Sex with Joe was wild, and the creativity and need for approval that he manifested in every area of his life, he also applied to our lovemaking. He prided himself on keeping it interesting from the very first time, which I seem to remember was up against a wall. We did it over sofas, on the kitchen table, in a lift, in the loo on a train, and even half in the wardrobe on one occasion; I still have a vivid memory of being face down in a sock draw. Oh yes, we did it in all the most romantic locations. One night, he’d been reading that porn stars used toothpaste to keep an erection for longer, and he dutifully rubbed some on to his penis. Sadly, he hadn’t taken into account that he’d used menthol, and hopped around the place in agony, finally plunging his burning minty-flavored willie into a sink of cold water. I couldn’t stop laughing. We did laugh a lot in the first years we were together, and I’d never been fitter in my attempts to keep up with the gymnastics that were our sex life. With Joe, it was always as though he had to prove himself to someone, and when I met his parents, I realized why. His mother was warm and adored her son, his father distant, critical, and never praised Joe, though it was clear how desperately he craved his father’s approval. I understood then where the insecurity that was behind Joe’s successful mask had come from. He was really just a boy wanting to make his dad proud of him. Sadly that never happened, but it made me love and care for him all the more. I would make up for the lack from his father, I’d thought. I’d cherish and change him.

We talked about getting married; so many of our friends were tying the knot and we had wonderful weekends at their weddings in country hotels, some in the UK, one in France, another in Italy. Our early years were happy ones; Joe was full of life, energy and fun, and so generous, always buying gifts or clothes or perfume. He appeared to adore me, and it was heady stuff after Michael’s rejection and departure. I loved having a home, keeping it nice, cooking for him, having someone to share my life with.