I get back on Yelp to look for a new salon. One has mostly five-star reviews and is right over the other side of London (good, as less chance of me bumping into anyone from it). I book a morning appointment through their online portal for next week, and hope that whoever does it has seen worse than what they will see when I take my clothes off.

I’ve developed an irritating interest in Lauren Pearce’s Instagram page. The woman is ridiculous, shameful and captivating all at once. A recent post about not loving herself has really fuelled my judgement. She is in a yoga pose that looks as effortless as it does beautiful. She talks about not feeling good or happy yet looks sensational and Zen as hell in the photo. The entire purpose of the post is for mere mortals like me to write compliments underneath it. Well I won’t be doing that. What on earth does a twenty-eight-year-old blonde, beautiful, thin, rich and engaged to a finance exec turned TV star, know about self-loathing? It makes a mockery out of people like me who have real reasons to dislike ourselves. Mental health is the latest zeitgeist. Celebrities using it as currency. Getting on the depression bandwagon, hoping to be called ‘brave’ for admitting to not being happy, whilst showing us nothing but examples of the perfect life.

Either Lauren Pearce is faking happiness and that post revealed a little of the truth, or she is faking self-doubt to gain attention. Either way, she’s a fraud. But for some odd reason, I can’t get enough of her.

‘Mummy, come and play with me,’ Bonnie calls up the stairs.

‘Not now, Bonnie. Please! Mummy is very busy.’

‘Oooooooohh,’ I hear, as the crash of a huge box of Lego hits the living room floor. It isn’t followed by a scream.

I continue to trawl through Lauren’s Instagram feed. It’s worryingly addictive.

Beth

I find myself consumed with a strong need to orgasm. I am torn about whether what I experienced today was a form of cheating or not. Witnessing sex accidentally is not infidelity, but choosing not to walk away, is that? Finding yourself magnificently turned on as a result of it, is that the problem? We can’t hide from sex, it’s everywhere. Everywhere I look there is something that turns me on. And I am craving being desired, it’s turning me into the person Michael thinks I am. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do have a problem?

I tell myself I will feel less deceitful if my husband is part of this. If he is the one who brings me to my climax, then what I saw was all for the good of our relationship, right?