Amy Elman Doesn't Feel Sexy

by Mary Newnham

Genres: City Life; Marriage & Divorce; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

Don't miss this utterly hilarious and laugh-out-loud debut - coming in 2026!

Release date: January 22, 2026

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Skogsfräken

180 Nights

Josh’s back is a hairless white wall with seven moles – four on the left shoulder and three down the spine. If you stare at it long enough, you can make out the Big Dipper or a square-bodied sperm. He’s spooning his Swedish lover, Skogsfräken. When we bought the easy-care IKEA pillow last summer, I didn’t expect it would be something I had to compete with, but mornings like these make me feel jealous of the machine-washable Scandinavian.

It hasn’t always been this way. When we were two scrappy students, we’d wake up and find each other under the thin duvet, and I’d get so close to him that his skin became blurry. I guess it’s only natural after 10 years for the novelty of my body to wear off.

Josh’s alarm goes off, which means it’s six on the dot. There isn’t a sound on earth that I hate more than Apple’s Radar alarm. He wriggles, stretches and flips over.

‘How’s the head, Lab Rat?’ he asks. His smile is too big for this time of morning.

‘Why didn’t you stop me?’ My voice comes out like a fuzzy radio. It was meant to be a quiet local New Year’s Eve in Clapham Junction with Pete and Nina, but cheap Prosecco and other forces (sambuca) ended that. I can sort of remember Nina and me singing Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ into wine bottles and Pete challenging Josh to a press-up competition in the middle of Northcote Records. The rest is a little hazy.

Josh jumps out of bed, picks up a pair of boxers from the folded pile on the drawers and gives them a big, long sniff.

‘They’re clean,’ I groan.

‘Clean boxers, what a beautiful start to the year.’ He pulls them up, then puts his gym shorts on and tightens them around his branchy hips.

‘Are you actually going to the gym on New Year’s Day?’ I ask in disgust.

‘It’s Chest Day,’ he says, offended. ‘Muscles don’t read calendars, Amy.’

I roll my eyes at the ceiling. It began with the Joe Rogan podcast, followed by a gym membership, and now I’m living with a man who seems to be training for war. I’ve never heard so many motivational quotes in my life. At any given opportunity, he will slip one into a conversation, even when not requested (they are never requested). Another element of this new lifestyle is that the days of the week are now named after body parts. Today is Monday, which means Chest Day. Tomorrow will be Back Day, Wednesday is Leg Day, and so forth. I didn’t want this gym routine to be burnt into my brain, taking up space, but that’s where we are.

Josh begins lunging in the middle of our bedroom floor.

‘Mum’s going to ask us a favour today,’ he says.

‘If it’s to look after Gary again, then please, please, please, can we not say yes?’

‘What’s wrong with Gary?’ he says, frowning.

‘Don’t you remember? He barked at everything all day, every day.’

‘Gary is great.’

I bite my lip. I refuse to spend the first morning of 2025 listing reasons why Gary, the chaotic Springer Spaniel, is not great. ‘So, you think that’s the favour, dog sitting?’

He shrugs mid-lunge and gives me that dimpled smile that has escorted him through life. Josh is blessed with the elements of a good-looking man; he has the dark hair, the watery blue eyes, the thick beard. His only insecurity is that he wishes he was six foot, not five foot ten. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest as he’s still way taller than me, but men are funny about those things.

‘Right, let the gains begin,’ he shouts, bouncing up into the air. He kisses me on the forehead and dashes off like he’s late for a train.

I’m left with his grubby grey imprint next to me. We really need to buy new sheets this year. On his bedside table is a photo of us, gifted by me and put there by me. It was taken in the Alps during an après-ski session almost two years ago to the day. We are puffed out in skiwear with his arm over my shoulder and we have identical grins. He had proposed only an hour before in a cable car that we were sharing with a couple from Ohio. ‘Oh my Ghad!’, ‘Oh my Ghad!’, ‘Oh my Ghad!’ was the background noise to that intimate moment.

I get my notebook (not journal) from the drawer in my bedside table. It was bought so I could plan our wedding in it. On the first page, I’ve written, ‘Amy and Josh’s Wedding’; beneath it is a long list with nothing checked off. We quickly realised that if we wanted to save for a deposit for our dream countryside cottage life and afford our dream wedding venue, which is one of those rustic barns (I know, it’s cliché), we would need some time to save. So that’s what we’re doing now – saving. I flick to the back of the notebook, where the page is filled with tally marks. I draw a diagonal stick to make another set of five. That makes 180 sexless nights in a row.

There are prison sentences shorter than this.

I sort myself out. Porn is too on the nose for me. Instead, I have Graham Moores, the astrophysicist podcaster, who talks about the universe in a husky, Southern drawl. The cover is of him staring up at the night sky. He’s on a horse wearing a black cowboy hat, his thick thighs are bursting out of his jeans.

I pop in my earbuds and take off my star-patterned pyjama bottoms. Graham’s voice goes into my ears and down my body. ‘The mean orbit velocity which is the average speed of an entire orbit of Pluto is around 10,444 mph. Y’all know this is a snail’s pace compared to Earth, which orbits at 66,622 mph . . .’

Under the covers, I let out a tiny moan as I climax. I lie there, arms spread out, enjoying that blissful minute as my body recovers. Graham. What a man.

Right. Now, I can start the new year.

I get to the bathroom before Fifi gets there first. Fifi is our flatmate who hibernates in her bedroom, only appearing to heat up bowls of Heinz Cream of Tomato soup. When our paths do cross, the conversation is staggered and awkward, and neither of us enjoys the interaction. However, she pays her rent, she’s tidy and she doesn’t throw drug parties. That’s all anyone needs from a London flatmate.

I rinse off the hangover and then try to make myself presentable for the world.

Unlike Josh, there isn’t anything gravitating about my appearance. I am that mousey-haired pale British woman you see on every Tube ride. Over the years, people have told me I’ve got nice eyes. They are brown with a hint of gold. Can’t complain. Josh likes my eyes too. He has also said that I have good skin and a cute nose. Like a lot of men, he’s sparing with his compliments. I could do more with what I’ve got; learn how to do make-up properly, maybe get manicures, and I really should go to the gym. Now and again, I get inspired to buy something on-trend, like high-waisted flared jeans. Everyone seems to be wearing high-waisted flared jeans. So, I’ll try them on, only to look like Humpty-Dumpty at a disco. At 29, I’m resigning to the fact I’m just not that woman, and that’s okay. I bring other qualities to the table.

I towel-dry my hair and put on my trusty black jumper dress. Done.

By the time I’m ready, Josh is back from the gym and in the kitchen, whisking a post-workout protein shake, a bright pink goo that matches the colour of his cheeks.

‘Ready for The Big Butterses’ New Year’s Day Lunch?’ he says. No, I’m not ready to force leftover beef and stale mince pies into my mouth to please your mum. I don’t say this.

‘After coffee,’ I murmur as I reach for the kettle.

‘Caffeine.’ He tuts and shakes his head. This is the same man who survived on flat whites for most of our relationship, but since he’s been sucked into the fitness cult, he believes caffeine is on par with heroin.

‘Your ring is here, by the way.’ He holds up my engagement ring, aka his dead Grandma’s engagement ring. It’s a battered silver band with a humongous amethyst gem. When he opened the velvet box in the cable car that day, a tiny voice in my mind screamed, WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT? Then he asked me the question, and I cried as he slipped it on. Happy tears, of course.

‘Oh! I must have taken it off to wash up . . . again,’ I say, putting the bright purple diamond back on.

Gramps

No matter what is happening in the world, you can always rely on The Butters Family to be consistent.

Josh always parks behind his dad’s white van in the driveway. Gary goes berserk as soon as the engine is cut, and then the red door of the terrace house opens, and Josh’s parents appear arm in arm. His dad, Jason Butters, is bald with a surprisingly gentle face. He lives for Man United, ­Saturday fry-ups and his kids. Linda Butters was born to be a mother. She is cuddly, floral and likes her tea milky with three sugars. She may have had wild nights in the eighties, but there are no signs of them now.

‘I hope you guys are hungry,’ Linda calls out from the doorstep. And I get that feeling that I always get when I see Josh’s family, of being wrapped in a crochet blanket.

Their home is a shrine to the Butters Family. As you walk in, you are met with the hall of fame of family moments from the last three decades. There is a framed photo of 16-year-old Josh eating a burger at a family BBQ, and another of his older sister Laura sitting in a tree as a toddler. Then there are more typical photos, like Josh’s graduation and Laura and Ray’s wedding. Laura is almost reaching Ray’s height with her hair in a huge up-do, whilst Ray is staring intensely into the camera through his glasses as if he’s there against his will. Linda and Jason are next to Laura and look so proud that they could burst into a thousand confetti pieces. I am next to Josh – sunburnt and distracted by something off-camera. There is also a photo of Josh and me at his dad’s sixtieth birthday. His arm is over my shoulder, and this time I’m looking at the camera and smiling. I remember when I first saw it hanging there and felt warmed that the family didn’t mind seeing my face every day on their wall.

I wasn’t used to seeing myself in a frame. My parents were never the type to capture and cherish memories. The family photos we did have were kept in a photo album on a shelf in the dining room, next to the encyclopaedia set. The walls of our house were used to display The Elmans’ achievements. Mum’s dentistry certificate was in the lounge. Dad’s Gynaecologist certificate was awkwardly placed in our kitchen. Where there wasn’t a certificate, there was an oil painting of a landscape. Dad would find them in antique stores and charity shops and prided himself on having a ‘good eye’. Mum silently disagreed, and when they broke up, she found great joy in throwing all the landscapes away.

I go into the kitchen and, as always, it’s alive and kicking. Empty New Year’s Eve Prosecco bottles line the bench and gold confetti pieces in the shape of 2025 are sprinkled across the floor. The Christmas tree is struggling in the corner, and Robbie Willims is playing. Jason believes nineties pop was the best era of music. I don’t fully disagree with him.

‘Hot! Hot! Hot!’ Laura’s husband, Ray, shouts as he rushes past me. He squeezes a tray of brown balls onto the kitchen table, which is already full of food. There are different-­sized sausages, a half-eaten classic dip selection, a plate of bashed-in mince pies, slices of dried-up beef, broken-up pieces of bread and a bowl of Pringles. On every place mat, there is a Christmas cracker ready to be cracked.

‘What’s that?’ Laura asks, gesturing towards the cabbage in Josh’s hand. She is sitting at the end of the table on her phone. Laura likes nothing more than scrolling through videos on Instagram, most likely titled things like, ‘POV: You’re Married’ or ‘POV: You Hate Your Job’. She met Ray on a dating app and moved him from Kent to Maidenhead so she could be close to her parents. He paints Warhammer figures and earns a heck of a lot of money in IT. Laura works as an HR person for a pharmaceutical company. She hates every second of it but is staying for the maternity leave package. Recently, she dyed her hair blonde and cut it into a bob, turning her straight into her mum.

‘Our contribution to the lunch,’ Josh says, proudly lifting the cabbage. It was the only thing we had other than protein bars.

‘A cabbage? You are useless. My stuff is from M&S,’ she says and looks back down at her phone.

Linda takes my arm. ‘I need your help, Amy. It was Jason’s job, but the football seems to have taken him again.’ She pulls me to the cooker, where there is a tower of M&S boxes. She takes one from the top and squints. ‘Prawns . . . in . . . blankets. What is this world coming to?’ She examines the cooking instructions for a second and then gets flustered. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘Leave it with me,’ I say. It’s not that Linda is incapable of heating canapés, she just can’t be bothered.

She pulls me into one of her peach-potpourri-scented hugs.

‘You’re a star. What would we do without you?’

‘Mum. What do you want to do with the cabbage?’ Josh says, demanding her attention.

‘Just put it on the side, dear. We’ll erm . . .’ She stares into space. ‘Actually, Joshy, can you use your new big muscles to mash the potatoes?’

Josh hesitates for a second. ‘I . . . was about to catch the end of the match, if that’s okay?’ He gives her his dimpled smile.

Linda puts her hands on her hips and sighs warmly at her son. ‘Oh, go on then.’

Josh escapes the kitchen. A moment later, I hear him with his dad in the living room, shouting profanities at the referee. Classic.

I begin sliding the trays into the oven in order of duration. Ray has been given the potatoes to mash, along with opening the wine and putting the dishwasher on. An animal cheer comes from the lounge; Man United must have scored. Is it bad that my fiancé makes more noise while watching football than in our bed?

‘Where’s Ellie?’ a croaky, small voice says. I turn to see Gramps staring vacantly around the kitchen. Gramps hasn’t been ‘with it’ since Grandma Ellie died five years ago. He looks about 105. There’s a white crust around his mouth, a ring of cloudy hair from ear to ear, and he is practically blue from all the veins poking out from his skin. He always wears a suit and tie, and today his tie has a dancing penguin on it.

‘I hope you like M&S food, Gramps,’ Laura says. Gramps squints like he can’t detect where the voice has come from.

‘Where’s Ellie?’ he repeats.

‘Let’s sit you down, Dad.’ Linda parks him at the end of the table. I open the oven door to put the chicken doughnuts in.

‘Who’s that girl over there, the one with the big ­bottom?’ Gramps yells.

‘Dad, don’t say things like that,’ Linda loudly whispers.

‘Who is it, though?’

‘That’s Amy, Josh’s fiancée.’ Still loudly whispering. ‘You’re not allowed to say things like that anymore.’ I carry on as if I haven’t heard anything, but turn away so that my bum is out of Gramp’s eyeline. Josh and Jason pile back into the kitchen on a high. Man United won. Good for them. Josh comes over, peers at what I’m doing, and picks up one of the M&S canapé boxes.

‘Did you know there are 200 calories in that chicken doughnut?’ he says.

‘Joshy! Please, I do not want to hear a word about calories or carbs or that macro malarky,’ Linda says, pointing at her son with a spoon. ‘And you, Mr . . .’ She turns to Jason, who is taking a can of Budweiser out of the fridge. ‘Slow down. We don’t want a dizzy Butters on our hands.’

There is a loud bang. I jump, Linda yelps and Gary barks. Gramps is unpacking his now-cracked cracker. He inspects a tiny pack of cards with dissatisfaction and then places a purple paper crown on his head.

‘I want to eat now,’ he says.

Ray’s OCD doesn’t let us sit until all the food has been arranged properly. Eventually, after a lot of slotting here and there, everything just about fits. Just. Linda digs in first, poking a podgy cocktail sausage with her fork.

‘Diet starts tomorrow,’ she announces to everybody. The smell of experimental canapés wafts up my nose and stirs up the warm puddle of last night’s Prosecco in my stomach.

‘Beef ?’ Josh asks, hovering a slightly grey slice over my plate. I shake my head, feeling sick, and then tear off a chunk of stale baguette.

‘Where’s the turkey?’ Gramps asks.

‘Dad, we ate the turkey,’ Linda replies.

Gramps chuckles in disbelief. ‘What kind of woman doesn’t have a turkey at Christmas?’

Linda sighs and puts her knife and fork down to explain. ‘We had Christmas, Dad. I got you that penguin tie you’re wearing right now. This is The New Year’s Leftover Lunch. Mum used to do it, remember?’ She picks up her fork again and stabs another sausage.

Gramps looks down at his plate like it’s a puzzle. To be fair to him, considering there is a pile of mash, two balls of stuffing, a prawn-in-blanket and a couple of Ferrero Rochers, I would be confused too.

‘Why don’t you try an M&S blue cheese ball?’ Linda says and puts one on his plate. Gramps tries to scoop it up with his fork, but instead, he pushes it off the plate and it rolls onto the floor. Gary eats it.

‘What was that favour you wanted to ask, Mum?’ Josh says.

Gramps slams his fist on the table. ‘Where’s the turkey?’

‘Dad,’ Linda moans. Gramps stands up. ‘Dad. Dad. Sit down. Here, have a chicken doughnut.’

‘No.’ He shuffles out of the kitchen and continues his rant down the hallway. ‘I won’t have this family going without a turkey this Christmas.’

Josh gets up.

‘Leave him,’ Linda says, waving her son down. ‘He usually goes to the end of the road and comes back.’ The front door slams, and the only noise left is Robbie singing ‘Old Before I Die’.

The song ends. A pause, and then ‘Angels’ starts to play. Jason gets up. ‘I’ll go find him,’ he says. Josh stands again but is waved down once more. ‘Stay, Josh. Your mum needs to talk to you.’ Jason pats Linda on the shoulder before leaving the kitchen. ‘Ray, come,’ he demands from the hallway. Ray’s only protest is a small sigh before he leaves the table. As soon as the front door closes, Linda bursts into tears.

‘Mum, are you okay? What’s wrong?’ Josh asks. It’s as if it’s the first time he has seen his mum cry, which is odd because she cries at everything: a royal parade, The Bake Off final, or having to parallel park on a busy street.

‘Sorry. Sorry. Oh dear. This is not how we want to start the new year now, is it?’ She wipes her cheeks, but then begins sobbing again.

‘Mum, I think you should just ask them,’ Laura says.

‘Ask what?’ Josh says.

‘Go for it, Mum,’ Laura says encouragingly. Linda takes a long, shaky inhale through her nose. I stare at the torn-up piece of bread on my plate, mentally preparing myself for whatever this may be.

Linda sniffs. ‘I have one wish, and that is to see Dad . . . see my son . . . get married.’

‘We are getting married,’ Josh says, confused. We give each other a sideways glance, and he adds, ‘Eventually.’ This seems to infuriate Laura.

‘When is “eventually”, though?’ she says, waving her hands about. I didn’t realise this was such an emotional topic.

Josh shrugs. ‘Like next year or the year after.’ Linda starts crying even more. Josh and I look at each other, alarmed. ‘Why? What’s happening? Is something wrong?’

Laura looks pained as she rubs her mum’s back. I have a bad, bad feeling about this.

‘Gramps is getting worse by the day. This morning, he thought Ray was our cleaner,’ she says. I want to say that this is an easy assumption to make because Ray is always either tidying things up or cooking, so it’s not fair to judge Gramps for making this mistake. ‘We all think the wedding needs to be sooner.’

‘How soon?’ Josh asks, but I jump in before Laura can answer. I’ve already explained this a few times to The ­Butters Family, but here we go again.

‘We would get married sooner, but like we’ve said before, we really want our wedding in The Chipping Barn, and we also need to save for our dream home in the country. We both think it’s more important to get on the property ladder before we spend money on our wedding. If we stick to my budget . . .’ I eyeball Josh, because he’s not been very good at this. ‘We’ll move next year, and the wedding will be a year after that. Right, Josh?’

He nods.

To my surprise, Laura breathes out a sigh of relief. ‘Phew, we were hoping it was only the financial issues.’ She smiles at her mum and back at us. ‘To speed things along, we are going to pay for The Chipping Barn. Mum, Dad, Ray and I.’

Josh’s mouth falls open.

‘You’re going to pay for the venue?’ he says, excited as a child on Christmas Day. He shakes my arm, but I am too suspicious to share his excitement. The Butters Family are excellent at together time and TV quizzes. They are not so good at forward thinking. The year after university, when I was in teacher training and Josh was still figuring out what to do, we all went on a family holiday to Cornwall . . . in January. Josh had toyed with becoming a surfing barista, so Linda surprised us with a surf lesson. We spent an hour falling off surfboards into ice-cold Cornish seas. Consequently, we both got sick, and spent the rest of the holiday snuggled under a duvet, having snotty sex. That was far better than the original itinerary of crab fishing with his parents. It also, thankfully, put a pin in Josh’s surfer dream.

‘Ray’s boss has given him a huge bonus, and Mum and Dad are happy to help,’ Laura says.

‘Gosh. That’s so kind,’ I say, careful not to sound patronising. ‘But it’s more expensive than what people think. Not crazy expensive, but not the amount you would expect.’

Laura smiles. ‘We know how expensive it is, because we popped in and spoke to them.’

‘You popped in and spoke to them?’

‘It’s only down the road . . .’ Laura adds, as if the distance was my biggest concern.

‘Okay,’ I say, trying to make sense of this in my head. ‘But, even if we had all the money in the world, it’s an 18-month waiting list.’ They shift when I say this, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Linda watches her hands intensely as her fingers dance around each other.

‘What is it, Mum?’ Josh says.

Linda opens her mouth and says, slowly, ‘Yes . . . they are completely booked up . . . But there is a cancellation on the 22nd February.’

‘Next year? That’s doable. I guess. Although, we kind of wanted a summer wed—’

‘This year,’ Laura interrupts.

‘This year?’ I blurt out. ‘As in seven weeks? You want us to have a wedding in seven weeks? In February?’ Josh squeezes my thigh to shut me up. Linda begins to sob, really sob.

‘I knew it – I knew it would be too much to ask,’ she wails.

‘No, Mum, we can get married—’ Josh goes to say, but I cut him off before he says anything detrimental. I go for a softer approach.

‘Look, we would get married then, we would. But it’s almost impossible for my family to make it with such short notice. Dad and Jean-Ivy will likely be busy on holiday, and Mum will be cruising in the Adriatic Sea.’

Laura jumps in. ‘Well, we thought about that, so we called them, and your mum said she’ll cancel her cruise if needed, and your dad and his wife can make it, so . . .’

‘Wow. Isn’t that great, Amy?’ Josh says, shaking my leg. I realise then that I’m a one-man army rapidly running out of ammo.

‘Okay, well, my family may be able to make it, but what about my bridesmaids? Rebecca has a baby now, and Abi is busy with her lab experiments. Nina is a workaholic. They’re busy women.’

Laura flashes a victory smile, and my heart drops. I already know what she’s going to say. ‘They all said yes. The good thing about having a wedding in February is that everybody is free.’ She claps to her. . .