Lydia arrived on time.

‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said.

‘Beer,’ said Sonia. ‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly. It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional.’

‘I guess hygiene was not quite at New York standards in a small Italian village.’

‘That’s right. Lucky Don’s a hygiene freak or the baby—’

I gave Sonia a look intended to remind her that she was supposed to be Rosie, who would not be defending weirdness and had not been raised in a small Italian village with poor hygiene. Of course, neither had Sonia. I suspected things were going to become confusing.

Then one of the Georges began drumming.

‘What’s that?’ asked Lydia.

It was a reasonable question, as the initial beats could have been confused with the discharge of a firearm. But the drumming became more rhythmic, and a bass and two electric guitars joined in. Now the answer would be obvious to Lydia, which was fortunate as she could not have heard mine.

We attempted to communicate in rudimentary sign language for approximately three minutes. I deduced that Lydia was asking, ‘How will the baby sleep?’ and Sonia was responding, ‘Skull, bye-bye, bird, kangaroo, no, no, no, eating spaghetti.’

The music stopped. Sonia said, ‘I am thinking about flying home to Italy.’

‘And if you stay? If you and Don are able to get through this misunderstanding?’

I led them to Gene’s room, where I had stowed the gift from my father.

‘Oh God, it’s a coffin,’ said Lydia. ‘A transparent coffin.’

‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ said Sonia. ‘I feel like you’re trying to find reasons to criticise Don.’

‘What is it then? A spaceship?’

In fact the soundproof crib was incompatible with space travel as it was permeable to air. I set the alarm on my phone, and as soon as it started ringing put it in the crib and secured the lid. The noise disappeared.

‘But if the phone needed to breathe, it could do so,’ I said.

‘What if it cries?’ asked Lydia.

‘The phone?’ I realised my error and pointed out the microphone and transmitter in the crib. ‘Rosie will sleep with earphones. I will have earplugs, hence not be disturbed by the baby myself.’

‘Nice for you,’ said Lydia. She looked around. ‘Is someone else sleeping here?’

‘My friend. His wife evicted him for immoral behaviour and now he’s living with Rosie.’

‘In the baby’s room.’

‘Correct.’

‘Rosie,’ Lydia said, and Sonia glanced at the door before realising that Lydia was speaking to her. ‘You’re comfortable with this?’

Sonia’s response suggested extreme discomfort. She returned to the living room and looked around frantically. I diagnosed panic.

‘I need to use the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?’ she asked in what was supposed to be her own apartment.

We were standing just outside my bathroom-office. I opened the door for Sonia.

‘There’s a desk in the bathroom,’ said Lydia as Sonia closed the door behind her. I was aware of this. I had not taken it with me to Dave and Sonia’s, as it would have been impractical to carry it on the subway.

We were interrupted by Sonia calling from the bathroom-office. ‘I’ve got a problem.’

‘With the plumbing?’ I asked. The toilet sometimes jammed in flush mode.

‘With my plumbing. Something’s wrong.’

It is socially extremely inappropriate to enter a bathroom containing an unrelated individual of the opposite gender. I was aware of this, but my behaviour was justified by the probability that the problem was related to Sonia’s advanced state of pregnancy. I guessed the onset of labour.

I entered the forbidden zone, and Sonia explained the problem. Her description of the symptoms was unambiguous.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lydia. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Making a phone call,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Prolapsed umbilical cord. I’ve called an ambulance. The problem should not require immediate intervention if labour hasn’t commenced.’

‘Oh God,’ said Sonia. ‘I think it has.’

Following my instructions, Lydia assisted Sonia to Rosie’s study, and I once again dragged the mattress from the main bedroom which Rosie had resumed using. I needed space to manoeuvre. Sonia lay on the mattress. I had already specified maximum urgency when I phoned 911, so there was no point in phoning again and adding a load to the system that might delay assistance to other emergencies.

Sonia was extremely agitated, almost hysterical. ‘Oh God, I read about this. The baby’s head crushes the cord and there’s no oxygen, oh shit, shit, shit—’

‘Potentially,’ I said. I attempted to adopt a bedside manner, the exact thing that had dissuaded me from considering medicine as a career. ‘The chances of maternal death are virtually zero. Without intervention, the baby will probably die. However, intervention has been summoned.’

‘What if it doesn’t come? What if it doesn’t come?’

‘I consider myself capable of the necessary intervention. I’ve had significant practice.’ I thought it unnecessary to mention that there had been no prolapsed cord in the birth of Dave the Calf.

‘What practice? What practice?’ Sonia’s hysteria seemed to be causing her to say everything twice.