‘Absolutely.’ She doesn’t trust me, he thinks. She thinks I’ll drink. But I won’t. No I won’t.

The hen night is for Rachel, the thinnest and most mean-spirited of his wife’s friends, and a hotel suite has been hired for the sleepover, complete with a handsome cocktail waiter to use as they see fit. A limo, a restaurant, a table at a night-club, brunch the next day, it has all been planned through a series of bossy emails to ensure no possibility of spontaneity or joy. Sylvie won’t be back until the following afternoon, and for the first time Dexter is to be left in charge overnight. She stands in the bathroom, putting on make-up and watching over him as he kneels to give Jasmine her bath.

‘So put her down around eight, okay? That’s in forty minutes.’

‘Fine.’

‘There’s plenty of formula, and I’ve pureed the veggies.’ Veggies— that’s annoying, the way she says veggies. ‘They’re in the fridge.’

‘Veggies in the fridge, I know that.’

‘If she doesn’t like it, there’s some ready-made jars in the cupboard, but they’re onlyfor emergencies.’

‘And what about crisps? I can give her crisps, can’t I? If I brush the salt off—’

Sylvie clicks her tongue, shakes her head, applies lipstick. ‘Support her head.’

‘—and salted nuts? She’s old enough, isn’t she? Little bowl of peanuts?’ He turns to look at her over his shoulder on the off-chance that she might be smiling, and is startled, as he often is, by how beautiful she looks, dressed simply but elegantly in a short black dress and high heels, her hair still damp from the shower. He takes one hand from Jasmine’s bath, and cups his wife’s brown calf. ‘You look amazing, by the way.’

‘Your hands are wet.’ She twists her leg away. They haven’t made love for six weeks now. He had anticipated a certain coldness and irritability after the birth, but it’s been a while, and sometimes there’s a look she gives him, a look of — no, not contempt, but—

‘Wish you were coming back tonight,’ he says.

— disappointment. That’s it. Disappointment.

‘Watch out for Jasmine — support her head!’

‘I know what I’m doing!’ he snaps back. ‘For Christ’s sake!’

And there it is again, the look. There’s no doubt about it, if Sylvie had a receipt, she would have taken him back by now; this one’s gone wrong. It’s not what I wanted.

The doorbell rings.

‘That’s my taxi. If there’s an emergency, call my mobile, notthe hotel, okay?’ and she bends and taps her lips on the top of Dexter’s head, then leans into the bath, and gives a second more persuasive kiss to her daughter. ‘Goodnight, my precious. Look after daddy for me. .’ Jasmine frowns and pouts and as her mother leaves the bathroom, there is panic in her eyes. Dexter sees this and laughs. ‘Where are you going, Mum?’ he whispers. ‘Don’t leave me with this idiot!’ Downstairs the front door is finally closed. Sylvie has gone, he is on his own and finally free to perform a whole series of idiotic actions.

It all begins with the television in the kitchen. Jasmine is already screaming as Dexter struggles to fasten her into the highchair. She will do this for Sylvie, but now she’s twisting and screaming, a compact parcel of muscle and noise, writhing with surprising strength and for no discernible reason, and Dexter finds himself thinking just learn to talk, will you? Just learn some bloody language and tell me what I’m doing wrong. How much longer until she can speak? A year? Eighteen months? It’s insane, an absurd design error, this refusal to master speech just when it’s needed most. They should come out talking. Not conversation, not repartee, just basic practical information. Father, I have wind. This activity centre leaves me jaded. I am colicky.

Finally she’s in, but is alternating screaming and whining now, and he spoons the food into her mouth when he can, pausing every now and then to remove the smeared puree with the edge of the spoon as if it were a wet shave. In the hope that it might calm her down he turns on the small portable television on the counter, the one that Sylvie disapproves of. Because it’s Saturday peak-viewing time, he inevitably sees Suki Meadows’ face beaming out at him, live from TV Centre where she is bellowing the lottery results at a waiting nation. He feels his stomach contract in a little spasm of envy, then tuts and shakes his head, and is about to change channel when he notices that Jasmine is silent and still, entranced by his ex-girlfriend hollering ‘wahey’.

‘Look, Jasmine, it’s Daddy’s ex-girlfriend! Isn’t she loud? Isn’t she a loud, loud girl?’

Suki is wealthy now and ever more bubbly and famous and loved by the public, and even though they never got on and had nothing in common, he feels nostalgia for his old girlfriend, and for the wild years of his late twenties when his photo was in the papers. What is Suki doing tonight? he wonders. ‘Maybe Daddy should have stuck with her,’ he says aloud, treacherously, thinking back to the nights in black cabs and cocktail lounges, hotel bars and railway arches, the years before Saturdays were spent in a hairnet filling Mediterranean wraps.