All right, she’d snapped at Wendy about date nights. And, yes, she should be warmer towards Alice. So where was it coming from? Tina cited tiredness all the time, but Bette thought it more likely frustration.

‘We’re fine, y’see. I mean, why were we even at a therapist?’ Artie babbled his little baby speculations. ‘Yeah. I know. You raise a good point.’

For months, every night when she lay down, Bette felt like her mind was on fire, counting off problems to be solved like they were on a string of worry beads. Except for the one she kept skipping over. 

‘Thing is,’ she said very softly, feeling her guard drop as she let the words take shape, ‘I seem to have misplaced my libido.’ 

Her face warmed. She watched the baby grasp her pinkie. 

‘Not anything you need the detail on, but you know my wife? Blonde, about five-six, hazel eyes? A real doll. Well, I think the real reason I snapped at the date-night thing is . . . I’m not paying attention to her the way I should. The way I think she’d like me to. The way I know I want to, up here.’

She tapped the side of her head. And her mind went back to Monday night, getting ready for bed: how they’d gone over the day, their tasks for the next day, wondering about Angie, wondering about Alice, but then, just before she’d gone to put out the lamp, Bette had looked at Tina – just looked at her for a moment – and Tina put her head on one side and looked back. 

Time was, she’d always have come to bed glowing and fragrant. Bette remembered so many nights in their LA house, lying in bed listening to Tina humming while she went through her skin routine. She was dedicated, much more than Bette. But it didn’t take long to change, and on Monday night Bette had noticed Tina’s sun-bleached brows were growing in unruly. A cleft above the bridge of her nose had deepened, as had those little lines at the corners of her mouth. There was a little zit on her temple.

‘She was beautiful.’ Bette almost swooned at the memory. ‘Right there, in all her there-ness, just . . . perfect. So I kissed her. Softly, really soft, the slow way she likes when everything else can wait, like a Sunday morning kiss . . .’ Artie chuckled for some reason. ‘Oh, you like that?’ She laughed. ‘Well, this is gonna disappoint you, because the next thing I knew, I woke up! I woke up and it was morning and the bedside lamp was still on.’