‘Bit quiet for you, eh? No, we’ve got a few months off, courtesy Herman’s Hermits. Agent’s looking for gigs in New York. How’s the beer?’

‘The temperature is correct and stable. There’s a minor leak that produces occasional odours, but we’ve become accustomed to them. Are you planning to practise tonight?’

‘Funny you should ask. Can’t say I feel like it, but Jimmy—the bass player—said he might fetch up. Three days in New York City and he’s run out of things to do so why not get together and drink beer and play some music.’

‘Do you want to watch baseball instead?’ The idea popped into my head as a solution to the noise problem that George might create for Rosie. It may have been the first occasion in my life that I had spontaneously asked someone other than a close friend to join me for social purposes.

‘You going out, then?’ he said.

‘Correct. To eat food, drink alcohol and watch baseball. We also talk.’

I had selected Dorian Gray, a bar in the East Village, as our regular meeting place. It offered the best combination of television screens, noise level (critical), food quality, beer, price and travel time for Dave and me. I introduced George as my vertical neighbour, and explained that Gene was living with me. George did not appear concerned about having an extra non-paying tenant.

Dave is adaptable to changes in plans and was happy to have George and Gene join us. We ordered burgers with all available extras. Dave’s diet is suspended on boys’ nights out. Gene ordered a bottle of wine, which was more expensive than the beer that we usually drank. I knew this would worry Dave.

‘So,’ said Gene, ‘what happened to you today? I had to show your new assistant the ropes.’

‘You make it sound like it wasn’t too much of a burden,’ said George. ‘This’d be a young lady, would it?’

‘That’d be exactly what it were,’ said Gene, possibly mimicking George’s accent. ‘Name’s Inge. Very charming.’

In keeping with the primary purpose of the boys’ night out, which was to provide mutual assistance with personal problems, I was wondering whether I should seek advice on the Playground Incident. I wanted a second opinion on my decision to withhold information from Rosie, but it seemed unwise to tell George, who was effectively my landlord, that I had been arrested.

‘I have a minor problem,’ I said. ‘I committed a social error which may have consequences.’ I did not add that the error was a direct result of following Gene’s advice to observe children.

‘Well, that’s all clear enough,’ said Gene. ‘You want to tell us a bit more?’

‘No. I just want to know whether I should tell Rosie. And if so, how.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Gene. ‘Marriage needs to be based on trust and openness. No secrets.’ Then he laughed, presumably to indicate that he was making a joke. This was consistent with his behaviour as a liar and cheat.

I turned to Dave. ‘What do you think?’

Dave looked at his empty plate. ‘Who am I to talk? We’re going broke and I haven’t told Sonia.’

‘Your refrigeration business is in trouble?’ said George.

‘The refrigeration part is okay,’ said Dave. ‘It’s the business part.’

‘Paperwork,’ said George. ‘I’d tell you to get someone to do it, but one day you wake up and find you’ve been working for them instead of the other way around.’

I found it hard to see how such information would become available at the point of waking, but agreed with George’s broad thesis: administration was a major inconvenience to me also. Conversely, Gene was an expert at using it to his own advantage.

The conversation had lost focus. I brought it back to the critical question: should I tell Rosie?

‘Seriously, does she need to know?’ said Gene. ‘Is it going to affect her?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘It depends on the consequences.’

‘Then wait. People spend their lives worrying about things that never happen.’

Dave nodded. ‘I guess she doesn’t need any more stress.’ That word again.

‘Agreed,’ said Gene. He turned to George. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think this wine is surprisingly palatable,’ said George. ‘Chianti, is it?’ He waved to our server. ‘Another bottle of your finest Chianti, squire.’

‘We’ve only got one kind of Chianti. The one you were drinking.’

‘Then bring us your finest red wine.’

Dave’s expression indicated horror. I was less worried. Dorian Gray’s finest red wine was unlikely to be expensive.

George waited for the wine to arrive. ‘How long have you been married?’ he said.

‘Ten months and fifteen days.’

‘And already you’re doing things you can’t tell her about?’

‘It seems so.’

‘No kids, I presume.’

‘Interesting question.’ It depended on the definition of ‘kid’. If George was a religious fundamentalist, he might consider that a kid had been created at some time between an hour and five days after the removal of my shirt on the life-changing Saturday, depending on the speed of travel of the successful sperm.

While I was thinking, Gene answered the question. ‘Don and Rosie are expecting their first child…when, Don?’