Still, the fact that everyone else here is probably deaf means that it won’t matter if we make some unseemly noise when we have our night of unbridled passion in room number 4 with a view of the sea. Greg could take me up against the picture window while I bare my breasts to the seagulls of Cromer. A thrill runs through me at the thought.

In preparation, the other day I popped into a nice lingerie shop with an Italian name, and paid continental prices for a little lacy bra and matching knickers. It’s not often that my underwear is co-ordinated – some days I’m lucky if my outer clothing is – and I think it’s something that I must address. A filmy kimono thing came with the set that I can slip on over the undies. Very sexy. Very Marilyn Monroe. I haven’t got them on now, of course. I’m saving them for later. We’re planning to go for a walk on the beach while the sun is still shining and I didn’t want the lacy bits to be scratchy under my jeans. Even femmes fatales have to be practical.

I look out of said picture window with sea view – which is ten pounds extra at the Clifftop Guest House. (If you don’t pay it, you get a view of the car park and the You Win Bingo emporium.) It’s beautiful out there, in a stark way. The sky is milky blue, the sea a more steely shade . . . but it’s not quite the Turks and Caicos Isles, is it? There’s plenty of sand, but it isn’t white and powdery, it’s more mustard yellow and damp. The absence of swaying palms is noticeable.

It’s not quite Peru either. Speaking of which, I brought my travel guide with me in my handbag, hoping that I’d have time for a more thorough perusal while we were here and, perhaps, be able to raise the subject with my husband. As yet, I haven’t had the chance. I get car sick if I read, but my time will come.

Greg comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I hear a wistful sigh as he stares out to sea. ‘I’m glad you persuaded me to come away for the weekend,’ he says. ‘We are getting set in our ways.’

A breakthrough, I think. Like me, he’s ready to try new things, embrace a new life that doesn’t involve Mrs Emerson or nylon in any way, shape or form.

‘We can make a booking now for September while we’re here,’ he continues, before I have a chance to congratulate him on his insight into my frustration.

September? Greg’s planning to come back here? Why can’t he see it through my eyes? Why can’t he see the peeling paint, the faded carpet, the chipped Formica furniture? Why?