‘Michael, can we talk?’ I sit next to him on the sofa. He turns the TV off, making the fair assumption that it’s about something serious.

‘Before I say what I’m going to say it’s really important to me that you understand that I’m not crazy.’

‘What? Who said you were crazy?’

‘You, Michael. You’ve been trying to make me feel like I’m crazy for years.’

He shuffles and looks ready to jump onto the defence. I don’t let it stop me, not this time.

‘Over the course of our relationship, you’ve become less and less interested in sex,’ I say, looking him in the eye.

‘Fucking hell, Beth. This again? Really? I’ve been working all day …’ he says, standing up. Ready to make me out to be crazy, or desperate, or obsessed with some filth I should be ashamed of.

‘So have I,’ I remind him. ‘I’ve been working all day, taking care of Tommy, and thinking about us. All day. Sit down.’ I wait for him to oblige. ‘You’ve become less and less interested in sex. That’s OK, I somehow think that we could work that out. We could find out why it was happening and find a solution together. I’d have done whatever it took. But rather than do that, you chose to accuse me of being demented, fat, perverted. You’ve done what you can to make out like I’m the one with the problem, not you. You were content to masturbate to hardcore porn but made me out to be a lunatic for wanting sex with my husband. Your double standard is unbearable. Your treatment of me has been so damaging that you gave me a problem, a big one. Not about my weight, like you hoped. I am very comfortable with the way that I look. But you did make me obsessed with sex.’

He rolls his eyes. I don’t care. I’m saying this.

‘I became so obsessed with sex that I went looking for it. I hid behind trees in parks and watched strangers do it, I scanned the Internet looking at porn, the filthier the better.’

He stands up again. ‘OK Beth, I do not need to hear this,’ he says, using anger to try to silence me. A tactic I am very familiar with.

‘Oh yes you do. Sit down!’

He does as he is told.

‘I slept with someone else, Michael. Last week. I felt so lonely, so rejected, so unattractive and so desperate, that I slept with someone else.’

‘You cheated on me?’

‘Yes, I did. I cheated on you. And I’m not proud of that, but I also know exactly why I did it. And if you don’t take some responsibility for it, then that’s not fair.’