'When I fell pregnant to my lover, my husband's reaction surprised me.'

The following is an edited extract from Madam, by Antonia Murphy — an award-winning journalist and author. She is also the founder of The Bach, a legal, feminist escort agency. Murphy was living on a farm in rural New Zealand with her husband and two kids, bored and isolated, when her husband left her. Suddenly, she had to figure out how to survive…

The next two months were busy with Christmas, then New Year and the long summer holidays. Heirloom tomatoes and rock melons grew twisted and lush on their vines; I brought home a pig we could raise for prosciutto. I found a length of black plastic to spread on the grassy slope by our orchard, then soaked it with water and dish soap so Miranda could slide.

I spent the night with Patrice whenever Peter agreed, introducing fantasy, role play, and games. Even apart, we found ways to touch. We wrote each other letters more swollen and erotic than anything I'd experienced in my adult life.

Then one day in February, my period was late. When the test came back positive, I checked with a calendar. Patrice was definitely the father.

But the three of us loved each other, right? Or we had. Maybe we could live in a throuple. Wasn't a throuple a thing now? We were open-minded people, not bound by the laws of monogamy. For Christ's sake, Patrice was French. If Selma didn't want to stay in our super-sized family, we could have a menage à trois.

As they say in New Zealand, yeah nah. When I told him the truth, Peter got in his truck, drove to Patrice's house, and punched him in the face. Then he moved out.

'Tsk, tsk,' people hissed. 'Of course he did.'

'She had an affair!' We had an open marriage.

'She fell in love with Patrice.' I did not.

'She's so selfish to get herself pregnant!' I just wanted a healthy baby.

'I don't love you,' Patrice said. 'I hardly know you. But sometimes in life, you hold hands and jump, and if you want to do this, I'm in.'

Watch: This woman decided to try an open marriage for 12 months. Post continues below.

News travelled fast in our little community, and people stopped returning our calls. We thought we had friends, and if they were upset, I figured that they'd tell us why. But here was a side of Kiwi culture I'd never encountered: no one came round; no one yelled; no one said a damned word. They just cut us dead. I wrote an email to one friend to tell her what happened; I poured out my story and she never wrote back.

I know I should feel like a terrible person, for trying to get pregnant without my husband's consent. But I don't. At the most basic, biological level, it's the women who decide who we mate with. We choose our partners for all kinds of reasons: wealth, good looks, great sex. But underneath that is the animal drive to pick a partner with good DNA. And Patrice had three beautiful, healthy children.

There's an old story my family used to tell, from when I was five and my brother Brian was back home from college. We'd just had our lunch, and there was homemade chocolate cake for dessert. For some reason, he'd nearly finished his cake, but I'd only taken one bite.

'When I finish mine,' Brian growled in a monster voice, 'I'm going to start eating YOURS!'

'NOOOOO!' I hollered, grabbing my barely-touched slice, the whole thick wedge of it between my two pudgy palms, running into the bedroom next door, shoving it into my mouth, packing it in until I couldn't physically close my jaws and it ran down my chin in a sticky, brown stream.

'RAAAAAA!' Brian roared, bursting into the bedroom. I was laughing so hard I almost choked.

He lunged at me, my wild big beast of a brother. 'I'M GONNA TAKE YOUR CAKE!'

I wiggled away delightedly. On my hands and knees on the cold tile floor, between the bed and the wall, I managed to swallow. I choked down the wet, thick wads of chocolate. I won.

When we told the story later, it was always about how greedy I was, even at the young age of five. That I would rather humiliate myself, run away, practically choke, rather than share my cake.

But here's the thing. It was my cake. It was always my cake. I just wanted to keep what was mine.

In April 2016, Patrice managed to pack up and leave his old life, and he moved into my house with my kids. His children came to live with us week-on and week-off, so every other week, our lives were a whirlwind of laundry and Lego.

'You know I'm going ahead with the agency, right?' I told him before he moved in. 'I've been learning a lot online, in the forums. It's a risk, but I think I can do it.'

'The maison close,' Patrice clarified, his blue eyes twinkling. 'It's an excellent idea; I think it will work.'

'Why?' I pulled back. 'You just think it's sexy, right? You think it's hot.'

'No.' Patrice looked surprised. 'Because it's good business! It's like a restaurant, right? People need food, and people need sex. You'll always have clients. And what should I call you? You're no longer with Peter, but you're not mademoiselle.'

'No, you're right,' I told him. 'I'm still Madame.'

'Madame Antonia.' He kissed me. 'Ça, c'est chaud,' he whispered in my ear.

'That's hot.'

It had been three months since Peter punched Patrice, and it was clear that our marriage was finished — but he still called me now and then, trying to see what he could pick from the wreckage.

'I thought what we had was sacred,' he told me one day. 'Not the sex, but the having children part. Our family.'

Sacred, I thought, huh. Like that baby you asked me to flush down a toilet, because you wanted to go for a sail?

And since I'm a history major, I thought about how that word has been used through the centuries. Women who were too sacred to get an education, because it was our God-given duty to raise kids. We were too sacred and pure for the workforce, because our God-given place was in the home.

Too sacred to go to war.

To hold office. To vote.

To wear pants, for Christ's sweet sake.

Too sacred to f**k who we want. And definitely too sacred to charge for it. Why do men always tell you you're sacred, when they're trying to keep you in line?

After Peter punched out Patrice, I put the throuple idea on ice. Then I made an appointment to see a divorce lawyer.

'So why are you here?' the lawyer wanted to know. 'Are you worried your husband's going to run off with countless millions?'

'No,' I told him truthfully. 'There's no millions. But there's a house, and fifty thousand dollars I inherited from my mother. I'm afraid he's going to clean out the money and sail away.'

'Mmm,' the lawyer acknowledged. 'Sail away… that's what I'd like to do. Usually on a Thursday.' He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. 'But if the money's in a joint account, it's half his. What do you want the money for, anyway? Maybe you should just let him sail off and good riddance. Fifty grand would be getting off cheap, I should say.'

'I want to start a business.'

'And what are you now?' He glanced down at his notes. 'A writer?' He arched one eyebrow. 'What sort of a business do you want to start?'

'An ethical… escort agency.' I felt nervous saying the words, like I was doing something dirty.

But the lawyer let out a bark of a laugh. 'Oh, thank Christ! I was afraid you were going to tell me you wanted go into publishing or something. An escort agency. At least you'll make some money at that!'

I hope so, I thought. I need it. But now the real fighting began. Peter had moved into an apartment in town, and he was pressuring me to buy him out of the house. This involved a toxic series of texts:

You disgust me.

You have to buy me out.

I can't even look at you.

You owe me money.

You have benefitted financially from being with me.

But then I remembered Phryne's words. Sex, she'd said, is a power negotiation. I went back to the lawyer, to talk about how I could protect the money I'd put aside for my business. 'He said I have to pay him,' I told the lawyer. 'A lot more than what he's put into the house, I mean. Because I've benefitted financially from being with him.' 'Hmm,' the lawyer mused, jotting something down on his notepad. 'So, what were you doing before you married him?'

'I was… running a children's theatre.'

The lawyer bit the tip of his pen, and I had the uncomfortable feeling he was trying hard not to laugh. 'So, you weren't making much money then. And you didn't work while you were married, except the one book. So actually, he's right. You didn't contribute financially.'

Really? I thought about the two children I had birthed. The years of interventions and therapies for Silas. The constant care for both babies, Silas with his disabilities and healthy, vigorous Miranda. The elaborate gourmet dinners I cooked. The bills I took care of. The sewing of curtains and upholstery. All the sex we'd had, over more than a decade: in the mouth, in the vagina, in the ass. The homes I made. The farms I ran. The friends I made. The parties I threw. The life I made for the four of us.

'No,' I agreed. 'You're right. I wasn't contributing much at all.'

Help me to understand, was what I wanted to say. If a man supports a woman while she's having sex with him, then he decides he doesn't want her anymore and asks for a refund, is that marriage? Is that sex work?

What's the difference?

In a week, the lawyer found a precedent that meant the money I'd intended for the business was mine. 'If you've parked it in a separate account,' he explained, 'and you both understood it was intended for a specific expense, like starting a business, then you can keep it in the divorce. It's yours.' So I mortgaged the house to pay Peter, and he stopped sending threatening texts.

One day, I discovered a sex shop in town, where I met an intriguing new friend. Tall and strawberry blonde, Karli was bubbly and warm, always excited about the next shiny new thing. She was unpacking a box full of dildos and vibrators, and when I told her I wanted to open an escort agency, she practically squealed in delight. 'Are you kidding me?' she asked. 'There's nothing like that in town. You'll make stacks of cash! Well,' she corrected, wrinkling her nose. 'There is the Velvet Lounge. But yuck, no one goes there but crackheads and losers.' She flicked on large purple vibrator, buzzing it back across her shoulders. 'Aw, these things are the best,' she sighed in delight. 'And the extra-long ones get the tough spots!'

She switched off the vibrator and put it on a shelf, then looked at me curiously. 'What are you going to call this place? Pleasure Therapy? Pleasure Palace? Pleasure. . . Paradise?'

'I don't know,' I admitted. 'I have the idea, but I don't have a name.'

'It's got to be something fresh, up here in Northland.' She ran her tongue over her lips, considering. 'Something that makes people feel…'

'Like they're leaving their worries behind!' I finished. 'Like a beach house, where you'd go in the summer!'

'Well that's it then.' She twirled both her hands. Ta-da. 'But if it's a beach house, you'll call it a bach.' She rhymed it with catch. 'That's what we call beach houses here.'

'Really?' I tried out the word in my mouth. 'A . . . bach?'

'No, silly' She giggled. 'The Bach. Believe me, you'll be the only one in town!'

Karli had even more tricks up her sleeve. Born and raised in Whangārei, that girl knew everyone. When I complained that I couldn't find a place for my business, she tapped her long coral nails on her glass display case. 'Hmm. Let me make a few calls.' The next day, she texted:

I know a guy. His name is Gavin. He's not too friendly but he's the most successful commercial real estate agent in town. Call him.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to have a woman on my side again. Since I'd shown myself to be an adulterous slut, no one in Purua still spoke to us. And now that I was opening the new brothel in town, I had a feeling I was going to need a friend.

Gavin swept into our meeting in a long black overcoat, his slight, pointed overbite giving him a rattish expression. Sitting down, he got straight to the point.

'I own a motel,' he explained, 'as an investment. But I don't want to run it. If you manage it for me, then you can do your brothel there or whatever. Karli told me your idea — I don't care what you do. Just manage the place and keep things on the up and up. I'm happy to look the other way.'

By this time, we were well into the month of September, and I was enormously pregnant. Gavin rolled back the passenger seat in his truck, and cleared away some bottles so I could climb in. Then he drove me to the Marina Court Motel to inspect it, and right away, I knew it could work. Perched on the banks on the Hatea river, the property had eight rooms, each with its own ensuite bathroom. Spread across two cinderblock buildings, the units were basic and worn, with dusty venetian blinds and carpet that had seen better days. There was a third building on the property as well, with the reception and laundry for the motel, Gavin's own private apartment, and a small one-bedroom unit intended for a hotel manager. Gavin pulled a crumpled profit and loss statement out of his pocket which said that the place broke even, and how hard could it be to run a hotel with only eight rooms?

So, I signed a three-year business lease. With the rent and insurance, it was eight grand a month.

Matisse was born at home on a crisp October night, a three-quarters moon hanging bright in the sky. 'This baby will come fast,' my midwife had warned Patrice. 'You'd better be ready to catch it.'

When the contractions got sharp and more frequent, I lowered myself into the hot tub. 'And then you screamed like one of those heavy metal guys,' Patrice told me. 'I didn't know a person could make such terrible sounds!' He'd tried to comfort me, stroking my naked, wet back.

'Touche pas à mon dos,' I snarled. Do not touch my back.

In just 40 minutes, I felt myself open. The head came out, this child that was half-fish and half-human, that could stay underwater without breath. 'Keep the baby under until he's all the way out,' the midwife had said. 'If his face touches air, he'll start breathing.' Then I pushed one last time, with a scream that tore open the world.

I reached down and brought the baby up to my chest. Patrice leaned over to kiss me, holding us awkwardly in the water. Our son made little mewling sounds, like a new baby kitten. Patrice went to get a hat and a blanket.

I was there in the starlight, alone with my baby. The weight of him warm on my chest. There were three rolls of fat on his neck, a head of dark, wet hair, and the feel of him breathing. The feel of him healthy. The feel of him strong.

Did I reach out of my marriage and take this baby from a man who hadn't quite finished his?

Maybe.

Sometimes, when you feel ripped off by the universe, you take what you think you deserve.

Madam, by Antonia Murphy, $34.99, published by Simon and Schuster, is out now. Order it here.

Feature Image: Supplied.