“I sleep like a baby,” said Roz, “just like all the white guys I work with. You know, Saffy, in a world where only assholes get to be rich and powerful, only assholes get to make the rules. I pay for my parents’ home nurses, I pay for my wife to live, I research the charities I donate to, and I don’t regret anything. I made my compromises. We all do.”

“That’s true,” Saffy said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why not? It’s a fair question,” Roz said. “I’m not ashamed. And I couldn’t do what you do anyway.” She paused, took another bite of roasted cauliflower, and added, “Listen, do you remember, I told you once you were…”

“‘An insanely privileged nice white liberal lady,’” said Saffy. “Yes, I remember. Vividly. You were always very direct about it. And right, of course.”

“Oh, I’m always right,” said Roz. “But the thing is—making no compromises, that’s a privilege. A big one. I hope my kids get to have it.” The beautiful American smile again. “Did I mention? We’re going to have kids. Though it’s hilarious how much sperm costs.”

Tipsy, later, in Saffy’s flat—Roz was staying in the spare room, they’d broken out the bottle of gin—they got onto the subject of Saffy’s personal life. “Oh wow,” said Roz, to the old Instagram photo of Laura Kenning with her motorbike.

“No chance now,” Saffy said, “I managed to wildly offend her by, well,” and she admitted with a combination of shame and pride to the Mark thing. Roz announced that because she believed deeply in equality she had to see a photo of him too, to compare.

“Nope,” she said after they’d managed to scare something up—on LinkedIn, of all places; Mark seemed to have no personal social media. “I don’t see it. I’m too gay. I think you should have gone with motorbike girl. Go on, explain the appeal.”

“There’s a cultural element.”

“What does that mean?”

Saffy paused. “If I told you, went to Yale, cousin is a senator, plays squash…”

“Oh, I see,” said Roz. “Status symbol boyfriend.”

“No! Well, maybe. But not boyfriend.”

“Why not?”

“There may be some significant cultural differences across the pond,” said Saffy primly, “but I know for a fact that you also have wankers.”

“Then I still don’t get it,” Roz said. “Also, honestly—straight guy, doing well for himself, over forty, not ace … but no wife, no ex-wife, not even an old girlfriend he wants to complain about? At our age people usually come peer-reviewed. There’s got to be something seriously wrong with him.”