Our bedroom is very lacy. I’ve tried to keep it traditional-looking with a wrought-iron bed and a white cutwork duvet cover—which is an utter pig to iron—and a traditional Victorian wash-stand which we bought at an inflated price from one of the three thousand antique shops that we now seem to have in St Albans. I keep a photograph of Jake and me on top of it in an old marquetry frame. Picking it up, I mimic Jake’s wobbly smile and trace my finger over his ruffled hair. Even after four years when the first flush of lust has died down, I still love him to bits. He’s handsome and generally very dependable and he works so hard at the agency—he’s going to go a long way some day. My mother wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—she says he has dangerous eyes. And I know what she means. He has a dark twinkle in them somewhere that says I’m a man with secrets—but I don’t think he is. Not really.

Putting the photograph back in its place, I peel off the last of my clothes and, taking the phone handset with me in case Jake rings, pad through to the bathroom enjoying the roughness of the Sisal flooring on my tired feet.

I love our bathroom. I take so much care over making it look nice. There are shell-shaped dishes of little soaps on the windowsill, church candles in white ceramic holders and matching towels. I could happily spend my life in here. The bath is overfull and too hot—I’m very particular about water temperature. I don’t want broken veins by the time I’m forty, so I never stew myself—well, not often. Occasionally it’s very therapeutic to boil your own bum, but not tonight. So I plunge my hand in and pull out the plug to let a bit of water out so I can add some more cold. Then I pour in some bath oil—lavender and something or other—to soothe my weary bones.