If ever a single days sums up the bizarre roller coaster nature of this thing, today is it. It starts with Helen and I having our first couples therapy session at 8:00am. We drop the kids off at Steve and Angelina’s, who will put them on the school bus for us at the usual time, 8:30am, then we head to our appointment.

The therapist, Julie, tells us a bit about the techniques that we’ll use. They include something called reflection, which involves repeating what the other person says to ensure effective communication. The first person then gives marks out of ten to indicate the level of understanding and corrects any misperceptions or fills in any gaps. We use the technique to pick up where we left off in our many hours of discussion over the past few days.

The session goes well. Our reflecting indicates almost universal understanding of each other. I’m totally honest and open about my own shortcomings that have played the most significant role, I believe, in bringing on this crisis and for which I blame only myself. I restate my commitment to finally dealing with them, fixing the problems in our marriage, and saving it if it’s humanly possible.

Helen does indeed summon the nerve to ask about updating Pascal with news of the reconcilation’s progress. Predictably, Julie tells her the idea is a non-starter if Helen is seriously committed to saving her marriage. She must cut off all contact with Pascal. Helen is visibly upset with this advice, but she agrees. Whether someone with her notorious lack of self-control can keep to it is another matter – and a big worry for me. It also relies on Pascal leaving her alone, because what little resolve Helen can bring to bear will dissolve instantly if he doesn't.

At the end of the session, Julie is encouraging.

“In all my years doing this kind of therapy, I've never encountered a couple so calm and so in touch with the issues affecting them as you,” she remarks. “It usually takes at least a year of therapy for most couples to reach the point you’re at right now,” she concludes. I leave heartened by this.

Helen doesn’t have to go into work immediately, so we decide to go to Starbuck’s and get a frappuccino, then take a walk around her favourite bathroom design store. The mood between us is incredibly good, just like old times. It’s as if none of this has happened. We cheerfully look at all the bathroom fittings and talk about how we’d like to redo our master bathroom with this or that unit and in such-a-such way. Maybe we should even do it now, Helen muses. I’m amazed, given that divorce will very likely lead to us selling the house, so what’s the point considering such a remodel? But the vibe between us is so good, I want to keep it going. At one point, we just stop, look at each other, and embrace in the middle of the showroom. It’s enough to make me think we can really pull this off and save this marriage.

However, reality rudely intrudes in the form of my 11:00am appointment with my lawyer, Sheila. We follow up our phone conversation of the previous week by reviewing the situation and discussing my legal options. No real revelations, just a recap of the advice she’d previously given me – I’m not to move out, I’m entitled to half of everything, spousal support, and so on.

The issue of child custody is touched on and she tells me that our state makes no preferential distinction between the sexes in terms of awarding custody, and that as I’m the primary caregiver I’d probably get it. I tell her that in all likelihood we’ll agree that Helen gets custody because I can’t imagine trying to rebuild my life with two young kids in tow, but Sheila tells me not to be so hasty and to think about what’s best for the children.

I tell her about the e-mails and give her copies of them along with the incriminating phone records logging all the calls between Helen and Pascal. She looks them over and to my surprise tells me that they don’t reach the legal threshold of proof in our state, which requires photographic or eyewitness evidence. I tell her of Helen’s offer to exchange them for an affidavit attesting to the affair.

“She can’t possibly have run this by her lawyer, since no attorney worth their salt would allow their client to do such a thing,” Sheila says in response. “But if she's prepared to overrule her lawyer on this and submit the affidavit, tell her we’ll take a look at it and make a decision at that time. In the meantime, give her nothing,” Sheila advises.

“Why not?” I ask. “If the e-mails and phone bills don’t constitute legal proof, what good are they?”

“Ninety-five percent of the divorce cases I work on are settled before they reach court, and the e-mails may at least give us leverage in any settlement if we can avoid going to court, which is to everyone’s advantage,” Sheila replies. She agrees to keep the copies I gave her and puts them in a sealed envelope. We conclude with her wishing me well with the reconciliation and saying that there’s no need for any further consultation or action while the effort to save our marriage is ongoing. She doesn’t even charge me for the meeting, which is very nice and unlawyerly of her.

The meeting has the effect of shattering the previous positive mood though. I feel a little down after it, and on returning home where Helen still hasn’t yet left for work, I can tell her mood has taken a darker turn too. She’s tense and asks immediately about the e-mails. I tell her that on the advice of my lawyer I can’t give them to her, but if she wants to give us the affidavit we’ll look at it and consider an exchange. Naturally, I omit the details that the e-mails don’t constitute legal proof and that her lawyer won’t permit her to submit the affidavit. Let her find those things out for herself. Helen says she regrets that things have become so sneaky and underhanded between us as to include my going through her e-mails.

“That’s what happens when trust is shattered by doing what you've done,” I respond. “What did you expect?” Again it occurs to me how little she truly appreciates the gravity of her actions. If she’s been so duplicitous and treacherous, how can lament the fact that that inevitably dictates how the situation devolves?

The morning’s upbeat mood now seems a long way off. Helen leaves for work and I feel a wave of despair wash over me. As up as I felt earlier, I now feel down. The kids get home a bit later and we go through our usual routine – I let them relax for a while, then homework, then we go to my son’s karate class. I make them dinner when we get back, but I can’t eat anything.

Helen gets home later and has some leftovers. We talk a little more and the communication feels positive again, but I still can’t shake the feeling of hopelessness that has settled over me since the afternoon. What a day. If this thing is destined to be such a wild emotional roller coaster, I just have to ride it out and hope for the best. I head for bed anticipating another difficult night’s sleep. A Valium will no doubt be in order.

Excerpted from Diary Of A Divorce, by Richard Pearce, available for £8.99 from www.amazon.co.uk or for $14.75 from www.lulu.com