‘What’s Stefan got to do with anything?’ said Rosie.

‘Do you or Rosie want to do a shift?’ It was Jamie-Paul, the following night, texting from the wine bar that used to be a cocktail bar.

I texted back: ‘Has Wineman forgiven me?’

‘Who’s Wineman? Hector’s gone.’

Rosie offered to join me, but Jamie-Paul had said ‘you or Rosie’, which I interpreted as per common English usage as an exclusive or.

It was not quite the same as before, in part due to the absence of Rosie, but Jamie-Paul informed me that former clients were returning and asking for cocktails. Wineman had been dismissed following an incident in which nobody could produce a satisfactory whiskey sour for the owner’s brother. Christmas was only fifteen days in the future and the bar was busy—hence the need for my services. I left Rosie and Gene to eat the dinner I had prepared.

It was a good feeling making cocktails, an incredibly good feeling. I was competent and people appreciated my competence. Nobody cared about my opinions on gay couples raising children or whether I could guess what they were feeling or if I could manipulate cling wrap. I stayed past the end of my shift, working unpaid until the bar closed and I could walk home in the snow to an apartment made empty in a virtual sense by its occupants being asleep.

It did not work out exactly as planned. As I was writing a note to advise Gene and Rosie not to disturb me before 9.17 a.m., Rosie’s door opened. Her shape had definitely changed. I had a feeling that I was unable to name: some combination of love and distress.

‘You’re very late,’ she said. ‘We missed you. But Gene was nice. It’s difficult for all of us at the moment.’

She kissed me on the cheek, to complete the set of contradictory messages.

28

I had an opportunity to compensate for failing to attend the two ultrasound examinations.

The antenatal briefing was to be conducted at the hospital where Rosie had arranged for the birth to take place. I was determined to attend and perform well. The Good Fathers class, where I had graduated after only one session, was the benchmark.

Dave had already attended an antenatal class. ‘It’s mainly for the fathers,’ he said. ‘About what to expect, how to support your partner, that sort of stuff. The women know it all already. The guys embarrass themselves and their wives by how little they know.’

I would not be an embarrassment to Rosie.

‘I’m only doing this because it’s part of the deal,’ said Rosie as we rode the subway to the hospital. ‘I was tempted not to show up, just to call their bluff. What are they going to do? Not let me have my baby? Anyway, I’m probably not even going to have it here.’

‘It would be unwise to take any risk on such a crucial matter.’

‘Yeah, yeah. But like I said before, you didn’t have to come. They’d be discriminating against single mothers if they made the fathers come.’

‘Fathers are expected to attend,’ I said. ‘Fathers are provided with an understanding of what to expect in a supportive, non-threatening and fun environment.’

‘Thanks for that,’ said Rosie. ‘Non-threatening is good. Wouldn’t want a karate exhibition.’

Rosie’s statement was completely unjustified, as she was unaware of the two occasions on which I had used martial arts in reasonable self-defence in New York. She was presumably referring to the Jacket Incident on our first date, and confirming her recent selective memory for events that cast me in a bad light, even though she had been amused at the time and come home with me.

In the foyer there was an urn, a selection of low-quality instant beverages, including several that were caffeinated, and sweet biscuits which were definitely not on the list of pregnancy power foods. We were three minutes early, but there were approximately eighteen people already present. All the women were at various stages of pregnancy. I did not see anyone who appeared to be a lesbian secondary carer.

A group of three introduced themselves to us: two pregnant women and a man. The women were named Madison (estimated age thirty-eight, BMI not estimated due to pregnancy but probably low under normal conditions) and Delancey (approximately twenty-three, BMI probably above twenty-eight under normal conditions). I pointed out that Madison and Delancey were both New York street names. My mind was working at maximum efficiency, hence noticing interesting patterns. The man, who was the husband of Madison and aged approximately fifty, BMI approximately twenty-eight, was named Bill.

‘There’s also a William Street,’ I said.

‘No big surprise there,’ said Bill, reasonably. ‘Got a name picked out for your boy or girl yet?’

‘Not yet,’ said Rosie. ‘We haven’t even talked about it.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Bill. ‘It’s all we talk about.’

‘What about you?’ Rosie asked Delancey.

‘Madison and I talk about it a lot, but it’s a girl and it’s going to be Rosa after my mom. She was a single mom too.’ Repeating patterns.

Rosa was a similar name to Rosie. If her surname was Jarmine her name would be an anagram of ‘Rosie Jarman’. Or if it was Mentilli, it would be an anagram of ‘Rosie Tillman’ which would only be interesting if Rosie had adopted my surname when we were married.

‘I recommend avoiding a name associated with your ethnicity. To reduce prejudice,’ I said.

‘I think you might be the one bringing your prejudices with you,’ said Madison. ‘This is New York, not Alabama.’