“We’re going to have to decide about names, Brucie,” she said at the breakfast table that morning.

Bruce looked up from his bowl of muesli. Since he had taken to reading a magazine called Men’s Health, he had become quite health-conscious and broke a series of nuts and antioxidants into his plate each morning. With a body like mine, he thought, one takes care of it. And he could look at the bare-torsoed men pictured in Men’s Health without feeling inadequate; he could look them in the pectorals.

“Names?”

“For… for you know who,” said Julia, looking down at her stomach.

“Oh.” Bruce stared down at the mixture of nuts and powdered flax seed on his plate.

“I thought that for a boy we might go for Jamie,” said Julia. “It’s such a nice name. Strong. Or Glen.”

“Jamie’s all right,” said Bruce. “But not Glen. I knew a Glen at Morrison’s, and he was a real waste of space. Collected stamps.”

“Well, Gavin. There’s Gavin Hastings.”

“It could be a girl,” said Bruce.

Julia shook her head. “I’ve got a feeling it’s a boy,” she said. “Just like you, Brucie.”

Bruce said nothing. Thoughts of Julia’s baby – and that is how he regarded it – had not been to the forefront of his mind. It was her baby, her idea, he told himself, and even if he had had a part in it, it was not something that he had intended or embraced. She wanted this baby – that was obvious – and so let her do the thinking about it.

The problem with babies, in Bruce’s view, was that they spoiled everything. What was the point of living in this nice flat in Howe Street, with the money to do exactly what one wanted to do – to travel, to go out to all the best restaurants, to be seen – if you had a baby to think about? Babies tied you down; they demanded to be fed; they yelled their heads off; they smelled.