‘Just a couple of drinks,’ Andy says, kissing me fleetingly on his way out. ‘Won’t be a late one. Sorry, I totally forgot what day it is. You don’t mind, do you?’ He pulls a pained expression.

‘Of course not.’ What else am I going to say? Since V-Day is Non-Honoured it would seem ridiculous to kick up a fuss. I mean, what would we be doing anyway? Watching TV?

An hour or so later, still irritated and listless, I text my friend Shelley to vent that my husband has chosen tonight to meet up with a couple of old mates, but never-bloody-mind. I hadn’t realised her partner, Laurence, is away with work. We decide she must come over right away (Izzy is already tucked up in bed, and Shelley doesn’t have kids).

It’s my full intention to be perky and cheerful tonight. Shelley is a social worker with a barely manageable caseload, and the last thing she wants is for me to be blethering on about how Andy seems to have developed an aversion towards me. But after a large glass of wine, it all tumbles out: how mild disdain seems to be his default setting; how unaffectionate he is generally, and how I suspect he could quite happily never have sex with me again. How there’s always some excuse not to do it, and how shitty and rejected I’ve felt, night after night, to the point at which I have now stopped trying to initiate anything at all.

How I stand there naked sometimes, looking at my middle-aged body with the saggy boobs and wobbly stomach in our full-length mirror and think: Christ, no wonder he doesn’t want to do it with me. I mean, who would?

‘Could it be that simple?’ I ask Shelley. ‘That, basically, he no longer likes what he sees?’

‘Of course it’s not that,’ she retorts. ‘You’re gorgeous, Viv. Don’t be crazy. If he doesn’t realise how lucky he is, he’s an idiot.’ She pauses. ‘It’s probably nothing to do with you at all. It’ll be his job, I bet. He’s probably just tired and stressed, or he’s become complacent—’

‘Or maybe I had all my quota in our early years,’ I cut in, topping up her glass.

‘Of sex, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t think it quite works like that,’ she says with a wry smile. She tucks her stockinged feet under her on the sofa and smooths down her fine auburn hair.

‘It might. You can overdo things, can’t you? Like when you eat too much of the same thing and suddenly you can’t stand it.’

‘Oh, God, yeah. Like hummus.’ She shudders. ‘The smell of it makes me want to vomit now.’