‘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.

Whilst she’s in the bath I order room service. We require serious comfort food so I order a big, greasy fried breakfast (powerful medicine for hangovers and broken hopes), a pile of pastries and huge steaming mugs of hot chocolate. I quickly shower whilst Issie flicks through the Sunday papers. We eat breakfast lying on the massive bed, wrapped in luxurious, white towelling dressing gowns. I couldn’t be happier. To me this is a perfect Sunday morning. I know Issie would be happier if I were a man.

‘But why does it matter?’ I ask, genuinely confused. ‘You had your servicing and you don’t have to put up with the inane conversation this morning. Best of both worlds.’

Issie sighs. ‘What if the conversation wasn’t inane but stimulating?’

‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’

She sighs again, very deeply this time. I know I am trying her patience.

‘No, it’s not unlikely. Men are people, Cas, and they are capable of relationships.’

It’s not that I think men are any more awful or dishonest than women where such matters are concerned. That’s such an archaic view. But as soon as sex comes into the equation, integrity, candour and decency invariably make a swift exit. Someone is bound to get hurt. I simply prefer it if it’s not me. Or Issie. Or Josh.

I catch sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. I can see what other people see, a five-foot-seven, size eight woman, with huge blue eyes and long dark hair.