I think about this while she changes her focus and looks out of the window. I think she’s spotted my leaf. She turns to me decisively. ‘I am here to help you,’ she says. ‘We can go about it any way you wish, Connie, we can take different roles if that is more helpful . . . ?’ She lets that idea float about for a bit. I hope she can read my expression: she can ram her drama games where the sun don’t shine. Talking of which, the sun has stopped shining and the room seems suddenly dark. She is still staring at me. She’s got flecks of brown in those hard blue eyes.

‘Would you say your life’s pretty good?’ I ask her, folding my arms, cocking my head, listening out for her wolf. ‘You’ve got this interesting job, you must make decent money. You’ve got lovely Si Hubby . . . He’s such a good loyal husband, isn’t he? Maybe he’s put the kids to bed by the time you get back tonight after your hard day of being so helpful. You get home, chat in the kitchen, open a bottle of wine, move through to the sitting room, maybe have dinner in front of a few episodes of the latest Scandi TV drama. Then eventually you’ll go up to bed.

‘Ah, here’s the rub,’ I add, sotto voce for maximum effect. ‘It might turn out to be that night, the one you’ve been subtly avoiding: the once-a-month duty fuck. Or perhaps you can continue to avoid it, stall a bit, or go up before him and feign sleep. Don’t get me wrong – you’re a good wife, you love him and all that, and you know that sex is important in a relationship, blah blah blah, all the magazines tell you that; in fact you probably tell people that, troublemaker that you are. But still, you’ll eke out your time in the bathroom in case, you know, he tries something on. You’re so tired, you see, saving all these people, such exhausting work. And besides, sex is such an effort. But how long can you realistically avoid it when it’s all part of the deal, the unspoken contract of a couple?