I put the phone down after a call from Cathy, a recently divorced friend, and realise I’m cross-eyed with envy. She’s over the trauma of separation, has met someone new and she’s delirious: “I’ve never felt like this before,” she gushes. Breathlessly, she tells me how certain song lyrics seem to have been written for her, how every moment is precious and pertinent.

I’ve been married 12 years this year, I’m in my late thirties and it’s not that I want a divorce at all, not ever, but I can’t help feeling nostalgic for the all-consuming, dress-size-dropping, heart-racing romance she describes. My memories of those days when I first met my husband are preciously packed away in a dusty box somewhere. I think I miss them. Worst of all, I fear it was wasted on me then, and only now do I realise how lucky I was. If my husband painted sunflowers on the road outside our house during any night soon (which he did as my boyfriend all those years ago), I think it would make me even happier than it did then. Stupidly, at the time, I was more worried that the neighbours might complain. Now I’d think, “Bliss, I’ve made it to the top of his list, ahead of the mortgage, the kids, work and all the rest.”

Of course, it’s the human condition to always think the grass is greener, but I can’t help wondering if I could just borrow a little of Cathy’s love madness and insert it into my marriage. It’s a well-worn whine that married life is humdrum, but I wonder if I can transform myself into an exception and become someone who leaves love letters in his shoes — which another friend, Sarah, does when her new boyfriend leaves for an early-morning flight.

It takes several conversations to realise that romance for these women is not the same as what I have packed away in my dusty box. First, they all happen to have been married before, which seems to heighten the intensity for them this time around, after the sadness and pain of separation. They’re not single women heading into the unknown, they’re newly single women who have made mistakes and will make damn sure they don’t repeat them.

For Sarah, what’s now romantic is “having humour in the relationship, being better at communicating, so instead of rowing, we have more sensible discussions about how to make it work. I did painful silences and tears first time around. Why repeat old mistakes?”. While my third, maddeningly-in-love divorcée, Jenny, says: “With my first relationship, I thought that living apart would be a sign of failure. This time, it’s a sign that you can both breathe — a luxury that you can afford in your thirties.”

Cathy confirms the message of seasoned experience: “The quality of man has definitely improved, as I’m more selective.” Age seems to have done away with some of the craziness of her first love, but not all of it. “I’ve dropped at least a dress size, without thinking about it,” she says.

She talks of a new-found passion for camping — what can that be about? This was someone who used a hairdryer every day. I try not to be too nosy about the rampant sex I assume she’s having, but it has to be more than the average married couple, I’d wager. Eventually, she caves in and mentions an episode in a park. She’s more interested in talking about the state of her mind, though. “It’s like a drug, I cannot stop thinking about him.”

I want to hear more, to be reminded what it was like to be almost obsessional. Then Jenny tells me about the constant stream of texts she receives from her beau, not exactly the “Please buy pitta bread” ones I send.

I need a reality check. There are obvious compensations to being married, and I do love my husband — that’s why I married him — but where these girlfriends exchange warm smiles across the supper table, I’m more likely to be sending a glare to warn him away from a sensitive topic. While I’m matching his odd socks out of the washing machine, they’re holding hands, strolling in a sunny park. When Jenny tells me, “I knew if I could just kiss him once I’d die happy”, I’m thinking, “I’d die happy if I could think of a way to stop him snoring.”

Yet age and experience have transformed romance for these women. “Knowing that if we settle down our relationship will become humdrum makes me want to prolong it and not rush things,” says Jenny. So are they experiencing some coolly rational romance born out of burnt fingers? Nothing so cynical; they’re just wise enough to know that this grown-up version of romance should be treasured because it is short-lived.

Although romance isn’t entirely killed by marriage, it’s fair to admit that the odd handwritten letter or out-of-the-blue flowers, though welcome and lovely, don’t have the same resonance as those early billets-doux. My ultimate consolation is that, in just a few years, I know these same girlfriends will, like me, be trying desperately to think of ways to spice up a text message that says: “Bin bags under sink, lots of love.”

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