At a party with my daughter at the weekend, I gradually became aware that 90 per cent of my fellow guests were psychoanalysts. Not only that, but 90 per cent of the psychoanalysts there had come straight from a conference on eating disorders.

Round the groaning buffet table many wry remarks were heard. “Food love, love food,” one easy-going lady murmured, a newborn clamped firmly to her breast, as she leaned in and helped herself to a ladleful of butterflied prawns. A few of the other guests were chatting about the latest theories relating to that iconic and pregnant piece of kitchen equipment: the fridge.

“Oh, I know,” I joined in eagerly, “fridges always disappoint, somehow, because you walk into the kitchen, throw open the door looking for answers, for ideas, for a little lift or some small  communication that will change everything and the thing is, whatever you’re seeking – and this isn’t usually anything to do with food – it’s never quite there.”

One of the practitioners looked at me very seriously. “I’ve never thought about it like that,” he said. “May I quote you?”

“Please,” I replied. “It’s yours.” I rather wish now that I had requested a little footnote. Let it not be said my life is dull.

Presently, a couple I’ve only met once before started chatting to me, and before long they asked, quite formally, whether I thought it would be a good idea for them to start a family. I blinked several times and asked them a few things about their romance in return. Together for five years, 34 and 35, both with promising careers, a baby didn’t seem like the world’s craziest suggestion. They both regarded me imploringly. “Shall we, though?” they pressed.

Giving advice is something I try to avoid. I recommended a hotel in Paris recently, and my friends did not much like it and let me know. I gave the number of an upholsterer to a pal last year, and she complained that the results looked too refined. I told some friends about a cabinetmaker I like, and they waited all day and he never showed up. They were quite cross with me. How much worse was the potential for recriminations in this scenario?

Immediately I had visions of it somehow not working. I saw them knocking on my door in the middle of the night, holding the baby aloft and holding me responsible for their lack of sleep, their lost income, their flagging sex life, the fact that their previously gracious home seemed suddenly too small. “You never said it would require so much effort? Why didn’t you give us the whole picture? You really should have. Here – you take it ... ”

“What do you think a baby is, you know, for?” I put to them gently. “What would you want from one and, more to the point, what do you have to offer?”

Then, more practically: “Have you thought about what you would do with one all day? It’s a lot to think about, really ... ”

My voice trailed off. “I love babies. It’s just that, you know ... It should be something you decide between you. It shouldn’t be really up to, you know, er, me.”

I wandered away and struck up a conversation with another fellow who was standing close to the drinks table. After a minute, all sorts of bells started sounding in my head: bells of warning in the main. It was suddenly obvious that this chatty fellow was the long-term analyst of one of my best friends. She has described him in great detail over their six-year union: the shape of his chin; his unusual ears; his first name, which is one you very seldom hear; his startling sense of humour; and his accent, which is Hampstead-Belgian, just as she had said.

My low-key party chatter seemed suddenly dreadfully illicit. I felt an odd sort of guilt, for I had access to something that was rightfully hers, a bit like the way you feel when you talk too intimately to a good friend’s no-good ex-partner, or very distant yet glamorous father.

I was aware that if I asked him where he lived, or what his holiday plans were, I would learn things about him that she would never know. Did it behove me to embark on a fact-finding mission for her? Ought I to come clean and mention to him our mutual friend?

Briefly I wondered if I should return to the ambivalent baby-making couple and ask their advice in the spirit of tit for tat. It was all suddenly a bit too much. I gathered my daughter, who was cartwheeling in the garden outside, and we made our way quietly home, where things are a great deal less complicated.

susie.boyt@ft.com
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