‘He’s incognito.’

‘Oh, makes sense. I saw him slope off with that woman in the huge navy hat.’

‘Which one?’ asks Issie. ‘There were a dozen navy hats.’

‘The Emu one.’

‘Oh.’ She grins, despite herself, and I think, not for the first time, that Issie is too nice to be treated like this.

I put on the mini kettle and throw the biscuits to her. She needs the sugar. She catches them with one hand and this simple gesture makes my heart swell with pride. It is so unfair. There is no way Issie would ever have managed to do something so cool in front of a guy she fancied. Women are always so much nicer, more composed and funnier when blokes aren’t around. Why can’t we be our best selves in front of them?

‘Did you have full sex?’ I ask, trying to establish the level of disappointment.

‘Yes.’ She sounds guilty.

‘Don’t sweat it, forget it. I’m not your mum.’ But I know she’s wracked with shame and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing. She’s explained it often enough. I try to cheer her up. ‘I also had full sex and I’m not expecting to see him again either.’

‘But you don’t care. You have no feelings.’ Fair point. I shrug. I’m as hard as nails on the outside. Scratch the surface and I’m as hard as nails on the inside. Impenetrable. Well, emotionally impenetrable, not the other. Not frigid. Technically, I guess, for want of a more user-friendly term, I’m a slapper. I start to run her a bath. I’m overly generous with the bubble bath. Bubbles are so frivolous. They never fail to cheer me up.

‘Was it good sex?’ I shout above the running tap.

‘Not particularly – we hardly know each other.’

So why is she so upset? I walk back into the bedroom and start to drag her towards the bathroom.

‘What did I do wrong?’ she wails. I’ve heard this question so often that I have a stockpile of answers. ‘You did nothing wrong.’ ‘Men are simply incapable of more.’ Etc., etc. None of it helps. She still regularly has her heart stomped upon.