“Can I ask you something?”

“For sure.”

“No, ‘for sure’ is American. English is ‘yes.’ ”

She looked at him, as if to say, Why are you now correcting my English? “Yes,” she repeated.

“When I didn’t have a condom and you said it was O.K., did you mean it was O.K. then or O.K. always?”

“O.K. always.”

“Blimey, do you know what a twelve-pack costs?”

That was the wrong thing to say, even he could see that. Christ, maybe she’d had some terrible abortion or been raped or something.

“So you can’t have children?”

“No. Do you hate me?”

“Andrea, for God’s sake.” He took her hand. “I’ve got two kids already. Point is, is it O.K. with you?”

She looked down. “No. Is not O.K. with me. It makes me very unhappy.”

“Well, we could. . I don’t know, see the doctor. See an expert.” He imagined that the experts over here were more clued up.

“No, no expert. No expert.”

“Fine, no experts.”

He thought, Adoption? But can I afford another, with my outgoings?

He stopped buying condoms. He started asking questions, as tactfully as he could. But tact was like flirting: either you had it or you didn’t. No, that wasn’t right. It was just easier to be tactful if you didn’t care whether you knew things or not, harder when you cared.

“Why are you now asking these questions?”

“Am I?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Sorry.”

But he was only sorry that she’d noticed. Also sorry that he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. When they first got together, he’d liked the fact that he didn’t know anything about her; it had made things different, fresher.