Tofu became defensive. “My mummy? What about her?”

Bertie felt the advantage switch to him. “Olive says that your mummy’s in Saughton Prison. She said that she’s there for murder. I didn’t say it. Olive did.”

Tofu’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not,” he said. Then he looked down at the floor. “She… she was eaten by a lion in the Serengeti Game Reserve. I was very small. I don’t remember it. But my dad does, and that’s why he became a vegan.”

Bertie was a naturally sympathetic boy and his heart went out to Tofu. He had seen a picture of the Serengeti Game Reserve and it had been full of lions. Although Tofu was a notorious liar, this, at least, had the ring of truth. “I’m really sorry, Tofu,” said Bertie. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Tofu seemed relieved to be off the subject of mothers and now expressed an interest in seeing Bertie’s younger brother. “He’s probably sleeping,” said Bertie. “But we can take a look in his room if we don’t make a noise.”

They walked along the corridor and Bertie pushed open the door into Ulysses’ room. The baby, snuffling quietly, was lying in his cot.

“That’s him,” said Bertie. “He can’t say anything yet. And I don’t think he can think very much either. But he’s quite happy, most of the time. He’s called Ulysses.”

“Stupid name,” said Tofu. “But I suppose that’s not his fault.”

“Ulysses was a Greek,” said Bertie. “He was a Greek hero. In a legend.”

“Still stupid,” said Tofu, peering at Ulysses over the edge of the cot. “He looks really ugly, Bertie. Are you sure that he’s the right way up? Is that his face – or is it his bottom?”

“He’s not ugly,” said Bertie, defensively. “Babies can’t help looking like that. All babies look like that.”

“But some are uglier than others,” retorted Tofu. “And that’s a really ugly one you’ve got there, Bertie. Do you think that there’s a competition for ugly babies? Because he could win a prize, you know. You should ask.”

This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Irene, who had heard the boys going into the room and had come to find out what was going on. “I know you’ve come to admire little Ulysses,” she whispered. “But he needs his sleep, or he becomes a little bit crotchety. Why don’t you go and play in Bertie’s room?”

This is exactly what Bertie had hoped not to do. His room, which had been painted pink by his mother, was an embarrassment, and he had made a small sign for the door: Closed for Renovation. That, he hoped, would prevent Tofu from seeing the room at all.

“Good idea,” said Tofu. “Let’s go, Bertie.”

Bertie was trapped. Tofu would laugh at his room – he knew it, but it seemed to him that he now had no alternative.

“Closed for what?” asked Tofu as he peered at the sign. “What does this say, Bertie?”

“Nothing,” muttered Bertie, as he took the sign down.

They went in. Tofu took a step or two into the room and then stopped. He looked around at the walls, and at the ceiling; then he turned to look at Bertie. “Pink,” he said.

Bertie felt himself on the verge of tears, but checked himself. It was bad enough Tofu’s seeing his pink room; how much worse would it be if Tofu saw him crying.

“That’s an undercoat,” he said miserably. “The next coat of paint will be white.”

It was as if Tofu had not heard him. “Pink walls!” he gloated. “Boy, wait until the others hear this. Pink walls!”

Bertie said nothing.

Tofu, smirking, stared at his host. “Do you know what pink means, Bertie? Do you know?”

Bertie shook his head. He had no idea what pink meant, other than that it was a girl’s colour. That was all he knew.

“Pink is a colour for sissies,” said Tofu. “You know that? Sissies.”

Bertie was not sure what a sissy was, but he did not think that he was one. He was just an ordinary boy, like any other boy, and it was so unfair that he had this pink room and those pink dungarees. And what sort of friend was Tofu, that he should rub it all in? It was so unfair.

“I’m not a sissy, Tofu,” stuttered Bertie. “I’m not.”

“Then why do you have a pink room?” asked Tofu.

Bertie did not answer. He was wondering if he could somehow get rid of Tofu; if he could ask him to leave. He did not think so. Tofu had come to play and was to be there until five o’clock when his father came to collect him. There was no escape…

Then there were steps behind him and the door was opened. “Look who’s here,” said Irene brightly. “Olive.”

Tofu spun round and glared at the new arrival. “Hello, Bertie,” said Olive, ignoring Tofu. “Are we going to play in your pink room?”

“It’s not pink,” growled Tofu. “It’s… sort of red. Are you colour-blind, Olive?”

Bertie, defended in this way, the beneficiary of male solidarity, could have embraced Tofu with gratitude. But did not, of course, as that would have been sissy.

Bruce had not expected to find his new job difficult. And it was not. “Anybody could manage a wine bar,” he said to Julia one morning over breakfast. “Even you.”

Julia looked up from the catalogue she was reading. Mauve was in this year; look at all that mauve. Even that full-length cashmere coat. Mauve. It was the sort of thing that she had seen at Barneys in New York when her father had taken her over there for her birthday. It was expensive, of course, but Barneys was worth it. Everything there had edge. That was pre-Bruce, of course. Perhaps she should take Bruce over for a weekend and show him round.

“Me?” she said. “Me what?”

“Nothing,” said Bruce, smiling. “You, nothing. I was just talking about running the wine bar and what a doddle it is.”

Julia returned to her catalogue. “That’s nice,” she said.

Bruce reached for his acai juice. He had looked in the mirror a few days ago and had experienced a bit of a shock. There was a line, a wrinkle even, at the side of his mouth. At first he had thought it was a mark of some sort, a smudge, but after he had rubbed at it, it was still there. That had made him think. It was all very well being drop-dead gorgeous, as he admitted to himself he really was, but could you be drop-dead gorgeous with wrinkles?

Moisturiser, he thought. More moisturiser and more anti-oxidants, such as acai juice, which was also good for the… in that department. Now, drinking his acai juice, he looked over the rim of the glass at Julia, his fiancée, sitting on the other side of the table. There was no sign of her being pregnant – no visible sign yet – and she was still a bit drop-dead gorgeous herself. Both of us, he thought; both drop-dead gorgeous.

Bruce had to admit that he was happy. He was not one to sit down and count his blessings, but they were, he decided, manifold. Firstly, he had this marvellous flat in Howe Street – it was in Julia’s name, actually, but a brief “I do” in front of some minister wheeled out for the purpose and all that would be changed! God, it’s easy, he said to himself. Marriage brings everything: a flat, a job. Get married, boys; that’s the life!

And then there was the car, the Porsche – not quite the model he would have picked if he had been given a totally free rein, but a Porsche nonetheless. A Porsche was a statement. It said something about you, about how you felt about yourself. Of course there were always those wet blankets who said that you only drove a car like that if you were making up for something – some inadequacy, perhaps. But that was rubbish, Bruce thought. That was the sort of thing made up by people who would never get a Porsche and knew it. They had to come up with something to make themselves feel better about their Porsche-less state.

And of course there was money. Bruce had suggested to Julia that they have a shared current account.