‘Relationships can’t be one person’s responsibility. It takes two—’

‘Incorrect. There has to be a commitment from all participants, but one person can act as champion.’

‘Where did you get this from?’

‘Sonia. And George.’

‘George upstairs?’

I nodded.

‘So, the experts are onto it.’

‘Experience rather than theory. The psychologists we know all have failed marriages. Or, in your case, marriages at risk.’ This was a weak point in George’s advice also, but I did not think it was helpful to inform Rosie of his marital history.

‘I think most couples,’ Rosie said, ‘even the ones that stay together, just accept that the relationship has to take a hit for a while.’

‘From which the participants never recover.’ I was drawing on George’s experience again. And possibly Gene’s. And potentially Dave’s. ‘My proposal is that we attempt to retain as much of our previous interpersonal relationship as possible, subject to baby demands. I offer to do all the required work: you merely need to accept the objective and offer reasonable cooperation.’

Rosie got up and began to make a fruit tea. I recognised this as code for Just shut up for a few minutes, Don, I’m trying to think.

I went to the cellar and drew off a beer to manage my own emotional state.

When Rosie sat down again, she had done some insightful thinking. Unfortunately.

‘I think it matters more for you, Don, because you haven’t connected with the baby. You haven’t talked about the third relationship. You’re still focused on you and me. Most men transfer some of their love to their children.’

‘I suspect the transfer will take some time. But if I don’t accompany you, then I’ll have zero input. You consider me worse than zero as a father?’

‘Don, I think you’re wired differently. It worked with the two of us, but I don’t think you’re designed to be a father. I’m sorry to put it like that, but I sort of thought you’d come to the same conclusion.’

‘You didn’t think I was wired for love. You were wrong. You may be wrong again.’

Gene came out of the bedroom. ‘Sorry to interrupt, guys, but I have to go to this medical school thing. You’re not going out?’

‘No,’ said Rosie.

‘Come with me, then. Both of you.’

‘I’ll stay,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m not invited.’

‘Partners are. You should do this. It’s your last night in New York. Don won’t say this, but it’s the right thing for him.’

‘You really want me to come?’ said Rosie to me.

‘If not, I’ll stay home,’ I said. ‘I want to make full use of the time remaining in our marriage.’

As we were leaving, my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number.

‘Don, it’s Briony.’ It took me a moment to remember who Briony was. B1. B1 never contacted me directly. I prepared myself for conflict.

‘I can’t believe what you’ve done,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You haven’t seen the New York Post?’

‘I don’t read it.’

‘It’s online. I don’t know what to say. None of us would have guessed.’

I opened the door to my bathroom-office to check the New York Post website, and Rosie was sitting on the edge of the bath, facing the Bud tiles.

‘What are you doing in here?’ I asked. I was not being aggressive; the question was intended in its literal sense.

‘I came in to steal one of your sleeping pills. For the flight tomorrow.’

‘Sleeping pills—’

‘Stilnox. Active ingredient Zolpidem. Third trimester, one tablet. No adverse effects. Wang, Lin, Chen, Lin and Lin, 2010. It’s more likely to make me take my clothes off and dance around the plane than harm the baby.’

She resumed looking at the Bud tiles. ‘Don. These are just amazing.’

‘You’ve seen them before.’

‘When? I never come in here.’

‘On the night of Dave the Calf. When Gene fell in the bath.’

‘I saw my supervisor thrashing around naked. I didn’t take time to check the pattern on the tiles.’ She smiled. ‘But this is our baby—Bud—every week, right?’

‘Wrong. It’s a generic embryo, foetus…Baby Under Development. Except Tiles 13 and 22 which were copied from the sonograms.’

‘Why didn’t you share this with me? I was looking at pictures in the book and here you were drawing the same pictures—’

‘You told me you didn’t want a technical commentary.’

‘When did I say that?’

‘Twenty-second of June. The day after the Orange Juice Incident.’

Rosie took my hand and squeezed it. She was still wearing her rings. She must have noticed me looking.

‘My mother’s ring is stuck on. It’s a bit small and my fingers have probably puffed up a bit. If you want yours back you’ll have to wait.’

She continued looking at the tiles as I located the New York Post article.

Father of the Year: A Celebratory Beer After Saving his Child for Lesbian Moms.

I was aware that journalists were frequently inaccurate, but the article, by Sally Goldsworthy, exceeded my imagination as to the possibilities of misreporting.

Don Tillman, an Australian visiting professor of medicine at Columbia and leading researcher on the link between autism and liver cancer, donated his sperm to two lesbians and then saved the life of one of his babies. In true down-under style, Professor Tillman drank a pint of beer to toast the emergency caesarean section he performed in his Chelsea apartment, and said he had total confidence in the ability of the two mothers to bring up his children without any involvement from him.