A F TER SO LONG TOGETHER, IS THIS THE E ND?

Visiting a marriage therapist was going to be fraught, but it becomes excruciating, too

Ididn’t want to do it. But like phoning the bank to discuss my overdraft, or sitting though a school production of Oklahoma (accents courtesy of Loyd Grossman by way of Elephant & Castle), I forced myself. Richard, sailing on a breeze of efficiency like a freshly painted catamaran, had already made us an appointment with a local therapist, “Just to talk through the options.”

I’d have liked a male therapist, on the basis that he wouldn’t be charmed by Richard’s slow, poignant nodding at everything he said, or his “emotional articulacy” – that was an actual quote from the last counsellor we’d been to see 13 years earlier, which I’d assumed was a veiled reference to the fact that I would brood as he happily set out the contents of his brain like a deconstructed owl pellet. I thought that while he was able to charm women instantly – the number of women at parties who’d come up to me twinkling “I’ve just been chatting to your lovely husband” made me feel like his celebrity handler – a male therapist would be wise to his tricks and challenge him man-to-man.

Nevertheless, given that we now lived in a Dorset village, we didn’t have much choice. Paula lived four miles away, practised from home and, according to Richard, “sounded intelligent.”

“She’s not going to go on about mindfulness, is she?” I said. He sighed and said, “Why do you always have to be so negative about things?”

But ironically, as the appointment approached, we began to get on better.

Knowing we’d soon be expected to talk about our marital issues put us on our best behaviour, aware that the other might be stockpiling an arsenal of grievances. I’d make him a cup of tea without being asked, he’d watch a sex scene on TV without sighing “that brings back distant memories”.

On the day of the appointment, we were strangely jolly, joking in the car about whether she’d make us do embarrassing “intimacy” exercises, where we’d have to stare into each others’ eyes and repeat mantras.

“I’ll run away if we do,” I said, and Richard agreed that he’d come with me.

It began to feel absurd that we could get along, laugh, enjoy time together the way we once did, yet be on our way to try to fix our broken marriage.

When Paula opened the door, I tensed again.

She was in her fifties, calm, wellspoken and tastefully dressed. I immediately felt hysterical and overwrought in my flower-print 1950s frock.

She ushered us into her calming, cream-painted consulting room. Richard sat in the middle of the sofa, and I was faced with the hard armchair, or squashing alongside him like some love-struck teenager on a date. I chose the armchair, already irritated.

“So,” said Paula, settling into her own chair and subtly nudging a box of tissues forward on the coffee table, “what brings you here today?”

“Well,” began Richard, and I sighed audibly. It was going to be a tough hour.