‘Of course not. I’m not pregnant.’

‘What about my other four meals?’

‘Pre-packaged. Breakfast and three daytime meals for tomorrow are already in the refrigerator.’

‘Shit. I mean, that’s really nice, but…I don’t want you going to so much trouble. I can just grab something from the café at uni. Some of their stuff is okay.’

This was in direct contradiction to previous complaints about the café.

‘You should resist the temptation. In the interests of maternal and Bud health, we need to plan, plan and plan some more.’ I was quoting The Book. In this instance, the advice offered by What to Expect was in line with my own thinking. ‘Also, you need to control your coffee consumption. Café measures are inconsistent—hence I recommend drinking one standardised coffee in the morning at home and drinking only decaffeinated at university.’

‘You’ve been reading up, haven’t you?’

‘Correct. I recommend What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s intended for pregnant women.’

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Gene, who now had his own key. He seemed in a good mood.

‘Evening all, what’s for dinner?’ He waved a bottle of red wine.

‘Appetiser is New England oysters, entrée is deli meats, main course is rare New York steaks with a spice crust and alfalfa salad, followed by a selection of raw milk and blue cheeses, then affogato with Strega.’ As part of the change to the meal system, I had also designed meals suitable for Gene and myself, taking into account that we were neither pregnant nor sustainable pescatarians.

As Rosie was looking a little confused, I added, ‘Rosie will be eating a legume-based curry, minus the spices.’

The Book warned of irrational behaviour due to hormonal changes. Rosie refused to eat her mini-meal and instead consumed a sample of every component of Gene’s and my dinner, including a small quantity of steak (in violation of her commitment to sustainable-seafood pescatarianism), and even a sip of wine.

The predictable consequence was illness the next morning. She was sitting on the bed, head in her hands, when I alerted her to the time.

‘You go by yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take the morning off.’

‘Feeling unwell is normal in pregnancy. It’s almost certainly a good sign. Lack of morning sickness is correlated with a higher risk of miscarriages and abnormalities. Your body is probably assembling some critical component, such as an arm, and is minimising the possibility of toxins disrupting the process.’

‘You’re talking shit.’

‘Flaxman and Sherman, Quarterly Review of Biology, Summer 2000. “An evolved mechanism to reduce toxin-induced deformities.”’

‘Don, I appreciate all this, but it’s got to stop. I just want to eat normal food. I want to eat what I feel like. I’m feeling crap and tinned salmon and soybeans is going to make me feel more crap. It’s my body and I get to choose what I do with it.’

‘Incorrect. Two bodies, one of which has fifty per cent of my genes.’

‘So I get one and a half votes and you get half a vote. I win. I get to eat smoked mackerel and raw oysters.’

She must have noticed my expression.

‘I’m kidding, Don. But I don’t want you telling me what to eat. I can do this myself. I’m not going to get drunk or eat salami.’

‘You ate pastrami last night.’

‘Hardly any. I was making a point. Anyway, I’m not planning to eat meat again.’

‘What about shellfish?’ I was testing.

‘I’m guessing no go?’

‘You guess wrong. Cooked shellfish is acceptable.’

‘Seriously, how important is all this stuff? I mean, this is so you—getting obsessed with every little thing. Judy Esler says she never worried about what she ate twenty-five years ago. I’m guessing I’m more likely to be run over walking to Columbia than poisoned by oysters.’

‘I predict you’re incorrect.’

‘Predict? You’re not sure, are you?’

Rosie knew me too well. The Book was short on hard data. Rosie stood up and retrieved her towel from the floor. ‘Make me a list of what I can’t eat. No more than ten things. And no big generic categories like “sweet stuff” or “salty stuff”. You cook dinner, I’ll eat what I like during the day. Except for your list. And no mini-meals.’

I remembered an item of extraordinarily unscientific advice from The Book, encouraging the most serious failing of the medical profession. It was in reference to caffeine: ‘Different practitioners have different recommendations, so check in with yours…’ Incredible—placing individual judgement ahead of the consensus from research. But it provided me with an opportunity to ask another question.

‘What advice has your medical practitioner provided on diet?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to make an appointment. I’ve been frantic with the thesis. I’ll do it soon.’

I was stunned. I did not need The Book to tell me that a pregnant woman should schedule regular visits to an obstetrician. Despite my reservations about the competence of some members of the medical profession, there was no doubt that, statistically, involvement of a professional led to better outcomes. My sister had died due to medical misdiagnosis, but she would certainly have died if she had not seen a doctor at all.