I am at a party, standing in someone’s back garden on a chilly spring afternoon, talking to a woman I’ve just met. She is explaining something to do with her past relationships and astrology. She’s on the verge of telling me her star sign, but then decides for some reason that I should be able to guess it.

“It’s a fire sign,” she says.

“That doesn’t really help me,” I say.

“I’m an Aries!” she says.

“I was going to say Aries,” I say.

“So what do you do?” she says. I tell her.

“Really?” she says. “What kind of journalist?”

“I’ve never had a very good answer for that question,” I say, pouring beer into my glass from a bottle on the table. I explain that I write a column for a newspaper.

“Which newspaper?” she says. I tell her.

“Really!” she says. “So which one are you? Are you the one who’s married to the woman?”

“I am married to a woman,” I say.

“And she also has a column where she writes about you?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Unless she does it in secret.”

“So what’s your name?” she says. I tell her. I witness what looks like the very opposite of a glimmer of recognition, as if little shades were being drawn down behind her eyes.

“So what was your most recent column about?”

I have to think about this for a moment. “It was about a train journey,” I say. “But it was really about how much my wife hates travelling with me.”

“Oh no!” she says.

“I mean, with good reason – I’m an anxious and difficult passenger.”

“Are you self-deprecating?” she says. “But you’re American! Americans can’t be self-deprecating!”

“That’s why I had to leave,” I say.

“What star sign are you?” she says.

“I’m a Gemini,” I say.

“That makes sense,” she says, nodding gravely. “So there’s two of you in there.”

“Is there?” I say, finally.

“Tricky… What sign is your wife?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“You don’t know your wife’s star sign?”

“Well, I know some of the ones it isn’t.”

“When’s her birthday?” she says.

“September,” I say.

“So she’s a Virgo,” she says.

“No,” I say. “She’s late September, so it’s the one after Virgo.”

“Ah,” the woman says. “Taurus?”

“No,” I say. “Taurus is May.”

“Aquarius?” she says.

“No,” I say.

“I only really know the fire signs,” she says. “Cancer?”

“Cancer is after Gemini,” I say, finding myself in the uncomfortable position of being the ranking astrology expert.

“I can’t believe you don’t know your wife’s star sign!” she says.

“I’ve narrowed it down considerably,” I say. “Anyway, I can just ask her. She’s right there.” The woman waves her arm, and when my wife looks up she calls out to her.

“He wants to know your star sign!” she says. A look of profound suspicion crosses my wife’s face. She takes a few cautious steps in our direction.

“Libra,” she says.

“He didn’t know!” the woman says.

“It’s not really any of his business,” my wife says. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Libra’s good,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

“He says you hate travelling,” the woman tells my wife. My wife looks at me, then back at the woman.

“He’s lying,” she says.

“I said you hate travelling with me,” I say.

“That’s right!” the woman says. “You hate travelling with him!”

“Fair enough,” my wife says, backing away. Another person joins the conversation.

“What are we talking about?” he says.

“Astrology!” the woman says.

“Really?” he says, looking at me as if I were in charge.

“Yes,” I say. “What sign are you?”

“Don’t tell him!” the woman says. “You have to guess.” I look him up and down.

“Pisces,” I say.

“Yes,” he says.

“It’s a gift,” I say.