Page 74 of Who’s That Girl?

I zone back in. ‘Oh, sorry, I totally forgot.’

‘Oh, well, never mind.’ He shrugs, flicking through the channels. ‘There’s probably a film on.’ An old Clint Eastwood movie pops up on the screen.

‘Actually, I think I might go to bed,’ I say, propping my card up on the mantelpiece.

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he murmurs, already totally engrossed.

Leaving him glued to the TV, I go into the bathroom, get undressed and begin my usual night-time routine of cleansing, toning and moisturising. I have about a dozen different types of moisturiser. There’s this gel I use for under my eyes, which I have to dab on with my ring finger, a cream for my face that I’m supposed to massage in clockwise (or is it anti-clockwise?) sweeping motions and a lotion for my neck.

Opening my bathroom cabinet, I survey the overflowing shelves. To tell the truth, I feel exhausted just looking at them. I have about a zillion products in here that promise to firm, smooth, brighten and erase wrinkles, and despite the fact that none of them seem to make much difference, I’m always buying more. I can’t help it. In fact I just bought this new serum that’s being hailed as a ‘miracle in a jar’. Apparently, it’s made of bits of gold leaf and makes your pores disappear.

Saying that, I’ve never quite worked out why exactly I’m supposed to want my pores to disappear, but the results are meant to be amazing. Quite frankly, for that price, they’d better be.

Slathering a few different things all over my face (well, in for a penny, in for a pound – actually, make that several hundred pounds), I clean my teeth using my electric toothbrush and whitening toothpaste, floss and finally rinse.

Done.

With the drone of the TV still coming from the living room, I look back at my reflection, my thirty-two-year-old reflection. Bare-faced, hair tied up in a scrunchie and wearing my oversized flowery pyjamas, I look about as sexy as, well, anyone wearing oversized pyjamas with their hair tied up in a scrunchie can look.

Suddenly Vanessa’s words about having sex with Julian here, there and everywhere before they had children flash up like a neon sign in my mind. It’s been over a week since Miles and I spent the night together, and even longer since we had sex. Admittedly, we have both been stressed with work, and I know passion can fade when you’re in a committed, long-term relationship, but that’s why it’s important to make even more of an effort.

Padding into the bedroom, I quickly slip on a satin camisole and shake out my hair. Hopefully this will spice things up a bit, I tell myself, spritzing my pulse points with perfume and dabbing a bit on my decolletage like they always tell you to do in those articles.

Turning on my bedside lamp, I climb into bed, then climb out again and flick off the main light. Ambient lighting. It’s very important. I plump a pillow and arrange myself just so. Then wait expectantly. I can still hear the TV, but I’m sure he’ll be in any minute.

I wait a bit longer.

Maybe I should light a candle.

I light a candle. It’s vanilla, musk and jasmine and smells gorgeous. I inhale its aroma and fiddle with the straps of my camisole. I let one slip off my shoulder. Then both. Urgh, God, no, that looks too corny, I decide, shoving them back up again.

I listen out for any sound of movement, but all I can hear is the TV. Restlessly I glance at my watch. It’s been twenty minutes. I hesitate, then call in my most husky voice, ‘Miles? Are you coming to bed?’

Nothing.

I wait a few more moments, then raise it a notch. ‘Miles?’ I call out.

Again nothing. Just the sound of a gunshot on the TV and the wail of a police siren.

Oh, sod it. ‘Miles!’ I yell loudly. ‘Can you hear me?’

Obviously he can’t, as there’s no answer. Giving up in frustration, I clamber out of bed and stomp into the living room, to find him lying flat out on the sofa, head lolled back, mouth open, emitting a faint, rattling snore.

I watch him for a moment, half inclined to wake him up and demand he have sex with me on my birthday, and then immediately think better of it. Miles is useless when he’s had a few drinks. As if on cue, he splutters slightly, rolls over and nuzzles, snuffling into a cushion. Plus, quite frankly, what flames of passion I was trying to fan have now abruptly been extinguished.

So instead I turn off the TV, cover him in a spare duvet and go back to bed.

And lie there.

I glance at the digits on the alarm clock. It’s only 10.30 p.m. and I’m in bed. On my birthday. God, if someone had told me ten years ago that I’d be in bed before 11 p.m. on my birthday I would never have believed them. Back then birthdays were all about partying and getting drunk and staying up till the crack of dawn. Like I said, though, I really do need to catch up on my sleep.

Flicking on the sound machine and humidifier, I blow out the candle and switch off the light. Pulling on my eye mask, I close my eyes, but my mind has other ideas.

I wonder what Lottie is doing? it whispers in my ear.

I dunno, probably partying, I think, trying to ignore it.

Partying where? it demands, a little louder.