LATER THAT NIGHT, as Celia and John went out to hail a cab, Harry gently helped me put my jacket on. “Do you realize that I’m the longest marriage you've had?” he asked. By that point, Harry and I had been married for almost seven years. “And also the best,” I said. “Bar none.” “I was thinking...” I already knew what he was thinking. Or at least, I suspected what he was thinking. Because I’d been thinking it, too. I was thirty-six. If we were going to have a baby, I’d put it off for as long as I could. Sure, there were women having babies later than that, but it wasn’t very common, and I had spent the last few years staring at babies in strollers, unable to focus my eyes on anything else when they were around. I would pick up friends’ babies and hold them tightly until the very moment their mothers demanded them back. I thought of what my own child might be like. I thought of how it would feel to bring a life into the world, to give the four of us another being to focus on. But if I was going to do it, I had to get moving. And our decision to have a baby wasn’t really just a two-person conversation. It was a four-person conversation. “Go on,” I said as we made our way to the front of the restaurant. “Say It’ “A baby,” Harry said. “You and me.” “Have you discussed it with John?” I asked. “Not specifically,” he said. “Have you discussed it with Celia?” “No.” “But are you ready?” he said. My career was going to take a hit. There was no avoiding it. I’'d go from being a woman to being a mother—and somehow those things appeared mutually exclusive in Hollywood. My body would change. I’d have months where I couldn’t work. It made absolutely no sense to say yes. “Yes,” I said. “I am.”