‘I dunno,’ I whisper, undoing my dressing gown and turning him around. I hold it open, so he can see my underwear. I know my body has seen better days, but I still feel sexual. And if I feel sexual, then why should my body matter? My mother was a really open woman. When I was an insecure teenager, she told me that men find confidence the sexiest thing of all. I’ve let those words drive me for most of my life. It’s only now that I am starting to doubt them. Doubt myself.

‘Beth, come on now,’ he says, pulling my dressing gown back together. ‘Not here.’

‘Not here? In our house?’

‘Beth, please. I’m cooking.’

‘Turn it off. Come on, let’s do it, here, on the chopping board.’ I pull myself up onto the kitchen island and open my legs. I’ve got underwear on so it’s hardly an X-rated image, but he can’t cope with it anyway.

‘Beth, please. Come on now, don’t be … Don’t be …’

‘Don’t be …? Come on, say it,’ I press, presuming he is about to say something like ‘silly’.

‘Don’t be gross.’

‘Gross?’ I repeat, my eyes unable to blink. ‘You think I am gross?’

‘No, you’re not gross, but all this …’ He flicks his hand around, gesturing to my body. ‘It’s just a bit …’

‘Gross. Yes, you said.’

‘I was just on the phone with my mum, you can’t come in and beg for sex when I’ve just been talking to my mother.’

‘This isn’t begging, this is offering, Michael. There’s a big difference. I’m offering my husband my body because I’d enjoy it if he took it.’

‘Either way, it’s all a bit … desperate. Isn’t it?’ He’s turned around now, back to his bolognaise.

Desperate?

After a few moments of him stirring, and me not knowing what the hell to do next, he breaks the silence.

‘What shall we watch with dinner then?’

Really? He’s going to move on, just like that?

‘I don’t mind,’ I say, trying not to sound upset.

I tie up my dressing gown and go plonk myself on the sofa, upset and despondent. As I search through Netflix for something good enough to distract me from the disaster that is my sex life, he lays my food on the coffee table in front of me.

‘It’s brown rice pasta,’ he tells me. ‘Healthy.’

‘OK,’ I say, not really hungry.

‘Yes, I thought few healthier choices wouldn’t do any harm. Love you,’ he says, heading back to get his own plate.

I eat the entire bowl.

Ruby