When you get home, the first thing you notice is the smoke. Not from a fire although with Robbie, you can never fully rule that out but from expensive cigarettes drifting in from the terrace, mixed with the sharp scent of a freshly shaken Martini. Again.

The second thing you notice is him.

Silk robe open, hair a mess like he’s been fighting ghosts from the past and losing a drink in one hand as he paces the terrace like he’s starring in a 1950s drama.

“What do you mean there’s a mini Robbie on the way?!” he shouts at the sky, theatrical. “This was not in my contract with the universe, darling!”

“Two lines!” he says, waving a positive pregnancy test in the air like it’s a cursed lottery ticket. “One screws you, two ruin you!”