pom". She was younger than Mum, but not young enough to be her daughter. I was younger than Sue, but also not young enough to be her child.
"So what's this about going to America and killing yourself in a car?"
Sue asked over Mum's signature pea and lettuce soup.
"Well, the plans are pretty ad hoc," I told her. It was an exaggeration – there were no plans. "There's family in LA, so I'll stay with them. I've got a school friend outside of New York – she'll put me up for a few days in Connecticut. Then I might visit Michele from the kids' show. She's studying philosophy in London. Qantas is doing this great deal where you get two cities in America and a free trip to Europe."
"See," said Mum, "that's not a plan. It's barely an itinerary."
Sue: "Where does the car come in?" "I'll drive from LA to New York. Americans love cars. I bet I can buy a good one for under five grand."
"Five thousand dollars," said Mum. "Where are you going to get that?"
"I could sell the car at the end."
"The world doesn't work like that."
Mum was getting agitated, because Sue seemed to be crunching numbers on an envelope and not contributing.
"You can't swan off to the Grand Canyon and then – what? Drive to New York? That's thousands of miles of deserts, and … I don't even know what's in the middle of America. What if you break down? What'll you do then?"
"Meet people?"
"What sort of people?" she continued.
"What if you break down in Washington or New Orleans or the Alamo? Who will you meet there?" "Harry Connick jnr? He's from New Orleans, isn't he?" Mum looked to her friend for support.
"Sue!" she said. "Say something."
"F--- it, I'm in."
We both looked at Sue in surprise. You what? In choosing her friend to be the weapon of choice in this fight, Mum had forgotten one small thing – Sue can't say no to adventure. It doesn't matter how small. If you want a cohort in calamity, say skinny-dipping or a midnight picnic, Sue's the one you call.
"Sorry, Joy," she said, apologising for the swearing, not changing camps, "we're too old to be frightened and too young to die." She turned to me. "I'll lend you the five grand.
I think I squealed. I certainly hugged her. "I'm going to America!"
"And I'll give you half if you let me drive back with you."
"You're going too?" Mum's voice rose like nails on a blackboard. "What about the restaurant?"
"I love the restaurant, but do I own it or does it own me? If Sheridan can pick me up in New York, I'll drive back with her."
Mum was waving her soup ladle in an attempt to stir up some counterargument. Droplets of pea soup and flecks of lettuce were splattering everywhere. She seemed to have run out of ideas.
She thought about it for a moment before sighing in defeat, dropping the ladle back into the tureen. "Well, if you insist on playing Thelma and Louise, you're not allowed to carry a gun."
I cashed in my meagre savings, took leave from the film production company where I worked, and before you could say "Phuket" I was in Los Angeles with a bloody big ocean between me and my problems.
Edited extract from Wish You Were Here by Sheridan Jobbins (Affirm Press), out now.