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Of course, she can’t say any of this out loud. There’s something unnatural about a woman finding babies or, more specifically, conversation about babies, boring. They’ll think she’s bitter, jealous, lonely. But she’s also bored of everybody telling her how luckyshe is, what with all that sleep and all that freedom and spare time, the ability to go on dates or head off to Paris at a moment’s notice. It sounds like they’re consoling her, and she resents this and feels patronised by it. It’s not like she’s even going to Paris! In particular, she is bored of jokes about the biological clock, from her friends, her family, in films and on TV. The most idiotic, witless word in the English language is ‘singleton’, followed closely by ‘chocoholic’, and she refuses to be part of any Sunday supplement lifestyle phenomenon. Yes, she understands the debate, the practical imperatives, but it’s a situation entirely out of her control. And yes, occasionally she tries to picture herself in a blue hospital gown, sweaty and in agony, but the face of the man holding her hand remains stubbornly blurred, and it’s a fantasy she chooses not to dwell on.

When it happens, if it happens, she will adore the child, remark on its tiny hands and even the smell of its scrofulous little head. She will debate epidurals, lack of sleep, colic, whatever the hell that is. One day she might even bring herself to coo at a pair of booties. But in the meantime she’s going to keep her distance, and stay calm and serene and above it all. Having said that, the first one to call her Aunty Emma gets a punch in the face.

Stephanie has finished expressing and is showing her breast milk to Adam, holding it up to the light like a fine wine. It’s a great little breast pump, they all agree.

‘My turn next!’ says Emma, but no-one laughs and right on cue the baby wakes upstairs.

‘What someone needs to invent,’ says Adam, ‘is a chloroformed baby wipe.’

Stephanie sighs and trudges out, and Emma decides she will definitely head home soon. She can stay up late, work on the manuscript. The phone buzzes again. A message from Dexter, asking her to schlep out to Surrey to keep him company.

She turns the phone off.

‘. . I know it’s a long way, it’s just I think I might be suffering from post-natal depression. Get in a cab, I’ll pay. Sylvie’s not here! Not that it makes any difference, I know, but. . there’s a spare bedroom, if you wanted to stay over. Anyway, call me if you get this. Bye.’ He hesitates, says another ‘Bye’ and hangs up. A pointless message. He blinks and shakes his head, and pours more wine. Scrolling through the phone’s address book, he comes to S for Suki Mobile.

Initially there is no reply, and he finds himself relieved, because after all what good can come of it, the phone-call to an old girlfriend? He’s about to hang up, when suddenly he hears the distinctive bellow.

‘HELLO!’

‘Hey there!’ He dusts off his presenter’s smile.

‘WHO IS THIS?’ She’s shouting over the sound of a party, a restaurant perhaps.

‘Make some noise!’

‘WHAT? WHO IS THIS?’

‘You have to guess!’

‘WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU. .’

‘I said “guess who?”. .’

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU, WHO IS THIS?’

‘You have to guess!’

‘WHO?’

‘I SAID YOU HAVE TO. .’ The game has become exhausting, so he just says ‘It’s Dexter!’

There’s a moment’s pause.

‘Dexter? Dexter Mayhew?’

‘How many Dexters do you know, Suki?’

‘No, I know which Dexter, I’m just, like. . WAHEY, DEXTER! Hello, Dexter! Hold on. .’ He hears the scrape of a chair and imagines eyes following her, intrigued, as she leaves the restaurant table and walks into a corridor. ‘So how are you, Dexter?’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m just, you know, phoning to say I saw you tonight on the telly, and it got me thinking about old times, and I thought I’d phone and say Hi. You looked great by the way. On TV. And I like the show. Great format.’ Great format? You clown. ‘So. How are you, Suki?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine.’

‘You’re everywhere! You’re doing really well! Really!’

‘Thank you. Thanks.’

There’s a silence. Dexter’s thumb caresses the off button. Hang up. Pretend the line’s gone down. Hang up, hang up, hang up. .

‘It’s been, what, five years, Dex!’

‘I know, I was thinking about you just now, because I saw you on TV. And you looked great by the way. And how are you?’ Don’t say that, you’ve said that already. Concentrate!‘I mean, where are you? It’s very noisy. .’

‘A restaurant. I’m having dinner, with some mates.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘Don’t think so. They’re kind of newfriends.’

Newfriends. Could that be hostility? ‘Right. Okay.’

‘So. Where are you, Dexter?’

‘Oh, I’m at home.’

‘Home? On a Saturday night? That’s not like you!’

‘Well, you know. .’ and he’s about to tell her that he’s married, has a kid, lives in the suburbs, but feels that this might serve to underline the sheer futility of the phone-call, so instead stays silent. The pause goes on for some time. He notices that there’s an epaulette of snot on the cotton sweater he once wore to Pacha, and he has become aware of the new scent on his fingertips, an unholy cocktail of nappy sacks and prawn crackers.

Suki speaks. ‘So, main course has just arrived. .’

‘Okay, well, anyway, I was just thinking about old times, and thinking it would be nice to see you! You know for lunch or a drink or something. .’

The background music fades as if Suki has stepped into some private corner. In a hardened voice she says, ‘You know what, Dexter? I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘I mean I haven’t seen you for five years now, and I think when that happens there’s usually a reason, don’t you?’

‘I just thought—’

‘I mean it’s not as if you were ever that niceto me, never that interested, you were off your face most of the time—’

‘Oh, that’s not true!’

‘You weren’t even faithfulto me, for fuck’s sake, you were usually off fucking some runner or waitress or whatever so I don’t know where you get off now, phoning up like we’re old pals and getting nostalgicabout “old times”, our golden six months that were, quite frankly, pretty shitty for me.’