I must be more careful.

And bloody hell, was I glad that ‘supper’ was over. Not only because I’d spent the past three hours dying – almost literally – to get out of jeans so tight there was almost no blood left in my legs, let alone my buttocks, but also because, long before the watery pudding thing was served to loud oohs and ahs, my phone had gone flat.

Having checked there was no suitable charger – (‘Strictly an Apple household, so sorry!’) – I’d begun to experience my own flattening in energy and mood. My irritation had built through the next course of something so fishy, it reminded me of cat food – followed by some disgusting cheese that stank like the running trainers Rex used once a year – until it peaked: so intense, in fact, it had taken all my remaining energy not to run screaming across the square.

And, of course, there might have been no blood left in my legs as I’d peeled off the skin-tight jeans just now – not the jumpsuit I’d been wearing originally when Rex came home, but what he’d suggested I should wear – but there had been lots of blood, again, earlier. So much I’d spent the whole evening shuttling back and forth to the Jacksons’ designer bathroom, to check I wasn’t leaking.

Yes, I’d been feeling bleaker than midwinter since about 3 p.m., when I’d discovered all hope was bleeding out of me, yet again.

Brilliant in places, darker in others, clotted, staining my thighs and, in a nasty twist of irony, no bloody surprise – not really, though I’d been sure this time. My boobs had been sore, my tummy swollen, hormones raging.

I was so positive that this time it was really happening and yet – deep down – I’d also known it was just fantasy. Again.

It was the most terrible assault on hope, every time it happened, on who I’d imagined I’d become; the despondency a nasty greedy gremlin, clawing its way up my back to take the joy, to suck the possibility out of me.

Each day, each hour, each second the chances of conceiving lessened to pinhead size. I was far too old, should be happy with my lot; I loved my stepdaughter Ceci dearly; we could adopt – if I could persuade Rex, and God knew I understood kids needed a second chance. I’d do it happily – but no.

I still couldn’t help myself: the desire for my own child burnt so strong, the flame was hard to extinguish.

I couldn’t help praying, between each and every period.

This afternoon, lying on the bathroom floor, crying so violently I’d crawled to the loo to retch, the scarlet flood was only the latest sign of my failure to be a proper woman, a true citizen of the world.

And yet deep down, I acknowledged this inexplicable infertility must be my due punishment for past sins.

When Rex had got home, I’d tried to cry off from Nella’s – but it was soon clear I had no choice. Rex had the Jacksons firmly in his sights.