The Rosie Effect / Эффект Рози (by Graeme Simsion, 2014) - аудиокнига на английском

1 Orange juice was not scheduled for Fridays. Although Rosie and I had abandoned the Standardised Meal System, resulting in an improvement in ‘spontaneity’ at the expense of shopping time, food inventory and wastage, we had agreed that each week should include three alcohol-free days. Without formal scheduling, this target proved difficult to achieve, as I had predicted. Rosie eventually saw the logic of my solution. Fridays and Saturdays were obvious days on which to consume alcohol. Neither of us had classes on the weekend. We could sleep late and possibly have sex. Sex was absolutely not allowed to be scheduled, at least not by explicit discussion, but I had become familiar with the sequence of events likely to precipitate it: a blueberry muffin from Blue Sky Bakery, a triple shot of espresso from Otha’s, removal of my shirt, and my impersonation of Gregory Peck in the role of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. I had learned not to do all four in the same sequence on every occasion, as my intention would then be obvious. To provide an element of unpredictability, I settled on tossing a coin twice to select a component of the routine to delete. I had placed a bottle of Elk Cove pinot gris in the refrigerator to accompany the divers’ scallops purchased that morning at Chelsea Market, but when I returned after retrieving our laundry from the basement, there were two glasses of orange juice on the table. Orange juice was not compatible with the wine. Drinking it first would desensitise our tastebuds to the slight residual sugar that was a feature of the pinot gris, thus creating an impression of sourness. Waiting until after we had finished the wine would also be unacceptable. Orange juice deteriorates rapidly—hence the emphasis placed by breakfast establishments on ‘freshly squeezed’. Rosie was in the bedroom, so not immediately available for discussion. In our apartment, there were nine possible combinations of locations for two people, of which six involved us being in different rooms. In our ideal apartment, as jointly specified prior to our arrival in New York, there would have been thirty-six possible combinations, arising from the bedroom, two studies, two bathrooms and a living-room-kitchen. This reference apartment would have been located in Manhattan, close to the 1 or A-Train for access to Columbia University medical school, with water views and a balcony or rooftop barbecue area. As our income consisted of one academic’s salary, supplemented by two part-time cocktailmaking jobs but reduced by Rosie’s tuition fees, some compromise was required, and our apartment offered none of the specified features. We had given excessive weight to the Williamsburg location because our friends Isaac and Judy Esler lived there and had recommended it. There was no logical reason why a (then) forty-year-old professor of genetics and a thirty-year-old postgraduate medical student would be suited to the same neighbourhood as a fifty-four-year-old psychiatrist and a fifty-two-year-old potter who had acquired their dwelling before prices escalated. The rent was high and the apartment had a number of faults that the management was reluctant to rectify. Currently the air conditioning was failing to compensate for the exterior temperature of thirty-four degrees Celsius, which was within the expected range for Brooklyn in late June. The reduction in room numbers, combined with marriage, meant I had been thrown into closer sustained proximity with another human being than ever before. Rosie’s physical presence was a hugely positive outcome of the Wife Project, but after ten months and ten days of marriage I was still adapting to being a component of a couple. I sometimes spent longer in the bathroom than was strictly necessary. I checked the date on my phone—definitely Friday, 21 June. This was a better outcome than the scenario in which my brain had developed a fault that caused it to identify days incorrectly. But it confirmed a violation of the alcohol protocol. My reflections were interrupted by Rosie emerging from the bedroom wearing only a towel. This was my favourite costume, assuming ‘no costume’ did not qualify as a costume. Once again, I was struck by her extraordinary beauty and inexplicable decision to select me as her partner. And, as always, that thought was followed by an unwanted emotion: an intense moment of fear that she would one day realise her error. ‘What’s cooking?’ she asked. ‘Nothing. Cooking has not commenced. I’m in the ingredient-assembly phase.’ She laughed, in the tone that indicated I had misinterpreted her question. Of course, the question would not have been required at all had the Standardised Meal System been in place. I provided the information that I guessed Rosie was seeking. ‘Sustainable scallops with a mirepoix of carrots, celeriac, shallots and bell peppers and a sesame oil dressing. The recommended accompanying beverage is pinot gris.’ ‘Do you need me to do anything?’ ‘We all need to get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow we go to Navarone.’ The content of the Gregory Peck line was irrelevant. The effect came entirely from the delivery and the impression it conveyed of leadership and confidence in the preparation of saut?ed scallops. ‘And what if I can’t sleep, Captain?’ said Rosie. She smiled and disappeared into the bathroom. I did not raise the towel-location issue: I had long ago accepted that hers would be stored randomly in the bathroom or bedroom, effectively occupying two spaces. Our preferences for order are at different ends of the scale. When we moved from Australia to New York, Rosie packed three maximum-size suitcases. The quantity of clothes alone was incredible. My own personal items fitted into two carry-on bags. I took advantage of the move to upgrade my living equipment and gave my stereo and desktop computer to my brother Trevor, returned the bed, linen and kitchen utensils to the family home in Shepparton, and sold my bike. In contrast, Rosie added to her vast collection of possessions by purchasing decorative objects within weeks of our arrival. The result was evident in the chaotic condition of our apartment: pot plants, surplus chairs and an impractical wine rack. It was not merely the quantity of items: there was also a problem of organisation. The refrigerator was crowded with half-empty containers of bread toppings, dips and decaying dairy products. Rosie had even suggested sourcing a second refrigerator from my friend Dave. One fridge each! Never had the advantages of the Standardised Meal System, with its fully specified meal for each day of the week, standard shopping list and optimised inventory, been so obvious. There was exactly one exception to Rosie’s disorganised approach. That exception was a variable. By default it was her medical studies, but currently it was her PhD thesis on environmental risks for the early onset of bipolar disorder. She had been granted advanced status in the Columbia MD program on the proviso that her thesis would be completed during the summer vacation. The deadline was now only two months and five days away. ‘How can you be so organised at one thing and so disorganised at everything else?’ I’d asked Rosie, following her installation of the incorrect driver for her printer. ‘It’s because I’m concentrating on my thesis, I don’t worry about other stuff. Nobody asks if Freud checked the use-by date on the milk.’ ‘They didn’t have use-by dates in the early twentieth century.’ It was incredible that two such dissimilar people had become a successful couple. 2 The Orange Juice Problem occurred at the end of an already-disrupted week. Another occupant of our apartment complex had destroyed both of my ‘respectable’ shirts by piggybacking on our washing load in the shared laundry facilities. I understood his desire for efficiency, but an item of his clothing had dyed our light-coloured washing a permanent and uneven shade of purple. From my perspective there was no problem: I was established as a visiting professor in the Columbia medical school and no longer needed to worry about ‘creating a good first impression’. Nor could I imagine being refused service in a restaurant because of the colour of my shirt. Rosie’s outer clothing, which was largely black, had not been affected. The problem was restricted to her underwear. I argued that I had no objection to the new shade and that no one else should be seeing her undressed, except perhaps a doctor, whose professionalism should prevent him or her from being concerned with aesthetics. But Rosie had already tried to discuss the problem with Jerome, the neighbour whom she had identified as the offender, to prevent a recurrence. This seemed a reasonable course of action, but Jerome had told Rosie to go screw herself. I was not surprised that she had encountered resistance. Rosie habitually took a direct approach to communication. In speaking to me, it was effective, indeed necessary, but others frequently interpreted her directness as confrontational. Jerome did not convey an impression of wanting to explore win-win solutions. Now Rosie wanted me to ‘stand up to him’ and demonstrate that we ‘wouldn’t be pushed around’. This was exactly the sort of behaviour that I instruct my martial-arts students to avoid. If both parties have the goal of establishing dominance and hence apply the algorithm of ‘respond with greater force’, the ultimate result will be the disablement or death of one party. Over laundry. But the laundry situation was minor in the context of the week as a whole. Because there had been a disaster. I am often accused of overusing that word, but any reasonable person would accept that it was an appropriate term to describe the failure of my closest friends’ marriage, involving two dependent children. Gene and Claudia were in Australia, but the situation was about to cause further disruption to my schedule. Gene and I had conversed over a Skype link, and the communication quality had been poor. Gene may also have been drunk. He seemed reluctant to divulge the details, probably because: 1.People are generally unwilling to talk openly about sexual activity involving themselves. 2.He had behaved extremely stupidly. After promising Claudia that he would abandon his project to have sex with a woman from each country of the world, he had failed to honour his commitment. The violation had occurred at a conference in G?teborg, Sweden. ‘Don, show a bit of compassion,’ he said. ‘What were the odds of her living in Melbourne? She was Icelandic.’ I pointed out that I was Australian and living in the United States. Simple disproof by counter-example of Gene’s ludicrous proposition that people remain in their own countries. ‘Okay, but Melbourne. And knowing Claudia. What are the odds of that?’ ‘Difficult to calculate.’ I pointed out that Gene should have asked this question before adding to his tally of nationalities. If he wanted a reasonable estimate of the probability, I would need information about migration patterns and the size of Claudia’s social and professional network. There was another factor. ‘In calculating the risk, I need to know how many women you’ve seduced since you agreed not to. Obviously the risk increases proportionately.’ ‘Does it matter?’ ‘If you want an estimate. I’m presuming the answer is not zero,’ I said. ‘Don, conferences—overseas conferences—don’t count. That’s why people go to conferences. Everyone understands that.’ ‘If Claudia understands, why is there a problem?’ ‘You’re not supposed to get caught. What happens in G?teborg stays in G?teborg.’ ‘Presumably Icelandic Woman was unaware of this rule.’ ‘She’s in Claudia’s book club.’ ‘Is there some exception for book clubs?’ ‘Forget it. Anyway, it’s over. Claudia’s thrown me out.’ ‘You’re homeless?’ ‘More or less.’ ‘Incredible. Have you told the Dean?’ The Dean of Science in Melbourne was extremely concerned with the public image of the university. It seemed to me that having a homeless person in charge of the Department of Psychology would be, to use her habitual expression, ‘not a good look’. ‘I’m taking a sabbatical,’ said Gene. ‘Who knows, maybe I’ll turn up in New York and buy you a beer.’ This was an amazing thought—not the beer, which I could purchase myself, but the possibility of having my longest-standing friend in New York. Excluding Rosie and family members, I had a total of six friends. They were, in descending order of total contact time: 1.Gene, whose advice had often proved unsound, but who had a fascinatingtheoretical knowledge of human sexual attraction, possibly prompted by his own libido, which was excessive for a man of fifty-seven. 2.Gene’s wife, Claudia, a clinical psychologist and the world’s most sensibleperson. She had shown extraordinary tolerance of Gene’s infidelity prior to his promise to reform. I wondered what would happen to their daughter Eugenie and Gene’s son Carl from his first marriage. Eugenie was now nine and Carl seventeen. 3.Dave Bechler, a refrigeration engineer whom I had met at a baseball game onmy first visit to New York with Rosie. We now convened weekly on the scheduled ‘boys’ night out’ to discuss baseball, refrigeration and marriage. 4.Sonia, Dave’s wife. Despite being slightly overweight (estimated BMI twentyseven), she was extremely beautiful and had a well-paid job as the financial controller for an in-vitro fertilisation facility. These attributes were a source of stress for Dave, who believed that she might leave him for someone more attractive or rich. Dave and Sonia had been attempting to reproduce for five years, using IVF technology (oddly, not at Sonia’s place of employment, where I presumed she would receive a discount and access to high-quality genes if required). They had recently succeeded and the baby was scheduled to be born on Christmas Day. 5.(equal) Isaac Esler, an Australian-born psychiatrist whom at one time I hadconsidered the most likely person to be Rosie’s biological father. 5. (equal) Judy Esler, Isaac’s American wife. Judy was a pottery artist who also raised funds for charity and research. She was responsible for some of the decorative objects cluttering our apartment. Six friends, assuming the Eslers were still my friends. There had been zero contact since an incident involving bluefin tuna six weeks and five days earlier. But even four friends were more than I had ever had before. Now there was a possibility that all but one of them—Claudia— could be in New York with me. I acted quickly and asked the Dean of Medicine at Columbia, Professor David Borenstein, if Gene could take his sabbatical there. Gene, as his name coincidentally indicates, is a geneticist, but specialises in evolutionary psychology. He could be located in psychology, genetics or medicine, but I recommended against psychology. Most psychologists disagree with Gene’s theories, and I forecast that Gene would not need any more conflict in his life. It was an insight that required a level of empathy which would not have been available to me prior to living with Rosie. I advised the Dean that, as a full professor, Gene would not want to do any proper work. David Borenstein was familiar with sabbatical protocol, which dictated that Gene would be paid by his university in Australia. He was also aware of Gene’s reputation. ‘If he can co-author a few papers and keep his hands off the PhD students, I can find an office for him.’ ‘Of course, of course.’ Gene was an expert at getting published with minimal effort. We would have vast amounts of free time to talk about interesting topics. ‘I’m serious about the PhD students. If he gets into trouble, I’ll hold you accountable.’ This seemed an unreasonable threat, typical of university administrators, but it would provide me with an excuse to reform Gene’s behaviour. And, after surveying the PhD students, I concluded it was unlikely that any would be of interest to Gene. I checked when I called to announce my success at finding him employment. ‘You’ve got Mexico? Correct?’ ‘I have passed time with a lady of that nationality, if that’s what you’re asking.’ ‘You had sex with her?’ ‘Something like that.’ There were several international PhD students, but Gene had already covered the most populous developed countries. ‘So, are you accepting the job?’ I asked. ‘I need to check my options.’ ‘Ridiculous. Columbia has the world’s best medical school. And they’re prepared to take someone who has a reputation for laziness and inappropriate behaviour.’ ‘Look who’s talking about inappropriate behaviour.’ ‘Correct. They accept me. They’re extremely tolerant. You can start Monday.’ ‘Monday? Don, I don’t have anywhere to live.’ I explained that I would find a solution to this minor practical problem. Gene was coming to New York. He would again be at the same university as me. And Rosie. As I stared at the two orange juices on the table, I realised that I had been looking forward to the alcohol to counteract my anxiety about conveying the Gene news to Rosie. I told myself that I was being unnecessarily concerned. Rosie claimed to welcome spontaneity. This simple analysis, however, ignored three factors. 1.Rosie disliked Gene. He had been her PhD supervisor in Melbourne and technically still was. She had numerous complaints about his academic conduct and regarded his infidelity to Claudia as unacceptable. My argument that he had reformed had now been undermined. 2.Rosie considered it important that we had ‘time to ourselves’. Now I wouldinevitably be devoting time to Gene. He was insistent that his relationship with Claudia was over. But if there was any chance that we could help to save it, it seemed reasonable to give temporarily lower priority to our own healthy marriage. I was certain that Rosie would disagree. 3.Factor Three was the most serious, and possibly a result of misjudgement onmy part. I put it out of my mind to focus on the immediate problem. The two highball glasses filled with orange fluid reminded me of the night that Rosie and I first ‘bonded’—the Great Cocktail Night where we secured a sample of DNA from every male in attendance at the reunion of her mother’s medical year and eliminated all of them as candidates for Rosie’s biological father. Once again, my cocktail-making skills would provide a solution. Rosie and I worked three nights per week at The Alchemist, a cocktail bar on West 19th Street in the Flatiron neighbourhood, so drink-making equipment and ingredients were tools of trade (although I had not been able to convince our accountant of this). I located vodka, Galliano and ice cubes, added these to the orange juices and stirred. Rather than commence my drink before Rosie, I poured myself a shot of vodka on ice, added a squeeze of lime, and drank it rapidly. Almost instantly, I felt my stress level returning to its default state. Finally Rosie emerged from the bathroom. Other than the change in direction of travel, the only difference in her appearance was that her red hair was now wet. But her mood appeared to have elevated: she was almost dancing towards the bedroom. Obviously the scallops had been a good choice. It was possible that her emotional state would make her more receptive to the Gene Sabbatical, but it seemed advisable to defer the news until the next morning, after we had had sex. Of course, if she realised that I had withheld data for that purpose, I would be criticised. Marriage was complex. As Rosie reached the bedroom door, she spun around: ‘I’ll be five minutes getting dressed and then I’m expecting the world’s best scallops.’ Her use of the words ‘world’s best’ was an appropriation of one of my own expressions—a definite indication of a positive mood. ‘Five minutes?’ An underestimate would have a disastrous impact on scallop preparation. ‘Give me fifteen. No hurry to eat. We can have a drink and a chat, Captain Mallory.’ The Gregory Peck character’s name was a further good sign. The only problem was the chat. ‘Anything happen in your day?’ she would say, and I would be obliged to mention the Gene Sabbatical. I decided to make myself unavailable by undertaking cooking tasks. In the meantime, I put the Harvey Wallbangers in the freezer, as they were in danger of warming above optimum temperature when the ice melted. Cooling would also reduce the rate of deterioration of the orange juice. I returned to dinner preparation. I had not used this recipe before and it was only after commencing that I discovered that the vegetables needed to be chopped into quarter-inch cubes. The list of ingredients made no mention of a ruler. I was able to download a measuring application to my phone, but had barely finished production of the reference cube when Rosie re-emerged. She was now wearing a dress—highly unusual for dinner at home. It was white and contrasted dramatically with her red hair. The effect was stunning. I decided to delay the Gene news only slightly, until later in the evening. Rosie could hardly complain about that. I would reschedule aikido practice for the next morning. That would leave time for sex after dinner. Or before. I was prepared to be flexible. Rosie sat in one of the two armchairs that occupied a significant percentage of the living room. ‘Come and talk to me,’ she said. ‘I’m chopping vegetables. I can talk from here.’ ‘What happened to the orange juices?’ I retrieved the modified orange juices from the freezer, gave one to Rosie, and sat opposite. The vodka and Rosie’s friendliness had relaxed me, although I suspected the effect was superficial. The Gene, Jerome and juice problems were still running as background processes. Rosie raised her glass as if proposing a toast. This turned out to be exactly what she was doing. ‘We’ve got something to celebrate, Captain,’ she said. She looked at me for a few seconds. She knows that I am not fond of surprises. I assumed that she had achieved some important milestone with her thesis. Or perhaps she had been offered a place in the psychiatry-training program on completion of the medical course. This would be extremely good news, and I estimated the probability of sex at greater than ninety per cent. She smiled—then, presumably to increase the suspense, drank from her glass. Disaster! It was as if it contained poison. She spat it out, over her white dress, and ran to the bathroom. I followed her as she removed the dress and ran water over it. Standing in her half-purple underwear, pumping water in and out of the dress, she turned back to me. Her expression was far too complex to analyse. ‘We’re pregnant,’ she said. 3 I struggled to process Rosie’s statement. Reviewing my response later, I realised that my brain had been assaulted with information that appeared to defy logic on three counts. First, the formulation ‘we’re pregnant’ contradicted basic biology. It implied that my state had somehow changed as well as Rosie’s. Rosie would surely not have said, ‘Dave’s pregnant’. Yet, according to the definition implicit in her statement, he was. Second, pregnancy was not scheduled. Rosie had mentioned it as a factor in her decision to cease smoking, but I assumed that she had simply used the eventual possibility of pregnancy as motivation. Furthermore, we had discussed the matter explicitly. We were having dinner at Jimmy Watson’s Restaurant in Lygon Street, Carlton, Victoria, Australia, on 2 August of the previous year, nine days before our wedding, and a couple had placed a baby container on the floor between our tables. Rosie mentioned the possibility of us reproducing. We had by then decided to move to New York, and I argued that we should wait until she had finished her medical course and specialisation. Rosie disagreed—she thought that would be leaving it too late. She would be thirty-seven by the time she qualified as a psychiatrist. I suggested that, at a minimum, we wait until the completion of the MD program. The psychiatric qualification was not essential to her planned role as a clinical researcher in mental illness, so if the baby permanently derailed her studies, the impact would not be disastrous. My recollection is that she did not disagree. In any case, a major life decision requires: 1.Articulation of the options, e.g. have zero children; have a specific number ofchildren; sponsor one or more children via a charity. 2.Enumeration of the advantages and disadvantages of each option, e.g. freedomto travel; ability to devote time to work; risk of disruption or grief due to actions of child. Each factor needs to be assigned an agreed weight. 3.Objective comparison of the options using the above. 4.An implementation plan, which may reveal new factors, requiring revision of (1), (2) and (3). A spreadsheet is the obvious tool for (1) through to (3), and if (4) is complex, as it would be in preparing for the existence of a new human being and providing for its needs over many years, project-planning software is appropriate. I was unaware of any spreadsheet and Gantt chart for a baby project. The third apparent violation of logic was that Rosie was using the combined oral contraceptive pill, which has a failure rate of less than 0.5 per cent per annum when used ‘perfectly’. In this context, ‘perfectly’ means ‘correct pill taken daily’. I could not see how even Rosie could be so disorganised as to make an error with such a simple routine. I am aware that not everyone shares my view of the value of planning rather than allowing our lives to be tossed in unpredictable directions by random events. In Rosie’s world, which I had chosen to share, it was possible to use the language of popular psychology rather than biology, to welcome the unexpected, and to forget to take vital medication. All three of these events had occurred, culminating in a change of circumstances that made the Orange Juice Problem and even the Gene Sabbatical appear minor. This analysis, of course, did not happen until much later. The situation as I stood in the bathroom could not have been worse in terms of mental stress. I had been taken to the edge of an unstable equilibrium, and then struck with the maximum conceivable force. The result was inevitable. Meltdown. It was the first occurrence since Rosie and I had met—in fact the first time since my sister Michelle’s death from an undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy. Perhaps because I was now older and more stable, or because my unconscious mind wanted to protect my relationship with Rosie, I had a few seconds to respond rationally. ‘Are you okay, Don?’ said Rosie. The answer was a definite no, but I did not attempt to voice it. All mental resources were diverted to implementing my emergency plan. I made the timeout sign with my hands and ran. The elevator was at our floor, but the doors seemed to take forever to open and then to close again after I stepped inside. Finally I could release my emotions in a space that had no object to break or people to injure. I doubtless appeared crazy, banging my fists against the elevator walls and shouting. I say doubtless, because I had forgotten to push the button for street level, and the elevator went all the way to the basement. Jerome was waiting with a washing basket when the doors opened. He was wearing a purple t-shirt. Although my anger was not directed towards him, he did not appear to discern this subtlety. He pushed his hand against my chest, probably in an attempt at pre-emptive self-defence. I reacted automatically, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. He crashed against the elevator wall, then came at me again, this time throwing a punch. I was now responding according to my martial-arts training rather than my emotions. I avoided his punch, and opened him up so he was undefended. It was obvious he understood his situation and was expecting me to strike him. There was no reason to do so, and I released him. He ran up the stairs, leaving his washing basket behind. I needed to escape the confined space, and followed him. We both ran out onto the street. I initially had no direction in mind, and locked in to following Jerome, who kept looking back. Eventually he ducked down a side street and my thoughts began to clear. I turned north towards Queens. I had not travelled to Dave and Sonia’s apartment on foot before. Fortunately, navigation was straightforward as a result of the logical street numbering system, which should be mandatory in all cities. I ran hard for approximately twenty-five minutes and by the time I arrived at the building and pushed the buzzer I was hot and panting. My anger had evaporated during the altercation with Jerome; I was relieved that it had not driven me to punch him. My emotions had felt out of control, but my martial-arts discipline had trumped them. This was reassuring, but now I was filled with a general feeling of hopelessness. How would I explain my behaviour to Rosie? I had never mentioned the meltdown problem, for two reasons: 1.After such a long time, and with my increased base level of happiness, I believed that it might not recur. 2.Rosie might have rejected me. Rejection was now a rational choice for Rosie. She had reason to consider me violent and dangerous. And she was pregnant. To a violent and dangerous man. This would be terrible for her. ‘Hello?’ It was Sonia on the intercom. ‘It’s Don.’ ‘Don? Are you okay?’ Sonia was apparently able to detect from my voice—and possibly the omission of my customary ‘greetings’ salutation—that there was a problem. ‘No. There’s been a disaster. Multiple disasters.’ Sonia buzzed me up. Dave and Sonia’s apartment was larger than ours, but already cluttered with baby paraphernalia. It struck me that the term ‘ours’ might no longer be applicable. I was conscious of extreme agitation. Dave went to fetch beer, and Sonia insisted that I sit down, even though I was more comfortable walking around. ‘What happened?’ said Sonia. It was an obvious thing to ask but I was unable to formulate an answer. ‘Is Rosie all right?’ Afterwards, I reflected on the brilliance of the question. It was not only the most logical place to begin, but it helped me gain some perspective. Rosie was all right, physically at least. I was feeling calmer. Rationality was returning to deal with the mess that emotions had created. ‘There is no problem with Rosie. The problem is with me.’ ‘What happened?’ Sonia asked again. ‘I had a meltdown. I failed to control my emotions.’ ‘You lost it?’ ‘Lost what?’ ‘You don’t say that in Australia? Did you lose your temper?’ ‘Correct. I have some sort of psychiatric problem. I’ve never told Rosie.’ I had never told anyone. I had never conceded that I suffered from a mental illness, other than depression in my early twenties, which was a straightforward consequence of social isolation. I accepted that I was wired differently from most people, or, more precisely, that my wiring was towards one end of a spectrum of different human configurations. My innate logical skills were significantly greater than my interpersonal skills. Without people like me, we would not have penicillin or computers. But psychiatrists had been prepared to diagnose mental illness twenty years earlier. I had always considered them wrong, and no definitive diagnosis other than depression was ever recorded, but the meltdown problem was the weak point in my argument. It was a reaction to irrationality, but the reaction itself was irrational. Dave returned and handed me a beer. He had also poured one for himself, and drank half of it rapidly. Dave is banned from drinking beer except on our joint nights out, due to a significant weight problem. Perhaps these were extenuating circumstances. I was still sweating despite the air conditioning, and the drink cooled me down. Sonia and Dave were excellent friends. Dave had been listening and had heard my admission of the psychiatric problem. ‘You never told me either,’ he said. ‘What sort of—?’ Sonia interrupted. ‘Excuse us a minute, Don. I want to speak to Dave alone.’ She and Dave walked to the kitchen. I was aware that conventionally they would have needed to employ some form of subterfuge to disguise the fact that they wanted to talk about me without me hearing. Fortunately, I am not easily offended. Dave and Sonia know this. Dave returned alone. His beer glass had been refilled. ‘How often has this happened? The meltdown?’ ‘This is the first time with Rosie.’ ‘Did you hit her?’ ‘No.’ I wanted the answer to be ‘of course not’, but nothing is certain when logical reasoning is swamped by out-of-control emotions. I had prepared an emergency plan and it had worked. That was all I could claim credit for. ‘Did you shove her—anything?’ ‘No, there was no violence. Zero physical contact.’ ‘Don, I’m supposed to say something like, “Don’t fuck with me, buddy,” but you know I can’t talk like that. You’re my friend—just tell me the truth.’ ‘You’re also my friend and therefore aware that I am incompetent at deception.’ Dave laughed. ‘True. But you should look me in the eye if you want to convince me.’ I stared into Dave’s eyes. They were blue. A surprisingly light blue. I had not noticed before, doubtless as a result of failure to look him in the eye. ‘There was no violence. I may have frightened a neighbour.’ ‘Shit, it was better without the psycho impression.’ I was distressed that Dave and Sonia believed I might have assaulted Rosie, but there was some comfort in realising that things could have been worse, and that their primary concern was for her. Sonia waved from the entrance to Dave’s office where she was talking on her phone. She gave Dave a thumbs-up signal, then jumped up and down with excitement like a child, waving her free hand in the air. Nothing was making sense. ‘Oh my God,’ she called out, ‘Rosie’s pregnant.’ It was as though there were twenty people in the room. Dave clinked his glass against mine, spilling beer, and even put his arm around my shoulder. He must have felt me stiffen, so he removed it, but Sonia then repeated the action and Dave slapped me on the back. It was like the subway at rush hour. They were treating my problem as a cause for celebration. ‘Rosie’s still on the phone,’ said Sonia, and handed it to me. ‘Don, are you all right?’ she said. She was concerned about me. ‘Of course. The state was temporary.’ ‘Don, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have just sprung it on you like that. Are you coming home? I really want to talk to you. But, Don, I don’t want this to be temporary.’ Rosie must have thought that I was referring to her state—her pregnancy—but her answer gave me vital information. Riding home in Dave’s van, I concluded that Rosie had already decided that it was a feature rather than a fault. The orange juice provided further evidence. She did not want to harm the fertilised egg. There was an extraordinary amount to process, and my brain was now functioning normally, or at least in the manner that I was accustomed to. The meltdown was perhaps the psychological equivalent of a reboot following an overload. Despite my growing expertise in identifying social cues, I nearly missed one from Dave. ‘Don, I was going to ask you a favour, but I guess with Rosie and everything…’ Excellent was my first thought. Then I realised that the second part of Dave’s sentence, and the tone in which it was delivered, indicated that he wanted me to overrule him, to enable him to avoid feeling guilty for asking for my assistance at a time when I was occupied with other problems. ‘No problem.’ Dave smiled. I was aware of a surge of pleasure. When I was ten, I had learned to catch a ball after an amount of practice far in excess of that required by my schoolmates. The satisfaction every time I completed what for others would have been a routine catch was similar to the feeling I now experienced as a result of my improved social skills. ‘It’s no big deal,’ Dave said. ‘I’ve finished the beer cellar for the British guy in Chelsea.’ ‘Beer cellar?’ ‘Like a wine cellar, except it’s for beer.’ ‘It sounds like a conventional project. The contents should be irrelevant from a refrigeration perspective.’ ‘Wait till you see it. It turned out pretty expensive.’ ‘You think he may argue about the price?’ ‘It’s a weird job and he’s a weird guy. I figure British and Australian—you guys might connect. I just want a bit of moral support. So he doesn’t walk over me.’ Dave was silent and I took the opportunity to reflect. I had been given a reprieve. Rosie had presumably thought that my timeout request had been to consider the consequences of her announcement. The actual meltdown had been invisible to her. She seemed extremely happy with the pregnancy. There need be no immediate impact on me. I would jog to the Chelsea Market tomorrow, teach an aikido class at the martial-arts centre and listen to the previous week’s Scientific American podcasts. We would revisit the special exhibition of frogs at the Museum of Natural History, and I would make sushi, pumpkin gyoza, miso soup and tempura of whatever whitefish was recommended by the employees of the Lobster Place for dinner. I would use the ‘free time’ that Rosie insisted we schedule on the weekend—and which she was currently using for her thesis—to attend Dave’s client meeting. At the homewares shop, I would purchase a specialised stopper and vacuum pump to preserve the wine that Rosie would normally have consumed, and substitute juice for her share. Other than the amendment to beverage management, life would be unchanged. Except for Gene, of course. I still needed to deal with that problem. Given the circumstances, it seemed wise to postpone the announcement. It was 9.27 p.m. when I arrived home from Dave’s. Rosie flung her arms around me and began crying. I had learned that it was better not to attempt to interpret such behaviour at the time, or to seek clarification as to the specific emotion being expressed, even though such information would have been useful in formulating a response. Instead, I adopted the tactic recommended by Claudia and assumed the persona of Gregory Peck’s character in The Big Country. Strong and silent. It was not difficult for me. Rosie recovered quickly. ‘I put the scallops and stuff in the oven after I got off the phone,’ she said. ‘They should be okay.’ This was an uninformed statement, but I concluded that the damage would probably not be increased significantly by leaving them for another hour. I hugged Rosie again. I was feeling euphorically happy, a characteristic human reaction to the removal of a terrible threat. We ate the scallops an hour and seven minutes later, in our pyjamas. All scheduled tasks had been completed. Except for the Gene announcement. 4 It was fortunate that sex had been brought forward to Friday evening. When I returned from my market jog the following morning, Rosie was feeling nauseated. I knew that this was a common symptom in the first trimester of pregnancy, and, thanks to my father, I knew the correct word for it. ‘If you describe yourself as nauseous, Don, you’re saying you make people sick.’ My father is meticulous about correct use of language. There is a good evolutionary explanation for morning sickness in early pregnancy. In this critical stage of foetal development, with the mother’s immune system depressed, it is essential that she does not ingest any harmful substances. Hence the stomach is more highly tuned to reject unsuitable food. I recommended that Rosie not take any drugs to interfere with the natural process. ‘I hear you,’ said Rosie. She was in the bathroom, steadying herself with both hands on the vanity unit. ‘I’ll leave the thalidomide in the cupboard.’ ‘You’ve got thalidomide?’ ‘Kidding, Don, kidding.’ I explained to Rosie that many drugs could cross the placental wall, and cited a number of examples, along with descriptions of the deformities they could cause. I did not think Rosie was likely to take any of them, and was really only sharing some interesting information that I had read many years earlier, but she closed the door. At that point, I realised that there was one drug that she had definitely taken. I opened the door. ‘What about alcohol? How long have you been pregnant?’ ‘About three weeks, I guess. I’m going to stop now, okay?’ Her tone suggested that answering in the negative would not be a good idea. But here was a stunning example of the consequences of failing to plan. Those consequences were important enough to have their own special pejorative term, even in a world that does not value planning as much as it should. We were dealing with an unplanned pregnancy. If the pregnancy had been planned, Rosie could have stopped drinking in advance. She could also have arranged for a medical assessment to identify any risks, and we could have acted on research indicating that the DNA quality of sperm can be improved by daily sex. ‘Have you smoked any cigarettes? Or marijuana?’ Rosie had given up smoking less than a year ago, and had occasionally relapsed, typically in conjunction with alcohol consumption. ‘Hey, stop freaking me out. No. You know what you should be worried about? Steroids.’ ‘You’ve been taking steroids?’ ‘No, I haven’t been taking steroids. But you’re making me stressed. Stress creates cortisol, which is a steroid hormone; cortisol crosses the placental wall; high levels of cortisol in babies are associated with depression in later life.’ ‘Have you researched this?’ ‘Only for the last five years. What do you think my PhD’s about?’ Rosie emerged from the bathroom and stuck her tongue out, a gesture that seemed inconsistent with scientific authority. ‘So your job for the next nine months is to make sure I don’t get stressed. Say it: Rosie must not get stressed. Go on.’ I repeated the instruction. ‘Rosie must not get stressed.’ ‘Actually, I’m a bit stressed now. I can feel the cortisol. I think I might need a massage to relax me.’ There was another critical question. I tried to ask it in a non-stress-inducing tone as I warmed the massage oil. ‘Are you sure you’re pregnant? Have you consulted a doctor?’ ‘I’m a medical student, remember? I did the test twice. Yesterday morning and just before I told you. Two false positives are highly unlikely, Professor.’ ‘Correct. But you were taking contraceptive pills.’ ‘I must’ve forgotten. Maybe you’re just super potent.’ ‘Did you forget once or multiple times?’ ‘How can I remember what I forgot?’ I had seen the pill packet. It was one of the numerous female things that had appeared in my world when Rosie moved in. It had little bubbles labelled according to the day of the week. The system seemed good, although a mapping to actual dates would have been useful. I envisaged some sort of digital dispenser with an alarm. Even in its current form, it was obviously designed to prevent errors by women who were far less intelligent than Rosie. It should have been easy for her to notice an oversight. But she changed the subject. ‘I thought you were happy about having a baby.’ I was happy in the way that I would be happy if the captain of an aircraft in which I was travelling announced that he had succeeded in restarting one engine after both had failed. Pleased that I would now probably survive, but shocked that the situation had arisen in the first place, and expecting a thorough investigation into the circumstances. Apparently, I waited too long to respond. Rosie repeated her statement. ‘You said you were happy last night.’ Since the day Rosie and I participated in a wedding ceremony in a church in memory of Rosie’s atheist mother’s Irish ancestry—with her father, Phil, performing a ‘giving away’ ritual that surely violated Rosie’s feminist philosophy, Rosie wearing an extraordinary white dress and veil that she planned never to use again, and escaping having chopped-up coloured paper thrown over us only because of a (sensible) regulation—I had learned that, in marriage, reason frequently had to take second place to harmony. I would have agreed to the confetti if it had been permitted. ‘Of course, of course,’ I said, trying to maintain a rational and non-confrontational conversation while processing memories and rubbing oil into Rosie’s naked body. ‘I was just wondering how it happened. As a scientist.’ ‘It was the Saturday morning after you went out and got breakfast and did your Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday.’ Rosie attempted her own impression. ‘You should always wear my clothes.’ ‘Was I wearing my shirt when I did it?’ ‘You do remember. You’re right. I had to tell you to take it off.’ First of June. The day my life changed. Again. ‘I didn’t think it would happen straight away,’ she said. ‘I thought it might take months, maybe years, like Sonia.’ In retrospect, this was the perfect moment to tell Rosie about Gene. But I did not realise until later that she was admitting that the contraception failure was deliberate and thus giving me an opportunity to make my own revelation. I was focused on the massage process. ‘Are you feeling less stressed?’ I asked. She laughed. ‘Our baby is out of danger. Temporarily.’ ‘Would you like a coffee? I put your blueberry muffin in the refrigerator.’ ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing.’ The net result of continuing to do what I was doing was that the time window between breakfast and my aikido class disappeared, and there was no chance to discuss the Gene Problem. When I returned, Rosie suggested we cancel the museum visit to enable further work on her thesis. I used the freed-up time to research beer. Dave drove us to a new apartment building between the High Line and the Hudson River. I was amazed to discover that the ‘cellar’ was actually a small bedroom in an apartment on the thirtyninth floor, immediately below the top-floor apartment that it was to serve. The lower apartment was otherwise vacant. Dave had insulated the room with refrigeration panels and installed a complex cooling system. ‘Should’ve done more to insulate the ceiling,’ said Dave. I agreed. Any costs would have been rapidly recouped in electricity savings. I had learned a great deal about refrigeration since meeting Dave. ‘Why didn’t you?’ ‘Building management. I think they would have caved, but the client isn’t too worried about running costs.’ ‘The client is presumably extremely wealthy. Or extremely fond of beer.’ Dave pointed upwards. ‘Both. He bought two four-bedroom apartments: he’s using this one just for the beer.’ He moved his finger to his lips in the conventional signal for silence and secrecy. A short, thin man with a craggy face and long grey hair tied in a ponytail had appeared in the doorway. I estimated his BMI as twenty and his age as sixty-five. If I had to guess his profession, I would have said plumber. If he was a former plumber who had won a lottery, he might be a very exacting client. He spoke with a strong English accent. ‘’Ullo, David. Brought your mate?’ The plumber extended his hand. ‘George.’ I shook it according to protocol, matching George’s pressure, which was medium. ‘Don.’ Formalities completed, George inspected the room. ‘What temperature you setting it at?’ Dave gave an answer that I deduced as likely to be wrong. ‘For beer, we generally set it at forty-five degrees. Fahrenheit.’ George was unimpressed. ‘Bloody hell, you want to freeze it? If I want to drink lager, I’ll use the fridge upstairs. Tell me what you know about real beer. Ale.’ Dave is extremely competent, but learns from practice and experience. In contrast, I learn more effectively by reading, which is why it took me so long to achieve competence in aikido, karate and the performance aspects of cocktail-making. Dave probably had zero experience with English beer. I responded on his behalf. ‘For English bitter, the recommended temperature is between ten and thirteen degrees Celsius. Thirteen to fifteen for porters, stout and other dark ales. Equivalent to fifty to fifty-five point four degrees Fahrenheit for the bitter and fifty-five point four to fiftynine Fahrenheit for the dark ales.’ George smiled. ‘Australian?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘I’ll forgive you that. Go on.’ I proceeded to describe the rules for proper storage of ale. George seemed satisfied with my knowledge. ‘Smart fellow,’ said George. He turned to Dave. ‘I like a man who knows his limitations and gets help when he needs it. So it’ll be Don looking after my beer, will it?’ ‘Well, no,’ said Dave. ‘Don’s more of a…consultant.’ ‘I hear you loud and clear,’ said George. ‘How much?’ Dave has strong ethics about business practice. ‘I’ll have to work it out,’ he said. ‘Are you happy with the fit-out?’ Dave indicated the refrigeration equipment, insulation and plumbing that rose through the ceiling. ‘What do you reckon, Don?’ asked George. ‘Insufficient insulation,’ I said. ‘The electricity consumption will be excessive.’ ‘Not worth the trouble. Had enough strife with the building manager already. Doesn’t like me putting holes in the ceiling. I’ll save it up till I put the spiral staircase in.’ He laughed. ‘All right otherwise?’ ‘Correct.’ I trusted Dave. George took us upstairs. It was incredible as an apartment, but totally conventional as an English pub. Walls had been removed to incorporate three of the bedrooms into the living room, which was furnished with multiple wooden tables and chairs. A bar was equipped with six taps connected by lines to the beer cellar below, and a large TV screen was angled high on the wall. There was even a platform for a band with piano, drums and amplifiers in place. George was very friendly, and got us micro-brewery beers from one of the bar fridges. ‘Rubbish,’ he said as we drank them on the balcony, looking out over the Hudson to New Jersey. ‘The good stuff should be here on Monday. It came over on the same boat as us.’ George went back inside and returned with a small leather bag. ‘So, tell me the bad news,’ he said to Dave, who interpreted this as a request for an invoice and passed over a folded piece of paper. George looked at it briefly, then pulled out two large wads of hundred-dollar bills from his bag. He gave one to Dave and counted a further thirtyfour bills from the second. ‘Thirteen thousand, four hundred. Close enough. No need to trouble the fiscal fiend.’ He gave me his card. ‘Call me any time you’ve got a worry, Don.’ George had made it clear that he wanted me to check the cellar morning and night, at least for the first few weeks. Dave needed the contract. He had left a secure job to start his own business before Sonia became pregnant, and was not making much money. Recently he had lacked funds for baseball tickets. Sonia planned to stop working when she had the baby, which would incur costs in its own right. Dave was my friend, so I had no choice. I would have to change my schedule to accommodate a twice-daily detour via Chelsea. Outside my apartment building I was intercepted by the superintendent, whom I generally avoided due to the probability of some sort of complaint. ‘Mr Tillman, we’ve had a serious complaint from one of your neighbours. Apparently you assaulted him.’ ‘Incorrect. He assaulted me, and I used the minimum level of aikido necessary to prevent injury to both of us. Also, he turned my wife’s underwear purple and insulted her with profanities.’ ‘So you assaulted him.’ ‘Incorrect.’ ‘Don’t sound incorrect to me. You just told me you used karate on him.’ I was about to argue, but before I could say anything he made a speech. ‘Mr Tillman, we have a waiting list so long for apartments in this building.’ He spaced his hands in a way that was presumably meant to provide evidence for his assertion. ‘We throw you out, your apartment will be taken by someone, someone normal, the next day. And this isn’t no warning—I’ll be talking to the owners. We don’t need weirdos, Mr Tillman.’ 5 My mother’s Saturday night Skype call from Shepparton came through on schedule at 7.00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time; 9.00 a.m. Australian Eastern Standard Time. The family hardware store was surviving; my brother Trevor needed to get out more and find himself someone like Rosie; my uncle appeared to be in remission, thank God. I was able to reassure my mother that Rosie and I were fine, work was also fine and any thanks for my uncle’s improved prognosis should be directed to medical science rather than a deity who had presumably allowed my uncle to develop cancer. My mother clarified that she was just using an expression, and not submitting scientific evidence of an interventionist god, God forbid, which was also just an expression, Donald. Our conversations had not changed much in thirty years. Dinner preparation was time-consuming, as the mixed sushi platter had a substantial number of components, and by the time Rosie and I sat down to eat I had still not conveyed the Gene information. But Rosie wanted to talk about the pregnancy. ‘I looked it up on the web. You know, the baby isn’t even a centimetre long.’ ‘The term baby is misleading. It’s not much advanced from a blastocyst.’ ‘I’m not calling it a blastocyst.’ ‘Embryo. It’s not a foetus yet.’ ‘Attention, Don. I’m going to say this once. I don’t want forty weeks of technical commentary.’ ‘Thirty-five. Gestation is conventionally measured from two weeks prior to conception and our best guess is that the event occurred three weeks ago, following the Roman Holiday impression. Which needs to be confirmed by a medical professional. Have you made an appointment?’ ‘I only found out I was pregnant yesterday. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a baby. A potential baby, okay?’ ‘A baby under development.’ ‘Right.’ ‘Perfect. We can refer to it as the Baby Under Development. B.U.D.’ ‘Bud? It makes him sound like a seventy-year-old man. If it’s a “he”.’ ‘Ignoring gender, it’s statistically likely Bud will reach the age of seventy, assuming successful development and birth and no major change to the environment on which the statistics are based, such as nuclear holocaust, meteorite of the kind that caused the dinosaur extinction—’ ‘—being talked to death by his father. It’s still a male name.’ ‘Also the name of a plant component. A precursor to a flower. Flowers are considered feminine. Your name has a flower connection. Bud is perfect. Reproductive mechanism for a flower. Rosebud, Rosie-bud—’ ‘Okay, okay. I was thinking that the baby, speaking in the future tense, could sleep in the living room. Until we can find a bigger place.’ ‘Of course. We should buy Bud a fold-up bed.’ ‘What? Don, babies sleep in cribs.’ ‘I was thinking of later. When it’s big enough for a bed. We could buy one now. So we’re prepared. We can go to the bed shop tomorrow.’ ‘We don’t need a bed yet. We don’t even need to buy the crib for a while. Let’s wait till we know that everything’s okay.’ I poured the last of the previous evening’s pinot gris and wished there was more in the bottle. Subtlety was not getting me anywhere. ‘We need the bed for Gene. He and Claudia have split up. He has a job at Columbia and he’s staying with us until he can find somewhere else to live.’ This was the component of the Gene Sabbatical that may not have been well considered. I should probably have consulted with Rosie before offering Gene accommodation. But it seemed reasonable for Gene to live with us while he looked for his own apartment. We would be providing for a homeless person. I am well aware of my incompetence in predicting human reactions. But I would have been prepared to bet on the first word that Rosie would say when she received the information. I was correct by a factor of six. ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Unfortunately, my prediction that she would ultimately accept the proposition was incorrect. My series of arguments, rather than progressively breaking down her resistance, seemed to have the opposite effect. Even my strongest point—that Gene was the best-qualified person on the entire planet to assist her in completing her thesis—was rejected on essentially emotional grounds. ‘No way. Absolutely no way is that narcissistic, cheating, misogynist, bigoted, unscientific…pig sleeping in our apartment.’ I felt that accusing Gene of being unscientific was unfair, but when I started to list Gene’s credentials Rosie went to the bedroom and shut the door. I retrieved George’s card to enter it into my address book. It included the name of a band: Dead Kings. To my amazement, I recognised it. Due to my musical tastes being formed primarily by my father’s record collection, I was familiar with this British rock group whose music had been popular in the late 1960s. According to Wikipedia, the band had become active again in 1999 to provide entertainment on Atlantic cruises. Two of the original Dead Kings were actually dead, but had been replaced. George was the drummer. He had accumulated four marriages, four divorces and seven children, but he appeared, relatively, to be the psychologically stable member. The profile did not mention his love of beer. When I went to bed, Rosie was already asleep. I had made a list of further advantages of Gene living with us, but decided it would be unwise to wake her. Rosie was, unusually, awake before me, presumably as a result of commencing her sleep cycle early. She had made coffee in the plunger. ‘I figured I shouldn’t be drinking espresso,’ she said. ‘Why?’ ‘Too much caffeine.’ ‘Actually, plunged coffee has approximately 2.5 times the caffeine content of espresso.’ ‘Shit. I try to do the right thing—’ ‘Those figures are approximate. The espressos I get from Otha’s contain three shots. Whereas this coffee is unusually weak, probably due to your lack of experience.’ ‘Well, you know who’s making it next time.’ Rosie was smiling. It seemed like a good time to introduce the additional arguments in favour of Gene. But Rosie spoke first. ‘Don, about Gene. I know he’s your friend. I get that you’re just being loyal and kind. And maybe if I hadn’t just discovered I was pregnant… But I’m only going to say this once and we can get on with our lives: we do not have space for Gene. End of story.’ I mentally filed the ‘end of story’ formula as a useful technique for terminating a conversation, but Rosie contradicted it within seconds as I swung my feet out of the bed. ‘Hey, you. I’ve got writing to do today, but I’m going to kick your arse tonight. Give me a hug.’ She pulled me back to the bed and kissed me. It defies belief that a person’s emotional state could be deduced from such an inconsistent set of messages. In reviewing my interaction with Rosie, I concluded that her reference to kicking my arse was metaphorical, and should be interpreted positively. We had established a practice of attempting to outperform each other at The Alchemist. In general, I consider the artificial addition of competition to professional activities to be counterproductive, but our efficiency had shown a steady improvement. Time at the cocktail bar appeared to pass quickly, a reliable indication that we were enjoying ourselves. Unfortunately there had been a change of ownership. Any alteration to an optimum situation can only be negative, and the new manager, whose name was Hector but whom we referred to privately as Wineman, was demonstrating this. Wineman was approximately twenty-eight years old, estimated BMI twenty-two, with a black goatee and heavy-framed glasses in the style that had once marked me as a nerd but was now fashionable. He had replaced the small tables with longer benches, increased the intensity of the lighting and shifted the drinks focus from cocktails to Spanish wine to complement the revised menu, which consisted of paella. Wineman had recently completed a Master of Business Administration, and I assumed his changes were in line with best practice in the hospitality industry. However, the net effect had been a fall in patronage, and the consequent firing of two of our colleagues, which he attributed to difficult economic conditions. ‘They brought me in just in time,’ he said. Frequently. Rosie and I held hands on the walking component of the journey to the Flatiron neighbourhood. She seemed in an excellent mood, despite her ritual objection to the black-and-white uniform that I, personally, found highly attractive. We arrived two minutes ahead of schedule at 7.28 p.m. Only three tables were occupied; there was no one sitting at the bar. ‘You’re cutting it fine,’ said Wineman. ‘Punctuality is one of your performance measures.’ Rosie looked around the sparsely populated room. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re under any pressure.’ ‘That’s about to change,’ said Wineman. ‘We’ve got a booking for sixteen. At eight.’ ‘I thought we didn’t take bookings,’ I said. ‘I thought that was the new rule.’ ‘The new rule is that we take money. And they’re VIPs. VVIPs. Friends of mine.’ It was a further twenty-two minutes before anyone ordered cocktails, due to absence of clientele. A party of four (estimated ages mid-forties, estimated BMIs between twenty and twenty-eight) arrived and sat at the bar, despite Wineman attempting to direct them to a table. ‘What can I get you?’ asked Rosie. The two men and two women exchanged glances. It was extraordinary that people needed the advice of their friends and colleagues to make such a routine decision. If they insisted on external counsel, however, it was best that it came from a professional. ‘I recommend cocktails,’ I said. ‘As this is a cocktail bar. We can accommodate all known taste and alcohol requirements.’ Wineman had taken up a position to my left, on the client side of the bar. ‘Don can also show you our new wine list,’ he said. Rosie put a closed copy of the leather-bound document on the bar top. The group ignored it. One of the men smiled. ‘Cocktails sound good to me. I’ll have a whiskey sour.’ ‘With or without egg white?’ I asked, in line with my responsibility for order negotiation. ‘With.’ ‘Straight or over ice?’ ‘On the rocks.’ ‘Excellent.’ I called to Rosie, ‘One Boston sour over ice,’ slapped my hand on the bar and started the timer on my watch. Rosie was already standing at the liquor shelves behind me, and I knew that she would be sourcing the whiskey. I put a shaker on the bar, added a scoop of ice and halved a lemon as I solicited and clarified the remaining three orders. I was conscious of Wineman watching. I hoped that, as a business-administration graduate, he would be impressed. The process I had designed and refined makes best use of our respective capabilities. I have the superior database of recipes, but Rosie’s dexterity level is higher than mine. There are economies of scale in one person squeezing the total lemon juice requirement or performing all of the pours of a particular liquor. Of course, such opportunities need to be identified in realtime, which necessitates an agile mind and some practice. I considered it highly unlikely that two bartenders working on individual cocktails could perform as well. As I poured the third cocktail, a cosmopolitan, Rosie was tapping her fingers, having already garnished the mojito. She had kicked my arse, at least in the first round. As we served the cocktails with the simultaneous movement of our four arms, our clients laughed, then applauded. We were accustomed to this response. Wineman was also smiling. ‘Take a table,’ he said to our customers. ‘We’re fine here,’ said Boston Sour Man. He sipped his drink. ‘Enjoying the show. Best whiskey sour I’ve ever had.’ ‘Please, sit down and I’ll organise some tapas—on the house.’ Wineman took four wineglasses from the rack. ‘Did you see Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom?’ he said. I shook my head. ‘Well, Don, you and Rosie just reminded me of the scene where Mr Jones’s assailant shows off his skills with a sword.’ Wineman pointed to our clients drinking their cocktails and made some moves that were presumably meant to simulate swordsmanship. ‘Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, very impressive, four cocktails, seventy-two dollars.’ Wineman picked up an opened bottle of red wine. ‘Flor de Pingus.’ He poured four glasses and made a sign with his hand, holding his index finger and thumb at ninety degrees with his remaining fingers folded. ‘Bang, bang, bang, bang. One hundred and ninety-two bucks.’ ‘Jerk,’ said Rosie as Wineman delivered the drinks to a group of four who had arrived during our cocktail-making. This time her tone was not affectionate. ‘Check out their faces.’ ‘They look happy. Wineman’s argument is valid.’ ‘Of course they’re happy. They hadn’t ordered anything yet. Everybody’s happy when the drinks are on the house.’ Rosie put a highball glass in the rack with unnecessary force. I detected anger. ‘I recommend going home,’ I said. ‘What? I’m okay. Just pissed off. Not with you.’ ‘Correct. Stressed. Creating cortisol, which is unhealthy for Bud. Based on experience, there is a high probability that you will initiate an unpleasant interaction with Wineman and be stressed for the remainder of the shift. Restraining yourself will also be stressful.’ ‘You know me too well. Can you cope without me?’ ‘Of course. Numbers are low.’ ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She laughed and kissed me. ‘I’ll tell Wineman I’m feeling sick.’ At 9.34 p.m. a group of eighteen arrived, and the table that had remained reserved and unused for the entire evening was extended to accommodate them. Several were noticeably intoxicated. One woman, aged in her mid-twenties, was the focus of attention. I automatically estimated her BMI: twenty-six. Based on the volume and tone of her speech, I calculated her blood alcohol level as 0.1 grams per litre. ‘She’s shorter in real life. And a bit porkier.’ Jamie-Paul, our bartending colleague, was looking at the group. ‘Who?’ ‘Who do you think?’ He pointed to Loud Woman. ‘Who is she?’ ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ I was not kidding, but Jamie-Paul offered no further explanation. A few minutes later, with the party seated, Wineman approached me. ‘They want the cocktail geek. I’m guessing that’s you.’ I walked to the table where I was greeted by a male with red hair, though not as dramatically red as Rosie’s. The group appeared to be made up entirely of people in their mid- to latetwenties. ‘You’re the cocktail guy?’ ‘Correct. I am employed to make cocktails. What would you like?’ ‘You’re the guy with—like—a cocktail for every occasion, right? And you keep all the orders in your head? You’re that guy?’ ‘There may be others with the same skills.’ He addressed the rest of the table, loudly, as the ambient noise was now significant. ‘Okay, this guy—what’s your name?’ ‘Don Tillman.’ ‘Hello Dan,’ said Loud Woman. ‘What do you do when you’re not making cocktails?’ ‘Numerous activities. I’m employed as a professor of genetics.’ Loud Woman laughed again, even more loudly. Red Hair continued. ‘Okay, Don is the king of cocktails. He’s memorised every cocktail on the planet and all you need to say is bourbon and vermouth and he’ll say martini.’ ‘Manhattan. Or an American in Paris, boulevardier, Oppenheim, American sweetheart or man o’ war.’ Loud Woman laughed. Loudly. ‘He’s Rain Man! You know. Dustin Hoffman when he remembers all the cards. Dan’s the cocktail Rain Man.’ Rain Man! I had seen the film. I did not identify in any way with Rain Man, who was inarticulate, dependent and unemployable. A society of Rain Men would be dysfunctional. A society of Don Tillmans would be efficient, safe and pleasant for all of us. A few members of the group laughed, but I decided to ignore the comment, as I had ignored the error with my name. Loud Woman was intoxicated and would likely be embarrassed if she saw a video of herself later. Red Hair continued. ‘Don’s going to pick a cocktail to fit whatever you want, then he’s going to memorise everybody’s orders and come back and give them to the right people. Right, Don?’ ‘As long as people don’t change seats.’ My memory does not handle faces as well as numbers. I looked at Red Hair. ‘Do you wish to commence the process?’ ‘Got anything with tequila and bourbon?’ ‘I recommend a highland margarita. The name implies Scotch whisky but the use of bourbon is a documented option.’ ‘Oh Kaaaay!’ said Red Hair, as though I had hit a home run to win the game in the bottom of the ninth inning. I was one eighteenth of the way to completing my task. I refocused on the drinks orders rather than on constructing a more detailed baseball analogy around this interesting number. It could wait until my next meeting with Dave. Red Hair’s neighbour wanted something like a margarita but more like a long drink but not just a margarita on the rocks or a margarita with soda but something—you know—different, like to make it more unique. I recommended a paloma made with pink grapefruit juice and rimmed with smoked salt. Now it was Loud Woman’s turn. I looked carefully but did not recognise her. This was not inconsistent with her being famous. I largely ignore popular culture. Even if she had been a leading geneticist, I would not have expected to know her face. ‘Okay, Rain Man Dan. Make me a cocktail that expresses my personality.’ This suggestion was met with loud sounds of approval. Unfortunately I was in no position to meet the requirement. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about you.’ ‘You’re kidding me. Right?’ ‘Wrong.’ I tried to think of some way of asking politely about her personality. ‘What is your occupation?’ There was laughter from everyone except Loud Woman, who seemed to be considering her answer. ‘I can do that. I’m an actor and a singer. And I’ll tell you something else. Everybody thinks they know me but nobody truly does. Now what’s my cocktail, Rain Man Dan? The mysterious chanteuse, maybe?’ I was unfamiliar with any cocktail of that name, which probably meant she had invented it to impress her friends. My brain is highly efficient at cocktail searching based on ingredients, but is also good at finding unusual patterns. The two occupations and the personal description combined to produce a match without conscious effort. A two-faced cheater. I was about to announce my solution when I realised that there might be a problem—one that placed me in danger of violating my legal and moral duty as the holder of a New York State Liquor Authority Alcohol Training Awareness Program Certificate. I took remedial action. ‘I recommend a virgin colada.’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m a virgin?’ ‘Definitely not.’ Everybody laughed. I elaborated. ‘It’s like a pina colada but non-alcoholic.’ ‘Non-alcoholic. What’s that supposed to mean?’ The conversation was becoming unnecessarily complicated. It was easiest to get to the point. ‘Are you pregnant?’ ‘What?’ ‘Pregnant women should not drink alcohol. If you’re only overweight, I can serve you an alcoholic cocktail, but I require clarification.’ As I rode the subway home at 9.52 p.m., I reflected on whether my judgement had been affected by the Rosie situation. I had never suspected a client of being pregnant before. Perhaps she was merely overweight. Should I have interfered with a stranger’s decision to drink alcohol in a country that valued individual autonomy and responsibility so highly? I made a mental list of the problems that had accumulated in the past fifty-two hours and which now required urgent resolution: 1.Modification of my schedule to accommodate twice-daily beer inspections. 2.The Gene Accommodation Problem. 3.The Jerome Laundry Problem, which had now escalated. 4.The threat of eviction due to (3). 5.Accommodating a baby in our small apartment. 6.Paying our rent and other bills now that Rosie and I had both lost our part-timejobs as a result of my actions. 7.How to reveal (6) to Rosie without causing stress and associated toxic effectsof cortisol. 8.Risk of recurrence of the meltdown and fatal damage to my relationship withRosie as a result of all of the above. Problem-solving requires time. But time was limited. The beer was due to arrive within twenty-four hours, the superintendent would probably accost me by tomorrow evening and Jerome could attempt an act of revenge at any time. Gene was about to arrive and Bud was only thirty-five weeks away. What I required was a means of cutting the Gordian knot: a single action that would solve most or all of the problems at once. I arrived home to find Rosie asleep, and decided to consume some alcohol to encourage creative thinking. As I reshuffled the contents of the fridge to access the beer, the answer came to me. The fridge! We would get a bigger fridge, and all other problems would be solved. I phoned George. 6 It is generally accepted that people enjoy surprises: hence the traditions associated with Christmas, birthdays and anniversaries. In my experience, most of the pleasure accrues to the giver. The victim is frequently under pressure to feign, at short notice, a positive response to an unwanted object or unscheduled event. Rosie insisted on observing the gift-giving traditions, but she had been remarkably perceptive in her choices. Colleagues had already commented positively on the shoes that Rosie had given me for my forty-first birthday ten days earlier and which I now wore to work in place of expired running shoes. Rosie claimed to enjoy surprises, to the extent of saying ‘surprise me’ when I sought her advice on which play or concert or restaurant to book. Now I was planning a surprise that would exceed all previous instances, with the exception of the revelation of her biological father’s identity and the offer of an engagement ring. It is considered acceptable to engage in temporary deception in support of a surprise. ‘You coming, Don?’ said Rosie as she departed the following morning. Although Rosie was technically on vacation, she was continuing to work on her thesis at Columbia on weekdays, as the apartment gave her ‘cabin fever’. She was wearing a short dress with blue spots that I suspected was a recent purchase. The belt, also blue, was wider than necessary to perform its presumed function of emphasising her body shape. The overall effect was positive, but largely due to the exposure of Rosie’s legs rather than the aesthetic properties of the costume. I had switched from riding my new bike to accompanying her on the subway to increase contact time. I reminded myself: the deception is temporary and in support of a surprise; surprises are positive; Rosie had not revealed my birthday-weekend excursion to the Smithsonian. I stepped into the bathroom to prevent Rosie interpreting my body language. ‘I’m running a bit late. I’ll get the next train,’ I said. ‘You’re what?’ ‘Running late. It’s not a problem. I don’t have any lectures today.’ All three statements were technically true, but the first was deceptive. I planned to take the whole day off. ‘Are you okay, Don? This pregnancy thing has thrown you, hasn’t it?’ ‘Only by a few minutes.’ Rosie had joined me in the bathroom and was examining some component of her face in the mirror. ‘I’ll wait for you.’ ‘Not necessary. In fact, I’m considering riding my bike. To make up time.’ ‘Hey. I want to talk to you. We hardly talked all weekend.’ It was true that the weekend had been disrupted and that communication had thus been reduced. I began to formulate a response but, now that I was in deception mode, it was difficult to conduct a normal conversation. Fortunately, Rosie conceded without further input from me. ‘All right. But call me for lunch or something.’ Rosie kissed me on the cheek, then turned and left our apartment for the last time. Dave arrived in his van eight minutes later. We needed to move swiftly as he was required at the Cellar in the Sky to take delivery of the English ale. It took fifty-eight minutes to pack the furniture and plants. Then I tackled the bathroom. I was astonished by the number of cosmetic and aromatic chemicals that Rosie owned. It would presumably have been insulting for me to tell her that, beyond the occasional dramatic use of lipstick or perfume (which faded rapidly after application due to absorption, evaporation or my becoming accustomed to it), they made no observable difference. I was satisfied with Rosie without any modifications. Despite the quantity, the chemicals fitted in a single garbage bag. As Dave and I packed the remaining contents of the apartment into Rosie’s suitcases, cardboard boxes and additional polythene bags, I was amazed by the sheer quantity of stuff we had accumulated since arriving. I remembered a statement Rosie had made prior to leaving Melbourne. ‘I’m leaving all the crap behind. I’m hardly bringing anything.’ It was true that she had contradicted this statement by bringing three suitcases, but her intent was clear: moving was an opportunity to review possessions. I decided to discard anything not essential to our lives. I recalled some advice I had read in a magazine, waiting for the dentist, on 5 May 1996: ‘If you haven’t worn it or used it for six months, you don’t need it.’ The principle seemed sensible and I began applying it. Dave accompanied me to the doorman’s office to surrender my key. Rosie’s would need to be returned later. We were greeted by the superintendent. He was, as usual, unfriendly. ‘I hope you’re not here to complain about anything, Mr Tillman. I haven’t forgotten about talking to the owners,’ he said. ‘Unnecessary. We’re leaving.’ I gave him the key. ‘What, no notice? You got to give thirty days’ notice.’ ‘You indicated that I was an undesirable tenant who could be replaced tomorrow with a desirable one. It seems like a good outcome for everyone.’ ‘If you don’t care about a month’s rent.’ He laughed. ‘That seems unreasonable. If you have a new tenant in the apartment, you would be receiving double rent for a month.’ ‘I don’t make the rules, Mr Tillman. Take it up with the owner if you want.’ I was conscious of becoming annoyed. Today was inevitably going to involve a high level of stress, beginning with the abandonment of scheduled Monday activities. It was time to practise my empathy skills. Why was the supervisor consistently so unpleasant? The answer did not require much reflection. He was required to deal with tenants who complained about problems that he was powerless to rectify, due to his low status and the recalcitrance of the company that owned the building. He was constantly dealing with people in conflict. His low status alone put him at increased risk of coronary heart disease due to elevated cortisol. World’s worst job. I suddenly felt sorry for him. ‘I apologise for causing you trouble. Can you connect me with the owner, please?’ ‘You want to speak with the owner?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘Good luck.’ Incredible. My simple exercise in empathy now had the superintendent on my side, offering his good wishes. He made a call. ‘I’ve got the tenant in 204 with me. He’s leaving—right now, today—you got it, no notice— and thinks he should get his deposit back.’ He laughed and handed me the phone. Dave took it from me. ‘Let me do this.’ Dave’s voice changed. The tone was difficult to describe, but it was as if Woody Allen had been cast instead of Marlon Brando in The Godfather. ‘My friend here’s got a problem with the legality of the air-conditioning system. Might be a safety risk.’ There was a pause. ‘A licensed air-conditioning inspector,’ said Dave. ‘You got self-contained units all over the building like warts on a toad. We don’t act unless we get a complaint, but then we’d be obliged to look at the whole damn building. I guess if my friend’s paying the rent for another month, he might just want to do that: make a complaint. Which could be very expensive for you. Or maybe you’d like to let him go now. With his security deposit.’ There was a longer pause. Dave’s face registered disappointment. Perhaps the ‘warts on a toad’ metaphor had confused the owner. Toads are presumed to cause warts, not to have warts. He handed me the phone. ‘You done?’ said a male voice down the line. ‘Greetings.’ ‘Oh shit, it’s you. You’re leaving?’ I recognised the voice now. It was not the owner. It was the employee I frequently spoke to about problems that the owner was contractually responsible for but the superintendent considered outside his domain: the stability of temperature, the speed of the internet service, regularity of fire drills. Et cetera. ‘Correct. Actually, until now, I was unaware of the air-conditioning compliance problem. It sounds extremely serious. I recommend—’ ‘Forget it. Just drop by and I’ll have a cheque waiting for you.’ ‘What about the air conditioning?’ ‘Forget about the air conditioning and we’ll write you a lovely reference for your next landlord. We’re going to miss you, Professor.’ In the van, Dave’s hands were shaking. ‘Is there a problem?’ ‘I need something to eat. I hate doing that stuff. Confrontation. I’m no good at it.’ ‘You didn’t need to—’ ‘Yes, I did. Not just for your rent. I need the practice. People think they can take me down.’ George was waiting for us and the beer when we arrived at the Cellar in the Sky. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said to Dave. ‘Don tells me he cares so much about the beer that he’s going to sleep with it.’ ‘Not because I care so much about the beer. Because it’s high-quality accommodation that would otherwise be unused.’ ‘In the best location in New York City. And you’re getting it for free.’ ‘No rent, no complaints,’ said Dave. He was practising his tough-guy voice. ‘You know we practise upstairs?’ said George. ‘Loud. There’s bugger-all sound insulation.’ ‘So it’s unrentable,’ said Dave. Incredible. A three-bedroom apartment plus coolroom considered unrentable because of an occasional noise problem, easily counteracted with earplugs. Or George could have advertised for deaf tenants. George shrugged. ‘I’m not allowed to rent it. I bought it so the kids could visit. You know, any time they’re in New York and want to see their father. I don’t think that’s going to be a risk for you.’ ‘How often do you practise?’ I asked. George laughed. ‘About once a year. But maybe the beer will inspire me.’ We were interrupted by the arrival of the beer: six large barrels with stands. There was a minor accident carrying the last of these through the living room, resulting in a spillage which I estimated at twenty litres. By the time Dave obtained cloths and mops, it had soaked into the carpet. ‘Sorry,’ said George. ‘But no complaints, remember. I’ve got a hairdryer, if you want.’ While Dave dried the carpet with Rosie’s hairdryer, I unpacked the garbage bags. The Cellar in the Sky had three bathrooms, which was patently excessive. The non-ensuite bathroom was large enough to serve as an office, so I installed my computer and work table there. There was no room for a chair, but the toilet seat was at the correct height. I covered it with a towel for hygiene and comfort. Now I would be able to work all day without ever needing to come out, except for nourishment. I pulled my mind away from the fantasy of permanent isolation. I had practical tasks to complete in a limited timeframe. I designated the largest bedroom as Rosie’s office and with Dave’s help moved in the plants and surplus chairs. I selected the smallest and least well-lit bedroom as our sleeping quarters. Sleeping, I explained over Dave’s objections, requires minimal space, and light is an impediment. There were still a few square metres of unused floor after we installed the bed. We finished at 6.27 p.m. Rosie seldom left Columbia before 6.30 p.m., to avoid subway crowds in the heat. To maximise the surprise, I delayed communicating our change of accommodation until the last possible moment. A few seconds after I sent the text message, I heard a sound from her handbag—the one she took to work at The Alchemist rather than the larger one she used for university. She had left her phone at home. It was not the first time and was the predictable result of owning more than one handbag. Dave came back from returning George’s hairdryer and offered to intercept her at our former apartment. ‘While I’m gone, you better get rid of the stink,’ he said. I had become accustomed to it, but the beer smell was now mingled with the acrid fumes that the motor in Rosie’s hairdryer had produced when it burned out. George’s was obviously of a higher quality and had lasted almost three times as long. I decided that a strong-smelling fish would be appropriate to mask the smell and also solve the dinner problem. At the delicatessen, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number. It was Rosie. ‘Don, what’s happened? They won’t let me in.’ ‘You left your phone at home.’ ‘I know. This is Jerome’s phone.’ ‘Jerome? Are you in danger?’ ‘No, no, he apologised about the washing. He’s right here. What did you say to him?’ She did not allow adequate time to answer. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘We’ve moved. I’ll text you the address. I need to ring Dave.’ I hung up and texted our new location to Jerome’s phone. Dave, Rosie, Jerome, Gene, the fish. I was at my limit of multitasking. The smoked mackerel was already in the oven and generating aromas of similar intensity to the stale beer and burned wiring when the doorbell rang. It was Rosie. I released the building entrance lock, and approximately thirty seconds later she knocked. ‘You don’t have to knock,’ I said. ‘This is our apartment.’ I opened the door dramatically to display the large living room. Rosie looked around, then walked straight to the windows and looked out over the balcony. The view! Of course, Rosie was interested in views. I hoped she did not have a problem with looking at New Jersey. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘You’re kidding me. What’s it costing?’ ‘Zero.’ I retrieved our list of desirable apartment attributes from my pocket and showed her. It was like the Wife Project questionnaire, which, despite Rosie’s criticisms, had indirectly brought us together, except now every box was ticked. The perfect apartment. It was apparent that Rosie agreed. She opened the doors to the balcony and spent approximately six minutes looking across the Hudson before stepping back inside. ‘What are you cooking?’ she asked. ‘Is that fish? I’ve been craving something smoked all day. I thought being pregnant was making me want to smoke again. Which is totally weird. But smoked fish is brilliant. You’ve blackened it and cooked it in beer, right? You read my mind.’ She dropped her phone-free handbag on the floor and hugged me. I had not read Rosie’s mind, nor created the culinary disaster which it contained. But there was no point in undermining her happiness. She wandered around without any obvious purpose for a while, then started exploring in a more systematic manner, starting with her bathroom, which seemed an odd choice. ‘Don, my cosmetics! All my stuff. How could you do this?’ ‘I’ve made some sort of error?’ ‘The opposite. It’s like—everything is exactly where it was. In the same position.’ ‘I took photos. Your system was impossible to understand. I did the same with your clothes.’ ‘You moved everything today?’ ‘Of course. I had planned to do some culling, but I couldn’t remember everything you’d worn in the last six months. I generally don’t notice what you wear. So I had to retain everything.’ ‘This is where you’re planning to work?’ she said, a few seconds after opening the door to my bathroom-office. ‘Correct.’ ‘Well, I won’t be invading your personal space. Given I won’t know what you’re using it for.’ When she discovered the beer room, I explained the arrangement with George. ‘It’s like house-sitting. Instead of a dog, he has beer. Which, unlike a dog, does not require feeding.’ ‘I gather it still managed to do the equivalent of pee on the floor.’ I had forgotten the smell. Humans rapidly become accustomed to their environments. I doubted that Rosie’s long-term happiness would be significantly decreased if the beer smell remained. Nor, for that matter, would it be increased by the change of apartments. After the most basic physical requirements are satisfied, human happiness is almost independent of wealth. A meaningful job is far more important. One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich laying bricks in Siberia probably generated a higher level of happiness than one day in the life of a retired rock star in a Manhattan penthouse with all the beer he could drink. Work was crucial to sanity. Which was probably why George continued to perform on the cruise ship. Rosie was still talking. ‘You’re serious about not paying rent?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘How would you feel if I gave up the cocktail bar job? It’s not the same any more. It’s probably only a matter of time before Wineman fires me anyway.’ Incredible. It appeared that our being fired by Wineman was a positive, or at least had zero impact. An item of bad news that would have detracted from my day’s success had been rendered irrelevant. ‘We can both give it up,’ I said. ‘It would be vastly less enjoyable without you.’ Rosie hugged me again. I was hugely relieved. I had undertaken a major, risk-prone project, solving multiple problems simultaneously, with complete success. I had cut the Gordian knot. Rosie’s only negative reaction was to the use of the smallest room as our bedroom, as predicted by Dave. But then she said, ‘You gave me the biggest room for my office. And, of course, we’ll need an extra bedroom.’ It was good that she had accepted my solution to the Gene problem without further discussion. I texted him the good news along with our new address. I served the fish with a Robert Mondavi Reserve chardonnay (me) and celery juice (Rosie). I had not bothered to buy the vacuum pump for the wine. Any surplus could be kept cool in the beer storage room. For the next eight months, I would be drinking for two. Rosie raised her juice glass, clinked it with my wine, and then, with just a few words, reminded me of the problem, the terrible problem that had been hiding behind all the others. ‘So, Professor Tillman, how do you feel about being a father?’ 7 My thoughts about being a father had progressed in the following sequence: 1.Prior to my late teens, I assumed that fatherhood would occur as my life proceeded according to the most common pattern. I did not contemplate it in any more detail. 2.At university I discovered my incompatibility with women, and gradually abandoned the idea, due to the improbability of finding a partner. 3.I met Rosie and fatherhood was back on the agenda. I was initially concernedthat my general oddness would be an embarrassment to any children, but Rosie was encouraging and clearly expected us to reproduce at some point. As the actual creation of children had not been scheduled, I forgot about it. 4.Then everything changed as a result of a critical event. I had planned to discuss it with Rosie, but had not given it any priority, again because nothing had been scheduled and also because it reflected badly on me. Now, due to lack of planning, a child was almost inevitable and I had not disclosed important information. The critical event was the Bluefin Tuna Incident. It had occurred only seven weeks earlier, and the memory of it returned as soon as Rosie raised the topic of fatherhood. We had been invited to Sunday lunch with Isaac and Judy Esler, but Rosie had forgotten that she had scheduled a study-group meeting. It made sense for me to proceed alone. Isaac had asked for my recommendation as to venue. My automatic response was to select a restaurant I had visited several times before, but Rosie had persuaded me to do otherwise. ‘You’re way better at restaurants than you used to be. And you’re a foodie. Pick somewhere interesting and surprise them.’ Following substantial research, I selected a new Japanese fusion restaurant in Tribeca and advised Isaac. On arrival, I discovered that Isaac had booked a table for five, which was slightly annoying. A three-person conversation involves three pairs of human interactions, three times as many as a two-person conversation. With familiar people, the complexity is manageable. But with five people, there would be ten pairs, four involving me directly and six as an observer. Seven of these would involve unfamiliar people, assuming that Isaac and Judy had not coincidentally invited Dave and Sonia or the Dean of Medicine at Columbia, statistically unlikely in a city the size of New York. Keeping track of the dynamics would be virtually impossible and the probability of a faux pas would be increased. The scene was set: unfamiliar people, a restaurant I had not visited before, no Rosie to monitor the situation and provide an early warning. In retrospect, disaster was inevitable. The additional people were a man and a woman who arrived in advance of Isaac and Judy. They joined me at the table where I was drinking a glass of sake, and introduced themselves as Seymour, a colleague of Isaac (hence presumably a psychiatrist), and Lydia, who did not specify her profession. Seymour was aged approximately fifty and Lydia approximately forty-two. I had been trying (with minimal success) to eliminate a habit acquired during the Wife Project of calculating body mass index, based on estimates of height and weight, but in this case it was impossible not to notice. I estimated Seymour’s BMI at thirty and Lydia’s at twenty, primarily due to their difference in height. Seymour was approximately 165 centimetres tall (or, more descriptively, short), about the same height as Isaac, who is thin, while Lydia’s height was approximately 175 centimetres, only seven centimetres less than mine. They formed a striking counter-example to Gene’s assertion that people tend to select partners who resemble them physically. Commenting on the contrast seemed to be a good way to get the conversation started and to introduce an interesting topic on which I was knowledgeable. I was careful to attribute the research to Gene to avoid appearing egotistical. Despite my not using any pejorative words for height and weight, Lydia responded in a manner that appeared cold. ‘To begin with, Don, we’re not a couple. We just met outside the restaurant.’ Seymour was more helpful. ‘Isaac and Judy invited us separately. Judy’s always talking about Lydia, so it’s great to meet her at last.’ ‘I’m in Judy’s book club,’ said Lydia, addressing Seymour rather than me. ‘Judy’s always telling us stories about you.’ ‘Good ones, I hope,’ said Seymour. ‘She says you’ve improved since your divorce.’ ‘People should be forgiven everything they do three months either side of a divorce.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Lydia. ‘That’s exactly what they should be judged on.’ Lydia’s information that they were merely two people who had coincidentally been invited to the same lunch was in line with Gene’s theory. It gave me an opportunity to reenter the conversation. ‘A victory for evolutionary psychology. The theory predicts that you would not be attracted to each other; I observe evidence that is counter to the theory; more detailed examination of the data supports the theory.’ I was not seriously offering a scientific analysis, but using scientific language for the purpose of amusement. I have considerable experience with the technique, and it usually results in some level of laughter. In this case it did not. If anything, Lydia’s expression became less happy. Seymour at least smiled. ‘I think your hypothesis rests on some invalid assumptions,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of a thing for tall women.’ This seemed like very personal information. If I had shared what I found physically attractive about Rosie, or women in general, I am sure it would have been judged as inappropriate. But people with better social skills have more leeway to take risks. ‘Luckily,’ Seymour continued. ‘Or I’d be limiting my options in a big way.’ ‘You’re searching for a partner?’ I asked. ‘I recommend the internet.’ My extraordinary success in finding the perfect partner as a result of random events did not invalidate the use of more structured approaches. At this point, Isaac and Judy arrived, increasing the conversational complexity by a factor of 3.33 but improving my comfort level. If I had been left alone with Seymour and Lydia for longer, I would probably have made some sort of social error. We exchanged formulaic greetings. Everyone else ordered tea, but I concluded that if I had made a mistake in drinking sake, it was too late to recover, and ordered a second flask. Then our waiter brought the menu. There was an array of fascinating food, consistent with the research I had undertaken on the restaurant, and Judy suggested we order one plate each and share. Excellent idea. ‘Any preferences?’ she asked. ‘Isaac and I don’t eat pork, but if someone else wants to order the gyoza, that’s fine.’ She was obviously being polite, and ordering the gyoza would have made their meals less interesting than the others due to reduced variety. I did not make that mistake. When my turn came, I took advantage of Rosie’s absence to try something that would normally have provoked an argument. ‘The bluefin tuna sashimi, please.’ ‘Oh,’ said Lydia. ‘I didn’t see that. Don, you might not be aware that bluefin is an endangered species.’ I was aware of this fact. Rosie ate only ‘sustainable seafood’. In 2010, Greenpeace had added the southern bluefin tuna to its seafood Red List, indicating a very high risk of it being sourced from unsustainable fisheries. ‘I know. However, this one is already dead and we will only be sharing a single portion among five people. The incremental effect on the world tuna population is likely to be small. In exchange we have an opportunity to experience a new taste.’ I had never eaten bluefin tuna and it had a reputation for being superior to the more common yellowfin, which is my favourite food component. ‘I’m up for it, as long as it’s definitely dead,’ said Seymour. ‘I’ll skip my rhino horn pills tonight to make up.’ My mouth was open to comment on Seymour’s extraordinary statement but Lydia spoke first, giving me time to consider the possibility that Seymour was making a joke. ‘Well, I’m not up for it,’ she said. ‘I don’t accept the argument that individuals can’t make a difference. That’s the attitude that’s stopping us doing anything about global warming.’ Isaac offered a useful if obvious contribution. ‘Plus the Indians and Chinese and Indonesians wanting to have our standard of living.’ Lydia may or may not have agreed. But she was talking to me. ‘I suppose you don’t think about what sort of car you drive or where you shop.’ Her supposition was incorrect, as was the implication that I was environmentally irresponsible. I do not own a car. I ride a bike, use public transport or run. I have relatively few clothes. Under the Standardised Meal System, only recently abandoned, I had virtually zero waste in food and I now treated the efficient use of leftovers as a creative challenge. But I consider my contribution to reducing global warming negligible. My position on rectifying the problem seems to be unattractive to many environmentalists. I had no desire to spoil our lunch with unproductive arguments, but Lydia seemed to be already in irrational greenie mode, so, as with the sake, there was no point in holding back. ‘We should be investing more in nuclear power,’ I said. ‘And finding technological solutions.’ ‘Such as?’ said Lydia. ‘Removing carbon from the atmosphere. Geoengineering. I’ve been reading about it. Incredibly interesting. Humans are poor at restraint but good at technology.’ ‘Do you know how abhorrent I find that type of thinking?’ said Lydia. ‘Do whatever you like and hope that someone will come along and fix it. And get rich doing it. Are you going to save the tuna that way too?’ ‘Of course! It’s highly possible we could genetically engineer the yellowfin tuna to taste like bluefin. Classic example of a technological solution to a problem created by humans. I would volunteer for the tasting panel.’ ‘You do whatever you want. But I don’t want us, as a group, to order the tuna.’ It is incredible what complex ideas can be conveyed by a human facial expression. Although no guide was likely to include it, I believe I was correct in interpreting Isaac’s as For fuck’s sake, Don, don’t order the tuna. When our server arrived, I ordered the scallops with foie gras de canard. Lydia began to stand up, then sat down again. ‘You’re actually not trying to upset me, are you?’ she said. ‘You’re really not. You’re just so insensitive you don’t know what you’re doing.’ ‘Correct.’ It was easiest to tell the truth and I was relieved that Lydia did not consider me malicious. I saw no logical reason why a concern about sustainability should be a predictor of what I assumed was an objection to the treatment of farmed poultry. I consider it wrong to stereotype people, but it might have been useful in this situation. ‘I’ve met people like you,’ she said. ‘Professionally.’ ‘You’re a geneticist?’ ‘I’m a social worker.’ ‘Lydia,’ said Judy, ‘this is getting too much like work. I’m going to order for the whole table, and we should all start again. I’ve been dying to hear about Seymour’s book. Seymour’s writing a book. Tell us about your book, Seymour.’ Seymour smiled. ‘It’s about growing meat in laboratories. So vegetarians can have a guiltfree burger.’ I began to respond to this unexpectedly interesting topic but Isaac interrupted. ‘I don’t think this is the right time for a joke, Seymour. Seymour’s book is about guilt, but not about burgers.’ ‘Actually I do mention lab burgers. As an example of how complex these issues are and the way deeply rooted prejudices come into play. We need to be more open to thinking outside the box. That’s all Don’s been saying.’ This was essentially correct, but it started Lydia off again. ‘That’s not what I’m complaining about. He’s entitled to an opinion. I let the evolutionary psychology stuff go before, even though it’s crap. I’m talking about his insensitivity.’ ‘We need truth-tellers,’ said Seymour. ‘We need technical people. If my plane’s going down, I want someone like Don at the controls.’ I would have assumed he would want an expert pilot rather than a geneticist flying the plane, but I guessed he was attempting to make a point about emotions interfering with rational behaviour. I noted it for future use as perhaps less confronting than the story about the crying baby and the gun. ‘You want some guy with Asperger’s flying your plane?’ said Lydia. ‘Better than someone who uses words they don’t understand,’ said Seymour. Judy tried to interrupt, but Lydia and Seymour’s argument had acquired a momentum that excluded the rest of us, even though the topic of conversation was me. I had some familiarity with Asperger’s syndrome from preparing a lecture sixteen months earlier when Gene had been unable to meet the commitment due to a sexual opportunity. Consequently, I had helped to initiate a research project looking for genetic markers for the syndrome in high-achieving individuals. I had noted some of my own personality traits in the descriptions, but humans consistently over-recognise patterns and draw erroneous conclusions based on them. I had also, at various times, been labelled schizophrenic, bipolar, an OCD sufferer and a typical Gemini. Although I did not consider Asperger’s syndrome a negative, I did not need another label. But it was more interesting to listen than to argue. ‘Look who’s talking,’ said Lydia. ‘If anyone doesn’t understand Asperger’s, it’s psychiatrists. Autism, then. You want Rain Man flying your plane?’ The comparison made no more sense than it did later when Loud Woman drew it. I certainly would not have wanted Rain Man flying my plane, if I owned one, or a plane in which I was a passenger. Lydia must have assumed that she was causing me distress. ‘Sorry, Don, this isn’t personal. I’m not calling you autistic. He is.’ She pointed to Seymour. ‘Because he and his buddies don’t know the difference between autism and Asperger’s. Rain Man and Einstein—it’s all the same to them.’ Seymour had not called me autistic. He had not used any labels, but had described me as honest and technical, essential attributes for a pilot and positive in general. Lydia was attempting to make Seymour look bad for some reason—and the complexities of the three-way interaction between us had now exceeded my ability to interpret them. Seymour addressed me. ‘Judy tells me you’re married. I’ve got that right?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘Stop, enough,’ said Judy. Four people. Six interactions. Isaac raised his hand and nodded. Seymour apparently interpreted the combination of signals as approval to continue. All five of us were now involved in a conversation with invisible agendas. ‘You’re happy? Happily married?’ I wasn’t sure what Seymour’s questioning was about, but I concluded that he was a fundamentally nice person who was trying to support me by demonstrating that at least one person liked me enough to live with me. ‘Extremely.’ ‘In touch with your family?’ ‘Seymour!’ said Judy. I answered Seymour’s question, which was benign. ‘My mother phones me every Saturday; Sunday, Australian Eastern Standard Time. I don’t have any children of my own.’ ‘Gainfully employed?’ ‘I’m an associate professor of genetics at Columbia. I consider that my work has social value in addition to providing an adequate income. I also work in a bar.’ ‘Mixing comfortably with people in a generally relaxed but sometimes challenging social environment with an eye on the commercial imperatives. Enjoying life?’ ‘Yes’ seemed to be the most useful answer. ‘So you’re not autistic. That’s a professional opinion. The diagnostic criteria require dysfunction and you’re enjoying a good life. Go on enjoying it and stay away from people who think you’ve got a problem.’ ‘Good,’ said Judy. ‘Can we pull some food now and have a pleasant lunch?’ ‘Screw you,’ said Lydia. She was talking to Seymour, not Judy. ‘You need to pull your head out of your diagnostic manual and go into the street. Go visit some real people’s homes and see what your airline pilots do.’ She stood and picked up her bag. ‘Order whatever you want.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You’re not going to undo whatever trauma happened in your childhood. But don’t let some fat little shrink tell you it doesn’t matter. And do me and the world one favour.’ I assumed she was going to mention the bluefin tuna again. I was wrong. ‘Don’t ever have children.’ 8 ‘Earth to Don. Are you still reading me? I asked how you were feeling about becoming a father.’ I did not need Rosie’s reminder. My reflections on the Bluefin Tuna Incident had been replaced by a struggle to answer her question and I was not making much progress. I suspected that Claudia’s recommended response to difficult personal enquiries—Why are you asking?— would not work here. It was obvious why Rosie was asking. She wanted to ensure that I was psychologically ready for the most challenging and important task of my life. And the truth was that I had already been judged, professionally judged, by a social worker accustomed to dealing with family disasters, as unfit. In describing the lunch to Rosie seven weeks earlier, I had focused on matters that would be of immediate interest to her: the restaurant, the food and Seymour’s book about guilt. I did not mention Lydia’s assessment of my suitability as a father, since it was only a single—albeit expert—opinion, and of no immediate relevance. My mother had given me a useful rule when I was young: before sharing interesting information that has not been solicited, think carefully about whether it has the potential to cause distress. She had repeated it on a number of occasions, usually after I had shared some interesting information. I was still thinking carefully when the doorbell rang. ‘Shit. Who’s that?’ said Rosie. I could predict who it was, with a high degree of certainty, taking into account the scheduled arrival time of the Qantas flight from Melbourne via Los Angeles and travel time from JFK. I released the security lock and Rosie jumped up to open the door. When Gene emerged from the elevator, he was carrying two suitcases and a bunch of flowers, which he immediately gave to Rosie. Even I could see that his arrival had caused a change in the human dynamics. A few moments earlier, I was struggling to find the correct words to say. Now, the problem had been transferred to Rosie. Fortunately, Gene is an expert in social interaction. He moved towards me as if to hug me, then, detecting my body language or remembering our past protocols, shook my hand instead. After releasing it, he hugged Rosie. Gene is my best friend, yet I find hugging him uncomfortable. In fact, I only enjoy close contact with people with whom I have sex, a category containing one person only. Rosie dislikes Gene, yet she managed to hug him for approximately four seconds without a break. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,’ said Gene. ‘I know you’re not my biggest fan.’ He was speaking to Rosie, of course. I have always liked Gene, although this has required forgiveness for some immoral behaviour. ‘You’ve gained weight,’ I said. ‘We need to schedule some running.’ I estimated Gene’s BMI as twenty-eight, three points higher than when I had last seen him ten months earlier. ‘How long are you staying?’ said Rosie. ‘Has Don told you I’m pregnant?’ ‘He has not,’ said Gene. ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’ He used the wonderful news as an excuse to repeat the hug and avoid answering the question about the duration of his visit. Gene looked around. ‘I really do appreciate this. What a great place. Columbia must pay better than I thought. But I’m interrupting dinner.’ ‘No, no,’ said Rosie. ‘We shouldn’t have started before you. Have you eaten?’ ‘I’m a bit jet-lagged. Not sure what time my body thinks it is.’ Here, I could help. ‘You should drink alcohol. Remind your body that it’s evening.’ I went to the coolroom to collect a bottle of pinot noir while Gene began unpacking in what, until now, had been the spare room. Rosie followed me. Rosie stared at the barrels of beer, then looked suddenly ill and dashed out. It was true that the smell was much stronger inside the coolroom. I heard the bathroom door slam. Then there was a loud noise, a crash, but not from the bathroom. It was followed by a booming sound at similar volume. It was drumming from upstairs. An electric guitar joined in. When Rosie returned from the bathroom, I had the earplugs ready, but I suspected that her level of satisfaction had dropped. She went to her new study while I fitted my own earplugs and finished my meal. Fifty-two minutes later the music stopped and I was able to talk with Gene. He was certain that his marriage was over, but it seemed to me that he merely needed to rectify his behaviour. Permanently. ‘That was the plan,’ he said. ‘It was the only reasonable plan. Draw up a spreadsheet. Two columns. On one side you have Claudia, Carl, Eugenie, stability, accommodation, domestic efficiency, moral integrity, respectability, no more inappropriate-conduct complaints, vast advantages. On the other, you have occasional sex with random women. Is it significantly better than sex with Claudia?’ ‘Of course not. Not that I’ve had a chance to compare recently. Can we talk about this later? It’s been a long flight. Two flights.’ ‘We can talk tomorrow. Every day until we get it resolved.’ ‘Don, it’s over. I’ve accepted it. Now, tell me how it feels to be an expectant father.’ ‘I don’t have any feelings about it yet. It’s too early.’ ‘I think I might ask you every day until we get it resolved. You’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?’ ‘How can you tell?’ ‘All men are. Worried they’ll lose their wives to the baby. Worried they’ll never have sex again. Worried they won’t cut it.’ ‘I’m not average. I expect I will have unique problems.’ ‘And you’ll solve them in your own unique way.’ This was an extremely helpful contribution. Problem-solving is one of my strengths. But it failed to address the immediate dilemma. ‘What do I tell Rosie? She wants to know how I feel.’ ‘You tell her that you’re excited about being a father. Don’t burden her with your insecurities. Got any port?’ The music started again. I didn’t have any port, so substituted Cointreau and we sat without talking until Rosie came out to get me. Gene had fallen asleep in the chair. It was probably more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. It was certainly better than being homeless in New York. In the bedroom, Rosie smiled and kissed me. ‘So the Gene situation is acceptable?’ I said. ‘No. It’s not. Nor is the beer smell, which we’re going to have to do something about if you don’t want me throwing up in the evenings as well as the mornings. And obviously you need to talk to the people upstairs about the noise. I mean, you can’t give earplugs to a baby. But the apartment is just stunningly, wonderfully brilliant.’ ‘Sufficient to compensate for the problems?’ ‘Almost.’ She smiled. I looked at the world’s most beautiful woman, dressed only in a too-large t-shirt, sitting up in my bed—our bed. Waiting for me to say the words that would allow this extraordinary situation to continue. I took a deep breath, expelled the air, then took another breath to allow speech. ‘I’m incredibly excited about becoming a father.’ I was using the word excited in the sense that I would use it to say an electron was excited: activated rather than in a particular emotional state. Hence I was speaking sincerely, which was a good thing, as Rosie would have detected a lie. Rosie flung her arms around me and hugged me for longer than she had hugged Gene. I was feeling much better. I could allow my intellect to rest and enjoy the experience of being close to Rosie. Gene’s advice had been excellent and had, at least for me, justified his presence. I would solve the noise problem and the beer problem and the fatherhood problem in my own way. I woke with a headache, which I attributed to the stress associated with recalling the Bluefin Tuna Incident. My life was becoming more complex. In addition to my duties as professor and spouse, I was now responsible for monitoring beer, Gene and, potentially, Rosie, whom I suspected would continue to be neglectful of her health, even during this critical period. And, of course, I needed to do some research to prepare myself for fatherhood. There were two possible responses to the increased load. The first was to put in place a more formal schedule to ensure that time was allocated efficiently, taking into account the relative priority of each task and its contribution to critical goals. The second was to embrace chaos. The correct choice was obvious. It was time to initiate the Baby Project. I suspected Rosie would have a negative reaction to the installation of a whiteboard in the living room. I discovered a brilliant solution. The white tiles on the walls of my new bathroomoffice were tall and narrow: approximately thirty centimetres high and ten centimetres wide. They provided a ready-made grid with a surface suitable for a whiteboard marker. On one wall were nineteen columns of seven tiles, interrupted only by the toilet-roll holder which occupied one tile and obscured another—an almost perfect template for a rolling eighteen-week calendar. Each tile could be divided into seventeen horizontal slots to cover waking hours, with the possibility of further vertical subdivision. Rosie was unlikely to see the schedule, given her statement about respecting my personal space. Of course I could have used a computer spreadsheet or calendar application. But the wall was much bigger than my screen and filling in my scheduled research meetings, martial-arts training and market jogs for the first four weeks induced an unexpected sense of wellbeing. The morning after Gene’s arrival, we travelled together on the subway to Columbia. The journey from our new apartment was much shorter and I had rescheduled my departure time accordingly. Rosie had not yet adjusted her daily routine and took an earlier train. I used the time to talk to Gene about his family problem. ‘She rejected you because you cheated on her. Multiple times. After you lied to her about stopping. Therefore she needs to be convinced that you are no longer a cheat and a liar.’ ‘Not so loud, Don.’ I had raised my voice to emphasise these critical points and people were looking at us—and Gene particularly—with disapproval. A woman stepping off at Penn Station said, ‘Shame on you.’ The woman behind her added, ‘Pig.’ It was useful to have my argument reinforced but Gene attempted to change the subject. ‘Thought any more about fatherhood?’ I had not yet included any baby-related activities in my new white-tile schedule, although they had been the original motivation for creating it. It was possible my mind was responding to an unexpected event by activating primitive defence mechanisms and pretending it did not exist. I needed to do two things: acknowledge the upcoming birth by stating it out loud to others and undertake some actual research. After installing Gene in his office at Columbia, we had coffee with Professor David Borenstein. Rosie joined us, in her role as my partner, rather than as a medical student. David had been extremely helpful in supporting our visas and relocation. ‘So what’s news with you, Don?’ he asked. I was about to give David an update on my investigation of genetic predisposition to cirrhosis of the liver in mice, which was nearing completion, when I remembered my earlier decision to acknowledge my impending fatherhood. ‘Rosie’s pregnant,’ I said. Everyone was silent. I knew immediately that I had made an error, as Rosie kicked me under the table. It was obviously ineffective; the statement could not be retracted. ‘Well,’ said David. ‘Congratulations.’ Rosie smiled. ‘Thanks. It’s not really public yet, so—’ ‘Of course. And with my faculty hat on, I can assure you that you’re not the first student to have some disruption to their studies.’ ‘I’m not planning to let it disrupt my studies.’ I recognised Rosie’s ‘Don’t fuck with me’ voice. It seemed inadvisable to use it on the Dean. But David did not detect the tone, or chose to ignore it. ‘I’m not the person to talk to,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready, have a chat to Mandy Rau. You know Mandy? She’s the counsellor. Make sure you tell her you’re covered by Don’s medical plan.’ Rosie was about to speak again, but David raised both hands in a double ‘Stop’ signal and the subject changed to Gene’s program. David declined a second coffee. ‘Sorry, I have to go, but I need to speak to Don about the cirrhosis research. Walk back with me? You’re welcome to join us, Gene.’ Gene, despite having no interest in my research, joined us. ‘I gather you’ve finished the component of the study that needs a visiting professor,’ said the Dean. ‘There’s still a vast quantity of data to be analysed,’ I said. ‘That’s what I meant—it’s mainly legwork. I thought you might like some assistance.’ ‘Not if it means applying for a grant.’ It is generally less time-consuming to do work myself than to get involved in the paperwork required to get help. ‘No, you don’t need to apply for a grant. In this specific instance.’ He laughed and Gene joined in. ‘But I’ve got a post-doc researcher, strong on statistics, on loan to us—it’s a bit of a personal favour to a colleague, but there’s got to be meaningful work. Not least in case they audit the visa.’ ‘Take him,’ said Gene. Gene’s publication list was populated by work performed by such people under his notional supervision. I did not want my name on papers I had not written. But I owed it to David Borenstein to not waste my time on tasks that could be performed by a more junior person who would benefit from the experience. ‘Her name’s Inge,’ said David. ‘She’s Lithuanian.’ Gene left us, and the Dean and I walked for a while without speaking. I presumed he was thinking—a pleasant change from most people who regard a gap in the conversation as a space that requires filling. We were almost at his office when he spoke again. ‘Don, the counsellor is going to suggest Rosie takes time off. That’s sensible. But we don’t want to lose her. We like to keep our students and she’s a good one. The timing’s not great. She’ll probably need to defer the first six months of her major clinical year, then have the baby and come back second semester, or the following year. I’d say take the whole year. It’ll give you time to work out the care arrangements, which will probably involve you.’ I had not thought about this practical issue, and David’s advice seemed sound. ‘Some women take a month or two off and come right back, and arrange to pick up what they’ve missed in the vacation. I think that’s a mistake. Especially for you two.’ ‘Why specifically us?’ ‘You don’t have local support. If you both had parents or siblings living here—maybe. There’s only so much child care you can contract out. I’d say, defer the whole year. Or the baby will suffer, the study will suffer, she’ll suffer. And let me tell you from bitter experience, you’ll suffer too.’ ‘Seems like excellent advice. I’ll tell Rosie.’ ‘Don’t tell her it came from me.’ The Dean of Medicine, our sponsor, an experienced parent. Could there be anyone with greater authority to offer advice on balancing medical studies and parenthood? Yet I suspected he was right in recommending I not mention his name. Rosie would instinctively reject the advice of an older male in authority. My prediction was correct. ‘I’m not taking a year out of the program,’ Rosie said when I presented David’s advice that evening without citing its source. We were having dinner with Gene, our new family member, who was making use of one of the surplus chairs. ‘A year out is nothing in the long term,’ said Gene. ‘Did you take time off when Eugenie was born?’ said Rosie. ‘Claudia did.’ ‘Then just equate me to you rather than Claudia. Or is that too big a leap?’ ‘So Don’s going to look after the baby?’ Rosie laughed. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, Don has to work. And…’ I was interested to hear what other reasons Rosie might cite for my not being able to look after Bud, but Gene interrupted. ‘So who’s going to look after it?’ Rosie thought for a few moments. ‘I’ll take her—or him—with me.’ I was stunned. ‘You’ll take Bud to Columbia—to the hospitals?’ By the time Bud was born, Rosie would be working with actual patients—people riddled with infectious diseases—in situations where a baby underfoot could cause life-threatening disasters. Her approach seemed impractical and irresponsible. ‘I’m still thinking about it, okay? But it’s time they considered the needs of women with children. Instead of telling us to go away and come back when the baby’s grown up.’ Rosie pushed her plate aside. She had not finished her risotto. ‘I need to do some work.’ Once again, Gene and I were left to talk. I made a mental note to replenish the liquor stocks. Gene selected the conversation topic before I could mention his marriage. ‘Feeling any better about being a dad?’ The word ‘dad’ sounded odd, applied to me. I thought of my own father. I suspected his role in my life when I was a baby had been minimal. My mother had resigned from her teaching job to manage three children while my father worked at the family hardware store. It was a practical, if stereotypical, allocation of the workload. Given that my father shares some of the personality traits that give me the most trouble, it was probably advantageous to maximise the amount of input from my mother. ‘I’ve considered it. I suspect the most useful contribution is to stay out of the way to avoid causing problems.’ This was consistent with the assessment of me given by Lydia during the Bluefin Tuna Incident and in keeping with the medical maxim: First do no harm. ‘You know, you may get away with it. Rosie’s a rusted-on feminist, so philosophically she wants you to wear a skirt, but she also thinks she’s Superwoman. Independence is an Australian female trait. She’ll want to do it all.’ Gene drained his Midori and refilled both glasses. ‘Whatever women say, they’re biologically bonded to the baby in a way we’re not. It won’t even recognise you for the first few months. So don’t worry about that. Look ahead to when it’s a toddler and you can interact.’ This was helpful. I was fortunate to be able to source advice from an experienced father and head of a psychology department. He had more. ‘Forget everything you hear from psychologists. They fetishise parenthood. Make you paranoid you’re doing something wrong. If you hear the word attachment, run a mile.’ This was extremely helpful. Lydia doubtless belonged to the group Gene was describing. Gene continued. ‘You don’t have any nieces or nephews, right?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘So you’ve got no real experience with kids.’ ‘Only Eugenie and Carl.’ Gene’s children were almost familiar enough to be included in my list of friends, but too old for toddler orientation. Rosie emerged from her office and walked towards the bedroom, making hand motions which I interpreted as You’ve had enough to drink, both of you, and it’s time to come to bed instead of sharing more interesting information. Gene started to get up and collapsed back in the chair. ‘Here’s my last bit of advice before I fall over. Watch some kids, watch them play. You’ll see they’re just little adults, only they don’t know all the rules and tricks yet. Nothing to worry about.’ 9 Rosie was sitting up in bed when I joined her. ‘Don, before you get undressed—could I ask you a favour?’ ‘Of course. As long as it doesn’t require mental or physical coordination.’ Gene’s topping-up of my glass had resulted in an accidental overdose of alcohol. ‘What time does the deli close? The one where you got the smoked mackerel?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Why did I need to remain dressed to answer the question? ‘I’d really love some more.’ ‘I’ll buy some later today.’ It was 12.04 a.m. ‘We can have it cold as an appetiser.’ ‘I meant now. Tonight. With dill pickles. The ones with chilli if you can find them.’ ‘It’s too late to eat. Your digestive system—’ ‘I don’t care. I’m pregnant. You get cravings. It’s normal.’ Normal had clearly been redefined. I predicted that finding smoked mackerel and pickles after midnight would involve significant effort, especially as my intoxication precluded the use of my bicycle, but this was the first opportunity I had been offered to do something directly related to the pregnancy. Random jogging in an unfamiliar neighbourhood failed to uncover any smoked mackerel. The streets were still busy and my directional choices were being influenced by the need to dodge pedestrians. I decided to proceed to Brooklyn where I knew there was a well-stocked allnight delicatessen on Graham Avenue. Statistically, my expected time to find mackerel was probably lower if I continued to search Manhattan, but I was prepared to pay a price for certainty. As I jogged over the Williamsburg Bridge, I analysed the problem. It seemed likely that Rosie’s body was reacting to some deficiency, the intensity of the desire magnified by the importance of proper nutrition during pregnancy. She had rejected the mushroom and artichoke risotto but wanted mackerel. I made a provisional conclusion that her body required protein and fish oil. As with the management of my increasingly complex life, I saw two possible approaches. An on-demand sourcing of nutrition, driven by cravings which probably occurred only after the deficiency was recognised by her body, was going to be disruptive and inefficient, as my search for mackerel was demonstrating. A planned approach, recognising the specialised diet required for pregnancy and ensuring all ingredients were on hand in a timely manner, was obviously superior. When I arrived home at 2.32 a.m. in the City That Never Sleeps, I had run approximately twenty kilometres and acquired mackerel, pickles and chocolate (Rosie always craved chocolate). Rosie was asleep. Waving the mackerel under her nose did not stimulate any response. When I woke, Rosie and Gene were already preparing to leave for Columbia and I had a headache again, this time doubtless due to lack of sleep. The correct amount of relatively undisturbed sleep is critical to optimum physical and mental functioning. Rosie’s pregnancy was taking a severe toll on my body. Purchase of pregnancy-compatible food in advance would at least obviate the need for midnight excursions. As a short-term solution, I took a day’s leave to concentrate on the Baby Project. I was able to use the freed-up day productively, first to catch up on sleep, then to source further information on Rosie’s statement about the link between cortisol and depression. The evidence was convincing, as it was for the link with heart disease. It was definitely important to minimise Rosie’s stress levels in the interests of both Bud’s health and her own. I allocated the remainder of the morning, after completion of scheduled body-maintenance tasks, to researching nutrition in pregnancy. The time I allowed turned out to be manifestly insufficient. There was so much conflicting advice! Even after rejection of articles that helpfully advertised their lack of a scientific basis by the use of words such as organic, holistic and natural, I was left with a mass of data, recommendations and recipes. Some focused on foods to include, others on foods to avoid. There was substantial overlap. A commercial but impressive baby-oriented website offered a Standardised Meal System for each trimester, but its meals included meat, which would be unacceptable to Rosie. I needed more time, or a meta-study. Surely others had faced the same problem and codified their findings. The pregnancy websites also contained vast amounts of information about foetal development. Rosie had been clear that she did not want a technical commentary, but it was so interesting, especially with a case study progressing in my apartment. I selected one of the wall tiles above the bath and labelled it ‘5’ to represent the estimated number of weeks of gestation up to the preceding Saturday. I made a dot the size of an orange seed to represent Bud’s current size, then added a sketch. Even after forty minutes’ work, it was crude compared with some of the diagrams available online. But, as with the schedule on the tiles opposite, its production gave me a distinct sense of satisfaction. To solve the immediate nutrition problem, I selected a vegetarian recipe at random from one of the websites. A jog via Trader Joe’s sufficed to source all the necessary ingredients for a tofu and squash flan. I was left with an afternoon of unscheduled time—an ideal opportunity to do some research in line with Gene’s advice. It seemed wise to delay the shower and change until after my excursion, especially as the weather forecast indicated a thirty per cent probability of rain. I put my light raincoat on over my jogging costume and added a cycling hat for hair protection. There was a small playground on 10th Avenue, only a few blocks away. It was perfect. I was able to sit on a bench, alone, and watch children with their guardians. Binoculars would have been helpful, but I could observe gross motor actions and even hear some conversation, especially as much of it was shouted. I was not disturbed—in fact on the sole occasion that a child approached me it was immediately summoned back. I made several observations in my notebook. The children explored for short distances but routinely checked and returned to their guardians. I recalled seeing a documentary in which this behaviour was made more obvious by fast-motion replay, but could not recall what type of animal was involved. My phone had substantial available memory, so I began shooting my own video. Gene would definitely be interested. My recording was interrupted by some kind of communal activity: the guardians and children gathered together for approximately twenty seconds and then moved to the other end of the playground, where my view of them was obscured by a central island of foliage. I followed and sat where I could observe them again, but they did not resume their play. I decided to wait and used the time to change the video resolution on my phone in case there was an opportunity to film a longer segment. Due to my focus on the camera-operating task, I did not notice the approach of two uniformed male police officers. In retrospect, I may not have handled the situation well, but it was an unfamiliar social protocol in unexpected circumstances driven by rules which I did not know. I was also struggling with the video application which I had downloaded because of its superior compression algorithm, without due attention to its user-friendliness. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ This was the (marginally) older policeman. I guessed they were both in their thirties, and in good physical shape—BMIs approximately twenty-three. ‘I think I’m configuring the resolution, but it’s possible I’m doing something different. It’s unlikely you will be able to assist unless you’re familiar with the application.’ ‘Well, I guess we should get out of your way and leave you with the kids.’ ‘Excellent. Good luck fighting crime.’ ‘Get up.’ This was an unexpected change of attitude on the part of the younger colleague. Perhaps I was seeing a demonstration of the ‘good cop, bad cop’ protocol. I looked to Good Cop to see if I would receive contrary instructions. ‘Do you also require me to stand up?’ Good Cop assisted me to stand. Forcefully. My dislike of being touched is visceral, and my response was similarly automatic. I did not pin or throw my assailant, but I did use a simple aikido move to disengage and distance him from me. He staggered back and Bad Cop pulled his gun. Good Cop produced handcuffs. At the police station, the officers sought a statement in which I conceded that I had been in the park observing children and that I had resisted arrest. I was finally given an answer to the obvious question: what had I done wrong? It is illegal in New York to enter a designated children’s playground without the company of a child under the age of twelve. Apparently there was a sign posted on the fence to that effect. Incredible. If I had actually been, as presumably suspected by the police and anticipated by the lawmakers, someone who gained sexual satisfaction from observing children, I would have had to kidnap a child in order to gain entry to the playground. Good Cop and Bad Cop were not interested in this argument, and I eventually provided an account of events that seemed to satisfy them. I was then left alone in a small room for fifty-four minutes. My phone had been confiscated. At that point an older man, also in uniform, joined me, carrying what I guessed was the printed version of my statement. ‘Professor Tillman?’ ‘Greetings. I need to call a lawyer.’ The time spent alone had been useful in allowing me to collect my thoughts. I remembered a 1-800 phone number for criminal lawyers from a subway advertisement. ‘You don’t want to call your wife first?’ ‘My priority is professional advice.’ I was also conscious that news of my arrest would cause Rosie stress, particularly as the problem was still unresolved and she could do little to help. ‘You can call a lawyer if you want. Maybe you won’t need one. You want something to drink?’ My answer was automatic. ‘Yes, please. Tequila—straight up.’ My interrogator looked at me for approximately five seconds. He made no signs of getting the drink. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like a margarita? Maybe a strawberry daiquiri?’ ‘No, a cocktail is complex to prepare. A tequila is fine.’ I suspected that they would not have fresh juice available. Better a neat tequila than a margarita made with lemon syrup or sweetand-sour mix. ‘You’re from Melbourne, Australia, right?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘And now you’re a professor at Columbia?’ ‘An associate professor.’ ‘You got someone we can call to verify that?’ ‘Of course. You can contact the Dean of Medicine.’ ‘So you’re a pretty smart guy, right?’ It was an awkward question to answer without appearing arrogant. I just nodded. ‘Okay, Professor, answer me this. With all your intelligence, when I offered you a margarita, did you really think I was going to go to the tearoom and squeeze a few limes?’ ‘Lemons are fine. But I only asked for a tequila. Squeezing citrus fruit for cocktails seems an inappropriate use of time for a law-enforcement professional.’ He leaned back. ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’ I was under extreme pressure, but conscious that I must have made an error. I did my best to clarify. ‘I’ve been arrested and am at risk of incarceration. I was unaware of the law. I am not intentionally making a joke.’ I thought for a moment, then added, only because it might reduce the chances of jail and consequent low-quality food, dull conversation and unwanted sexual advances, ‘I’m somewhat socially incompetent.’ ‘I sorta figured that out. Did you really say “Good luck fighting crime” to Officer Cooke?’ I nodded. He laughed. ‘I’ve got a nephew a lot like you.’ ‘He’s a professor of genetics?’ ‘No, but if you want to know about World War II Spitfires, he’s your boy. Knows everything about planes, nothing about how to stay out of trouble. You must’ve done all right at school. To make professor.’ ‘I got excellent marks. I didn’t enjoy the social aspects.’ ‘Problems with authority?’ My instinctive answer was ‘no’: I am observant of rules and have no desire to cause trouble. But unbidden memories of the religious education teacher, the headmaster and the Dean of Science in Melbourne entered my mind, followed by Wineman, the superintendent at the Brooklyn apartment and the two cops. ‘Correct. Due to honesty—lack of tact—rather than malice.’ ‘Ever been arrested before?’ ‘This is the first time.’ ‘And you were in the playground to’—he checked his document—‘observe children’s behaviour in preparation for fatherhood.’ ‘Correct. My wife is pregnant. I need to acquire familiarity with children.’ ‘Jesus.’ He looked at the paper again, but his eyes did not indicate that he was reading. ‘All right. I don’t think you’re a danger to kids, but I can’t just let you walk away. If next week you go and shoot up a school, and I’ve done nothing—’ ‘It seems statistically unlikely—’ ‘Don’t say anything. You’ll talk yourself into trouble.’ It seemed like good advice. ‘I’m going to send you to Bellevue. This guy will see you and, if he thinks you’re safe, you’re off the hook. We’re all off the hook.’ He gave me back my phone and waved the handcuffs. ‘Brendan’s a good guy. Just make sure you show up. Or we do it the hard way.’ 10 It was 6.32 p.m. when I left the police station. I immediately phoned Bellevue to make an appointment. The receptionist asked me to call back the next day unless it was an emergency. Approximately four minutes into my description of the situation, she made an apparently irreversible decision that it was not. On the subway, I debated whether I needed to inform Rosie of the Playground Incident. It was embarrassing, and suggested a lack of familiarity with rules. Knowing the rules is one of my strengths. Rosie would be upset that something unpleasant had happened to me and angry with the police—in short, stressed. My earlier decision to insulate Rosie until the matter was resolved remained valid. I had avoided the worst-case scenario at the police station. The assessment at Bellevue was the only remaining obstacle. I told myself that there was no reason for anxiety about meeting with the psychologist. In my early twenties I was interviewed by numerous psychologists and psychiatrists. My circle of friends included Claudia, a clinical psychologist; Gene, head of a psychology department; Isaac Esler, a psychiatrist; as well as Rosie, a psychology graduate and PhD candidate. I was experienced and comfortable in the company of these professionals. Nor was there any reason for the psychologist to consider me dangerous. There was thus no reason for anxiety about the assessment. In the absence of a reason, it was irrational to be anxious. Rosie was already home, working in her new study, when I arrived. I had missed my stop, and then walked in the wrong direction. I blamed the change of location. I began dinner preparation. It would provide a less-dangerous topic of conversation than the day’s activities. ‘Where have you been?’ Rosie called out. ‘I thought we were having lunch together.’ ‘Tofu. Nutritious and easy to digest and a great source of iron and calcium.’ ‘Hello?’ She emerged from the study, and came up behind me as I focused on the food. ‘Do I get a kiss?’ ‘Of course.’ Unfortunately the kiss, despite my best efforts to make it interesting, was insufficient to distract Rosie from her inquisition. ‘So, what have you been doing? What happened to lunch?’ ‘I hadn’t realised lunch was confirmed. I took the day off. I went for a walk. I was feeling unwell.’ All true statements. ‘No wonder. You were up all night drinking with Gene.’ ‘And purchasing smoked mackerel.’ ‘Oh shit. I’d forgotten. I’m sorry. I had some eggs and vinegar and went to sleep.’ She pointed to the tofu, which I was in the process of preparing. ‘I thought you were going out with Dave.’ ‘This is for you.’ ‘Hey, that’s nice of you, but I’ll get a pizza.’ ‘This is healthier. Rich in betacarotene, essential for a healthy immune system.’ ‘Maybe, but I feel like pizza.’ Should I rely on the instincts that indicated pizza or the website that specified tofu? As a geneticist I trusted instincts, but as a scientist I had some confidence in research. As a husband, I knew that it was easier not to argue. I put the tofu back in the refrigerator. ‘Oh, and take Gene with you.’ Boys’ night out was defined as being Dave, me and sometimes Dave’s former workmates. However, it was also defined as Rosie ‘having time to herself’. The only way of maintaining both components of the definition was to require Gene to eat alone, which would have broken another rule of ethical behaviour. Change seemed unstoppable. As Gene and I exited the elevator and stepped into the street, George was leaving a limousine carrying a bag. I intercepted him. ‘Greetings. I thought you were returning to England.’ An online search had revealed the name of George’s cruise ship, which had departed a few hours earlier. ‘Bit quiet for you, eh? No, we’ve got a few months off, courtesy Herman’s Hermits. Agent’s looking for gigs in New York. How’s the beer?’ ‘The temperature is correct and stable. There’s a minor leak that produces occasional odours, but we’ve become accustomed to them. Are you planning to practise tonight?’ ‘Funny you should ask. Can’t say I feel like it, but Jimmy—the bass player—said he might fetch up. Three days in New York City and he’s run out of things to do so why not get together and drink beer and play some music.’ ‘Do you want to watch baseball instead?’ The idea popped into my head as a solution to the noise problem that George might create for Rosie. It may have been the first occasion in my life that I had spontaneously asked someone other than a close friend to join me for social purposes. ‘You going out, then?’ he said. ‘Correct. To eat food, drink alcohol and watch baseball. We also talk.’ I had selected Dorian Gray, a bar in the East Village, as our regular meeting place. It offered the best combination of television screens, noise level (critical), food quality, beer, price and travel time for Dave and me. I introduced George as my vertical neighbour, and explained that Gene was living with me. George did not appear concerned about having an extra non-paying tenant. Dave is adaptable to changes in plans and was happy to have George and Gene join us. We ordered burgers with all available extras. Dave’s diet is suspended on boys’ nights out. Gene ordered a bottle of wine, which was more expensive than the beer that we usually drank. I knew this would worry Dave. ‘So,’ said Gene, ‘what happened to you today? I had to show your new assistant the ropes.’ ‘You make it sound like it wasn’t too much of a burden,’ said George. ‘This’d be a young lady, would it?’ ‘That’d be exactly what it were,’ said Gene, possibly mimicking George’s accent. ‘Name’s Inge. Very charming.’ In keeping with the primary purpose of the boys’ night out, which was to provide mutual assistance with personal problems, I was wondering whether I should seek advice on the Playground Incident. I wanted a second opinion on my decision to withhold information from Rosie, but it seemed unwise to tell George, who was effectively my landlord, that I had been arrested. ‘I have a minor problem,’ I said. ‘I committed a social error which may have consequences.’ I did not add that the error was a direct result of following Gene’s advice to observe children. ‘Well, that’s all clear enough,’ said Gene. ‘You want to tell us a bit more?’ ‘No. I just want to know whether I should tell Rosie. And if so, how.’ ‘Absolutely,’ said Gene. ‘Marriage needs to be based on trust and openness. No secrets.’ Then he laughed, presumably to indicate that he was making a joke. This was consistent with his behaviour as a liar and cheat. I turned to Dave. ‘What do you think?’ Dave looked at his empty plate. ‘Who am I to talk? We’re going broke and I haven’t told Sonia.’ ‘Your refrigeration business is in trouble?’ said George. ‘The refrigeration part is okay,’ said Dave. ‘It’s the business part.’ ‘Paperwork,’ said George. ‘I’d tell you to get someone to do it, but one day you wake up and find you’ve been working for them instead of the other way around.’ I found it hard to see how such information would become available at the point of waking, but agreed with George’s broad thesis: administration was a major inconvenience to me also. Conversely, Gene was an expert at using it to his own advantage. The conversation had lost focus. I brought it back to the critical question: should I tell Rosie? ‘Seriously, does she need to know?’ said Gene. ‘Is it going to affect her?’ ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘It depends on the consequences.’ ‘Then wait. People spend their lives worrying about things that never happen.’ Dave nodded. ‘I guess she doesn’t need any more stress.’ That word again. ‘Agreed,’ said Gene. He turned to George. ‘What do you think?’ ‘I think this wine is surprisingly palatable,’ said George. ‘Chianti, is it?’ He waved to our server. ‘Another bottle of your finest Chianti, squire.’ ‘We’ve only got one kind of Chianti. The one you were drinking.’ ‘Then bring us your finest red wine.’ Dave’s expression indicated horror. I was less worried. Dorian Gray’s finest red wine was unlikely to be expensive. George waited for the wine to arrive. ‘How long have you been married?’ he said. ‘Ten months and fifteen days.’ ‘And already you’re doing things you can’t tell her about?’ ‘It seems so.’ ‘No kids, I presume.’ ‘Interesting question.’ It depended on the definition of ‘kid’. If George was a religious fundamentalist, he might consider that a kid had been created at some time between an hour and five days after the removal of my shirt on the life-changing Saturday, depending on the speed of travel of the successful sperm. While I was thinking, Gene answered the question. ‘Don and Rosie are expecting their first child…when, Don?’ The mean human gestation period is forty weeks; thirty-eight weeks from conception. If Rosie’s reporting was correct, and conception had occurred on the same day, the baby was due to be born on 21 February. ‘Well,’ said George, ‘that answers your question about whether to put her in the picture. You don’t want to say anything that’s going to upset her.’ ‘Good principle,’ said Gene. Even without the scientific evidence linking stress to Bud’s future mental health, my companions had reached essentially the same conclusion as I had. The news needed to be withheld until the problem was resolved. Which needed to happen as quickly as possible if I was to avoid becoming a victim of cortisol poisoning myself. Gene tasted the wine on behalf of the group and continued. ‘It’s natural for people to deceive their partners. You don’t want to go against nature.’ George laughed. ‘I’d like to hear you argue that one.’ Gene proceeded to give his standard lecture on women seeking the best genes, even from outside their primary relationship, and men seeking to impregnate as many women as possible without being caught. It was fortunate that he had given the talk many times, as I detected significant intoxication. George laughed a lot. Dave did not laugh at all. ‘Sounds like baloney. I’ve never seriously thought of cheating on Sonia.’ ‘How can I put this?’ said Gene. ‘There’s a hierarchy. The further up the pecking order you go, the more women are available to you. A colleague of ours is head of the Medical Research Institute in Melbourne and he just got caught with his pants down—almost literally. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.’ Gene was referring to my co-researcher in Melbourne, Simon Lefebvre, and it was good to know that he now regarded him as a ‘nice guy’. In the past there had been some unhealthy competitiveness. Gene poured the last of the wine. ‘So, no offence, but Don is an associate professor and I’m a department head. I’m at about the same level as Lefebvre, but up the ladder from Don. I probably don’t get as many opportunities as Lefebvre, whose dedication to the task is an example to all of us, but I get more than Don.’ ‘And I’m a refrigeration engineer, which is lower than both of you,’ said Dave. ‘In terms of the social hierarchy, that’s probably true. It doesn’t make you any less worthwhile as a person. If I need my fridge fixed, I’m not going to call Lefebvre, but on average someone in your profession is going to get fewer opportunities for sex with women who are unconsciously—or consciously for that matter—focused on status. You’re probably a better man than I am in lots of ways, but in this group I’m the alpha male.’ Gene turned to George. ‘Sorry, squire, I’m being presumptuous. I’m assuming you’re not the vice chancellor of Cambridge or an international soccer player.’ ‘Too dumb for the first,’ he said. ‘Would’ve liked to be the second. Got a try-out with Norwich, not good enough.’ The waiter brought the bill and George grabbed it, put a pile of notes on it, and stood up. George, Gene and I took a taxi back to the apartment building. When the elevator doors had closed in front of George, Gene said, ‘A free meal. Shows what a guy will do to challenge the alpha male. Do you know what he does for a living?’ ‘Rock star,’ I said. Rosie was in her sleeping costume, but still awake, when I entered the bedroom. ‘How was your night?’ she asked, and I had a moment of panic before realising that no deception was required. ‘Excellent. We drank wine and ate hamburgers.’ ‘And talked about baseball and women.’ ‘Incorrect. We never talk about women in general—only you and Sonia. Tonight we talked about genetics.’ ‘I’m glad I stayed home. I’m guessing talking genetics meant Gene giving Dave the “men are programmed to deceive” lecture. Am I right?’ ‘Correct. I consider it unlikely that Dave will modify his behaviour as a result.’ ‘I hope nobody modifies their behaviour because of anything Gene says to them,’ she said and looked at me strangely. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ ‘Of course. There are vast numbers of things I don’t tell you. You’d have information overload.’ This was an excellent argument, but it was time to introduce a change of topic, shifting the focus to Rosie. I had prepared a suitable question during the taxi ride home. ‘How was your pizza?’ ‘I ended up cooking the tofu. It wasn’t that bad.’ A few minutes after I joined Rosie in bed, George began drumming. Rosie proposed that I go upstairs to ask him to stop. ‘I’ll go up myself, if you won’t,’ she said. I was faced with three choices: a confrontation with my landlord, a confrontation with my wife or a confrontation between my landlord and my wife. Judging from his appearance when he opened the door, George must have been playing in his pyjamas. I have a theory that everyone is as odd as I am when they are alone. I was also in pyjamas, of course. ‘Making too much noise for you and the missus? And Don Juan?’ ‘Just the missus.’ I was trying to reduce the magnitude of my complaint by sixty-seven per cent. My voice sounded uncannily like my grandfather’s. George smiled. ‘Best night out in living memory. Used me brain, didn’t talk about football.’ ‘You were fortunate. Normally we talk about baseball.’ ‘Bloody interesting, that stuff about genetics.’ ‘Gene is not always technically accurate.’ ‘I’ll bet he’s not.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t know what the connection is, but this is the first time I’ve felt like practising for donkey’s years. Reckon your mate’s brought out the alpha male in me.’ ‘You’re drumming to annoy Gene?’ ‘People pay money for this. You’re getting it for free.’ I could not think of a good counter-argument, but George smiled again. ‘I’ll play a chaser for him and call it a night.’ 11 Deceiving Rosie the next morning was not straightforward. ‘What’s going on, Don?’ ‘I’m feeling a bit unwell again.’ ‘You too?’ ‘I might go to the doctor.’ ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you join me on the orange juice wagon? You smelled like a brewery when you came in last night.’ ‘It was probably the beer leaking again.’ ‘Don, I think we need to talk. I’m not sure you’re coping.’ ‘Everything is fine. I’ll be back at work this afternoon. Everything will be back on schedule.’ ‘Okay. But I’m just a little bit stressed too. My thesis is a mess.’ ‘You need to avoid stress. You still have eight weeks. I recommend talking to Gene. You’re supposed to talk to your supervisor about your thesis.’ ‘Right now I need to get the stats sorted, which is not exactly Gene’s thing. It was bad enough having to report to him once a month without him living in the house and knowing I’m in trouble. And getting my husband drunk.’ ‘I’m an expert in statistics. What are you using?’ ‘You want to help me cheat in front of my supervisor? Anyway, I need to do this myself. I’m just having trouble concentrating. I get something in my head and suddenly my brain’s somewhere else and I have to start again.’ ‘You’re sure you’re not getting early-onset Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia?’ ‘I’m pregnant. And I’ve got a lot of stuff going on. I walked past the counsellor today and she said, just casually, “I heard the news; any time you want to have a chat.” Shit, I can barely keep my head straight with what I’m doing and she’s talking about something that’s months away.’ ‘Presumably the counsellor is an expert—’ ‘Don’t. Just leave it for the moment. What did Gene say about moving out? You spoke to him last night, right?’ ‘Of course. I’ll speak to him again today.’ Both statements were technically correct. Elaborating would have added to Rosie’s stress. My second attempt to book an assessment at Bellevue was a disaster. Brendan, the person the senior police officer had referred me to, was on stress leave, joining Rosie and me and presumably much of New York in needing to lower his cortisol to safe levels. There were no other appointments available for eight days. I decided it would be more useful to appear in person, in the expectation that there would be cancellations or no-shows. The clinic was at approximately the same latitude as our apartment, but on 1st Avenue on the East Side of Manhattan. I used the cross-town bicycle ride to plan my approach and had my speech ready when I arrived at the psychiatric-assessment unit. The sign above the receptionist’s barred window said Check-in. ‘Greetings. My name is Don Tillman and I am a suspected paedophile. I wish to put myself on standby for an assessment.’ She looked up from her paperwork for only a few seconds. ‘We don’t have a waiting list. You need to make an appointment.’ I had prepared for this tactic. ‘Can I speak to your manager?’ ‘I’m sorry, she’s not available.’ ‘When will she be available?’ ‘I’m sorry, Mr—’ She waited as if expecting me to say something, then continued. ‘You really have to make an appointment. Those are the rules. And you need to take your bike outside.’ I restated my case for immediate assessment, this time in detail. It took some time, and she made multiple attempts to interrupt. She finally succeeded. ‘Sir, there are people waiting.’ She was right. I had a growing audience who seemed impressed by my arguments. I addressed my summary to them. ‘Statistically, at some time this morning, there will be a psychologist, supported by taxpayers, drinking coffee and surfing the internet due to failure of a client to keep his or her appointment, while a potential psychopathic paedophile is free to roam the streets of New York City, unassessed—’ ‘You’re a paedophile?’ A woman of about thirty, wearing a tracksuit, BMI approximately forty, was asking the question. ‘An accused paedophile. I was arrested in a children’s playground.’ She spoke to the receptionist. ‘Someone oughta see this guy.’ It was clear that she had the support of the other people in the waiting area. The receptionist scanned a list and picked up the phone. Approximately a minute later she said, ‘Ms Aranda will see you in an hour if you’re prepared to wait.’ She gave me a form to complete. A victory for rationality. ‘I gather you were anxious to talk to someone,’ said Ms Aranda (estimated age forty-five, BMI twenty-two), who introduced herself as Rani. She listened for the forty-one minutes required to explain the events of the previous day. I observed a progressive improvement in her facial expression from frown to smile. ‘This is not the first time you have gotten yourself into a sticky situation?’ she said when I had finished. ‘Correct.’ ‘But there has been no problem with children before?’ ‘Only when I was at school. When children were my contemporaries.’ She laughed. ‘You have survived so far. If you had not been a bit awkward with the police they would have probably just told you the rules and sent you off. It’s not against the law to be awkward.’ ‘Fortunately. Or I would have already been sentenced to the electric chair.’ It was only a small joke, but Rani laughed again. ‘I’ll write something for the police, and you will be free to get back to your research about children. I suggest visiting your relatives, which is a good thing to do in any case. Wish your wife good luck with the birth.’ A huge burden was lifted from my shoulders. I had solved the problem without stressing Rosie. Tonight I would tell her the story and she would say, ‘Don, I said when I agreed to marry you that I was expecting constant craziness. You’re incredible.’ Then I realised that someone was looking at us through the glass. It was not until she signalled to Rani, who left the interview room to join her, that I recognised her. It had been fifty-three days since our encounter but the tall stature, low BMI and associated deficit of fat deposits on her face were unmistakable. Lydia from the Bluefin Tuna Incident. Rani talked to Lydia for a few minutes, then walked away. Lydia joined me in the office. ‘Greetings, Lydia.’ ‘My name is Mercer. Lydia Mercer. I’m the senior social worker and I’m taking responsibility for your case.’ ‘I thought everything was resolved. I assumed you had recognised me—’ She interrupted. ‘Mr Tillman, I’m prepared to believe we may have crossed paths in the past, but I think it would be helpful if you put it out of your mind. You’ve been arrested for a crime, and a…conservative…assessment from us could put the police in a position of having to follow through. Am I being clear enough for you?’ I nodded. ‘Your wife’s pregnant?’ ‘Correct.’ Don’t ever have children, she had said. I had violated her instruction, though not through any deliberate action of my own. I added, in my defence, ‘It wasn’t planned.’ ‘And you think you’re equipped to be a father?’ I recalled Gene’s advice. ‘I’m expecting that instinct will ensure essentially correct behaviour.’ ‘As it did when you assaulted the police officer. How’s your wife coping?’ ‘Coping? There’s no baby yet.’ ‘She works?’ ‘She’s a medical student.’ ‘You don’t think she might require some additional support at this time?’ ‘Additional to what? Rosie is self-sufficient.’ This was one of Rosie’s defining characteristics. She would have been insulted if I suggested she required support. ‘Have you talked about child care?’ ‘Minimally. Rosie is currently focused on her PhD thesis.’ ‘I thought you said she was a medical student.’ ‘She’s completing a PhD concurrently.’ ‘As you do.’ ‘No, it’s extremely uncommon,’ I said. ‘Who does the housework, the cooking?’ I could have answered that housework was shared and that the cooking was my responsibility, but it would have undermined my statement about Rosie’s self-sufficiency. I found a neat way around it. ‘It varies. Last night she cooked her own meal and I purchased a hamburger independently at a sports bar.’ ‘With your buddies—your mates—no doubt.’ ‘Correct. No need to translate. I am familiar with American vernacular.’ She looked again at the file. ‘Does she have any family here?’ ‘No. Her mother is dead, she’s passed, hence being here is not possible. Her father is unable to be here as he owns a gym—a fitness centre—which requires his presence.’ Lydia made a note. ‘How old was she when her mother died?’ ‘Ten.’ ‘How old is she now?’ ‘Thirty-one.’ ‘Professor Tillman. I don’t know if this makes any sense to your mind, but what we have is a first-time mother, an independent professional high achiever, an over achiever, loss of mother before the age of eleven, no role model, no supports, and a husband who hasn’t a clue about any of this. As a professor, as an intellectual, can you see the point I’m making?’ ‘No.’ ‘Your wife is a sitting duck for postnatal depression. For not coping. For ending up in hospital. Or worse. You’re not doing anything to prevent it and won’t see it if it happens.’ Much as I disliked what Lydia was saying, I had to respect her professional expertise. ‘You’re not the only unsupportive partner out there, not by a long way. But you’re one I can do something about.’ She waved the file. ‘You’re going to do some work. You assaulted a police officer. I don’t know how that lack of control translates into a domestic situation, but I’m referring you to a group. Attendance is compulsory until the convenor says you’re safe. And I want to see you in a month for an assessment. With your wife.’ ‘What if I fail?’ ‘I’m a social worker. You’ve been referred to me because of inappropriate and illegal behaviour around children. At the end of the day, people will listen to me. Police: I only have to write a report to put this back in their hands. Immigration: I’m guessing you’re not a citizen. And there are protocols for fathers we consider dangerous.’ ‘What should I do to improve my suitability?’ ‘Start paying attention to your wife—and how she’s coping with becoming a mother.’ Lydia was not scheduled to work on 27 July, and I wondered briefly if that would solve the problem of bringing Rosie in for assessment in ‘a month’s time’. The receptionist was adamant that it was not a valid reason for non-attendance, and made an appointment for 1 August, five weeks away. I had previously been stressed by the idea of waiting eight days for an appointment; now I would have thirty-five days of higher-level anxiety with no option but to involve Rosie. There was a more critical issue. Lydia had raised the problem of Rosie’s mental state. I was fortuitously equipped to take immediate action. When my sister died three years earlier, I had been concerned that I might have become clinically depressed as a result. With some reluctance, Claudia had administered the only depression questionnaire she had at home: the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. I had continued to use the EPDS to assess my emotional state, putting consistency ahead of the fact that I was not a new mother. Now it was the perfect instrument: despite the name, the accompanying guide specified that it was designed for use antenatally as well as postnatally. If the instrument indicated that Rosie was not at risk, I could present the results at the next appointment and Lydia would have to withdraw her intuitive diagnosis in the face of scientific evidence. Perhaps, with the data in hand, I would not even need to bring Rosie. I knew Rosie well enough to predict that she would be unwilling to complete the questionnaire, and even if she did she might falsify the answers to reassure me of her happiness level. I would need to slip the questions unobtrusively into conversation. The EPDS has only ten short questions with four possible answers each, so it was trivial to memorise. In the meantime, I needed to spend some time at Columbia after a day and a half absent. I planned to see Gene to raise the issue of moving out, then meet with my new research assistant. My sequencing of the tasks turned out to be irrelevant. Inge was in Gene’s office, where he was explaining his research on human sexual attraction. Gene’s methods and findings are not intrinsically humorous, but he is experienced in supporting them with anecdotes and comedic observations, and Inge was laughing. I estimated both her age and BMI as twenty-three. Gene considers that no woman under the age of thirty is unattractive and Inge provided support for this proposition. I took Inge to the lab, without Gene, and introduced her to the alcoholic mice—collectively rather than individually. It is unwise to form attachments to individual mice. Given her attractiveness and nationality, I thought it important to offer a subtle warning. The mice provided an opportunity. ‘Basically, they get drunk, have sex and die. Gene’s life is similar except for his duties as a professor. He may also have some incurable sexually transmissible disease.’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Gene is extremely dangerous and should be avoided socially.’ ‘He didn’t seem dangerous to me. He seemed very nice.’ Inge was smiling. ‘That’s why he’s dangerous. If he seemed dangerous, he would be less dangerous.’ ‘I think he’s lonely here in New York. He told me he’s just arrived. We are in similar situations. There is no rule against me having a drink with him this evening, is there?’ 12 Rosie arrived home before Gene, which gave me the opportunity to screen her for depression. She kissed me on the cheek then took her bag into her study. I followed. ‘How was your week?’ I asked. ‘My week? It’s only Thursday. My day has been okay. Stefan emailed me a tutorial about multiple-regression analysis. Made heaps more sense than the textbook.’ Stefan had been one of Rosie’s fellow PhD students in Melbourne. He had a careless attitude to shaving and had accompanied her to the faculty ball before Rosie and I became a couple. I found him irritating. But the immediate problem was to situate our discussion in the timeframe specified by the EPDS. ‘A single day is a poor indication of your overall happiness. Days vary. A week is a more useful indicator. It’s conventional to say “How was your day?” but more useful to say “How was your week?” We should adopt a new convention.’ Rosie smiled. ‘You could ask me how my day was every day, and then average it out.’ ‘Excellent idea. But I need a starting point. So, just for today, how have things been since this time last Thursday? Have things been getting on top of you?’ ‘Since you ask—a bit. I’m feeling like crap in the morning. I’m behind with the thesis; there’s Gene; I’ve got the counsellor on my case—I think she’s being wound up by David Borenstein; I’ve got to organise an OBGYN; and the other night I felt that you were sort of putting pressure on me to think about stuff that’s months away. It’s pretty overwhelming.’ I ignored the elaboration that followed the basic quantification: a bit. Not very much. ‘Would you say you’re not coping as well as usual?’ ‘I’m okay.’ Zero points. ‘Are the problems causing you to lose sleep?’ ‘Did I wake you up again? You know I’m a lousy sleeper.’ From lousy sleeper to lousy sleeper was no change. It seemed a good point to throw in a random question, unrelated to the EPDS, to disguise my intent. ‘Are you confident of my ability to perform as a father?’ ‘Of course, Don. Are you?’ Improvisation was getting me into trouble. I ignored Rosie’s question and moved on. ‘Have you been crying?’ ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed. Just last night when it all got on top of me and you were out with Dave. It’s got nothing to do with you not being a good father.’ One occasion only. ‘You’re sad and miserable?’ ‘No, I’m coping okay. Just under pressure.’ No. Zero. ‘Anxious and worried for no good reason?’ ‘Maybe a little. I think I get it out of perspective sometimes.’ Oddly, given that this was the first answer that indicated some depressive risk, she smiled. The simplest means of quantifying maybe and sometimes was to reduce the score for the question by fifty per cent. One point. ‘Scared and a bit panicky?’ ‘Like I said, a little. I’m really pretty okay.’ One point. ‘Possibly you’re blaming yourself unnecessarily for things.’ ‘Wow. You’re being remarkably perceptive tonight.’ I decoded her response. She was saying I had got it right—hence yes. Full points. She stood up and hugged me. ‘Thank you. You’re being really sweet. When we were talking about me taking time off, I thought we weren’t connecting…’ She started crying! A second occasion. But it was a few minutes outside the one-week survey period. ‘Are you looking forward to dinner?’ I asked. She laughed, an extraordinarily rapid mood swing. ‘As long as it’s not tofu again.’ ‘And to the future in general?’ ‘More than I was a few minutes ago.’ Another hug, but there was an implication that Rosie had been looking forward to things rather less than she used to over the week, taken as a whole. The last question was tricky, but I had laid a foundation for enquiry. ‘Have you thought about harming yourself?’ I asked. ‘What?’ She laughed. ‘I’m not going to top myself over multiple regression and some jerk in admin being stuck in the 1950s. Don, you’re hilarious. Go and make dinner.’ I counted this as able to laugh and see the funny side of things, but, considering the full week, there had been some diminution. Nine points. A score of ten or greater indicated a risk of depression. Lydia was probably right to have been concerned, but the application of science had provided a definitive answer. As I walked to the kitchen, Rosie called out, ‘Hey, Don. Thanks. I’m feeling a lot better. You surprise me sometimes.’ The following evening, Gene arrived home at 7.38 p.m. ‘You’re late,’ I said. He checked his watch. ‘Eight minutes.’ ‘Correct.’ There would be no impact on the quality of dinner, but my own schedule had now been thrown out. It was frustrating to be the only person in the house affected: Rosie and Gene would barely notice the shift. Having Gene as part of our family significantly increased the chances of such disruption. Rosie was still in her study. It was a good time to confront Gene. ‘Were you drinking with Inge?’ ‘I was. She’s quite charming.’ ‘You’re planning to seduce her?’ ‘Now, now Don. We’re just two adults free to enjoy each other’s company.’ This was technically true, but there were two reasons I needed to prevent Gene from adding another nationality to his list. The first was the directive from David Borenstein, which I had been blackmailed into accepting in order to secure Gene’s sabbatical. The Dean’s requirement was that Gene keep his hands off PhD students, but I suspected he would extend it to a twenty-three-year-old researcher, though there is no law against professors having sex with junior researchers or even students, assuming the person is of legal age and the professor is not involved in their assessment. The second reason was that, if Gene demonstrated celibacy, Claudia might forgive him, and his unfulfilled desire for sex might drive him back to her. I had expected that Gene would be unhappy at the breakup of his marriage and that Rosie and I would be required to console him. To date, I had seen no evidence of unhappiness on Gene’s part. I was faced with another human problem that would not be resolved without action by me. Over the following week, I attempted to leave the Lydia situation for my subconscious to work on. Creative thinking benefits from an incubation period. On the Saturday evening, after my regular VoIP call to my mother, I initiated another interaction. Greetings, Claudia. I typed the message rather than attempting to establish a voice link. It was possible she was with a patient. I was operating at maximum personal empathy level, facilitated by isolation in my bathroom-office, a recent jog and a pink grapefruit margarita that I was still consuming. My schedule was up to date, and the previous night I had drawn the outline of Bud on the tile for Week 7. Hi, Don. How are you? Claudia typed back. I had changed my view on social formulas. I now realised that they were actually an advantage for people who found human interaction difficult. Very well, thank you. How are you? Fine. Eugenie’s keeping me on my toes, but otherwise good. We should use audio—more efficient. This is fine, Claudia typed. Talking is superior. I can speak faster than I can type. Let’s stay with text. How is the weather in Melbourne? I’m in Sydney. With a friend. A new friend. You already have vast numbers of friends. Surely you don’t need any more. This one is special. Formalities had taken us off track. It was time to get to the point. You and Gene should get back together. I appreciate your concern, Don, but it’s a bit late. Incorrect. You’ve only been apart a short time. You have a vast investment in the relationship. Eugenie and Carl. Gene’s infidelity is irrational; trivial to correct compared with the cost of divorce, marital disruption, potentially finding new partners. I continued in this vein. One of the advantages of text is that the other person cannot interrupt, and my argument quickly filled several windows. In the meantime a message arrived from Claudia, thanks to the asynchronous capabilities of Skype. Thanks Don. I really do appreciate your concern. But I have to go. How are you and Rosie? Fine. Do you want to talk to Gene? I think you should. Don, I don’t want to be harsh, but I’m a clinical psychologist and you’re not an expert on interpersonal relations. Maybe leave this one to me. Not harsh. I have a successful marriage and yours has failed. Hence my approach is prima facie more effective. It was approximately twenty seconds before Claudia’s response came through—the connection was obviously slow. Maybe. I appreciate you trying. But I have to go. And don’t take your successful marriage for granted. Claudia’s icon turned orange before I could text a standard goodbye message. I was not taking my marriage for granted. After a further week of incubating the Lydia Problem, I decided that I could present it to Rosie as an opportunity to receive advice on our parenting. I attempted to introduce the idea over dinner, which of course included Gene, but as I was unable to disclose information about the Playground Incident, my intentions were misinterpreted. Rosie thought my mention of parenting responsibilities was a reference to her taking leave from the medical program. ‘If I was a male student having a baby, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion.’ ‘The situation is biologically different,’ I said. ‘For the male, the birth process has minimal impact; he could be working or watching baseball concurrently.’ ‘He better not be. Technically, I only need a few days off. You take a week off if you have a sniffle.’ ‘To prevent the spread of disease.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I know, but it doesn’t change the argument. I just need to find out how much time I can take without having to defer the whole year.’ Gene offered a more compelling, if disturbing, analysis. ‘Rightly or wrongly, if a male student didn’t take time off, the assumption would be that his partner was doing the child care. Are you thinking of Don taking time off?’ ‘No, of course I’m not expecting Don to stay home with the baby…’ I had not envisaged baby care, but I had not envisaged much at all about life after Bud’s birth. It seemed that Rosie’s assessment of my abilities as a father was consistent with Lydia’s. She must have seen my expression. ‘Sorry, Don. I’m just being realistic. I don’t think either of us are thinking of you being the main carer. I told you—I’ll take the baby with me.’ ‘It seems unlikely that it would be permitted. Have you spoken to the counsellor?’ ‘Not yet.’ I had raised Rosie’s idea of taking Bud to work with the Dean, and he had stated unambiguously that it would not be possible. But again, he recommended not citing the authoritative source of advice. Rosie addressed Gene. ‘Don can’t take time off anyway. We need an income. Which is why I want to finish this program. So I can have a job and not be dependent on someone else.’ ‘Don’s not someone else. He’s your partner. That’s how marriage works.’ ‘You would know.’ Rosie, having complimented Gene on his knowledge, then inexplicably apologised. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just don’t have time to think about it right now.’ It was a good opportunity to raise the Lydia issue. ‘Maybe you need some expert advice.’ ‘Stefan’s been helping me,’ Rosie said. ‘With parenthood information?’ ‘No, not with parenthood advice. Don, I’ve got about fifty problems in my life at the moment, and none of them is how to look after a baby that’s eight months away.’ ‘Thirty-two weeks. Which is closer to seven months. We should prepare in advance. Have an assessment of our suitability as parents. An external audit.’ Rosie laughed. ‘Bit late now.’ Gene also laughed. ‘I think Don is being characteristically methodical. We can’t expect him to take on a new project without research, right Don?’ ‘Correct. It would probably require only a short interview. I’ll schedule a date.’ ‘I’ve got no problems with you having a talk to someone,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s great that you’re thinking about it. But I can look after myself.’ 13 Our three-person household was settling into a regular schedule. After dinner, Rosie went to her office while Gene and I consumed cocktail ingredients. ‘What’s the deal?’ said Gene. ‘You’ve signed up for some sort of assessment?’ ‘You were able to deduce that from my conversation?’ ‘Only because of my professional knowledge of the subtleties of human discourse. I’m amazed Rosie didn’t grill you harder.’ ‘I think her mind is occupied with other matters,’ I said. ‘I think you’re right. So?’ I was in a quandary. My EPDS questioning had absolved Rosie of postnatal depression risk, but her answers had revealed the presence of stress. Should I add to it by telling her the full story, or fail to meet Lydia’s requirement, which in turn would result in an adverse report to the police, possible arrest and incarceration, and hence even greater stress to Rosie? Gene seemed to offer my only hope. His social skills and manipulative abilities are more sophisticated than mine will ever be. Perhaps he could propose a solution that did not involve telling Rosie or going to jail. I told him the story of the Playground Incident, reminding him that the sequence of events was initiated by his suggestion. His overall reaction appeared to be one of amusement. I took no consolation from this: in my experience, amusement is often correlated with embarrassment or pain on the part of the person causing it. Gene poured himself the last of the blue Cura?ao. ‘Shit, Don. I’m sorry if I’ve somehow contributed to this, but I can tell you that just turning up with a completed questionnaire isn’t going to work. I can’t see any way out that doesn’t involve telling Rosie or going to jail.’ I could see that he was unhappy with his conclusion: as a scientist he regarded an unsolved problem as a personal insult. He emptied his glass. ‘Got anything else?’ While I visited the coolroom, Gene must have continued to work on the problem. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve got to take this woman—Lydia—at her word. What’s the difference between a social worker and a Rottweiler?’ I was unable to see the relevance of the question, but he answered it himself. ‘The Rottweiler gives you your baby back.’ It was a joke, probably in bad taste, but I understood that we were two buddies who had been drinking and this was the context in which such jokes were told. ‘God, Don, what is this stuff?’ ‘Grenadine. It’s non-alcoholic. You require a clear head. And you’re getting distracted. Continue.’ ‘So the essence is this: you have to front the social worker and you have to bring Rosie. You can make an excuse—’ ‘I could say she was ill due to pregnancy. Highly plausible.’ ‘You’re only buying time. You might provoke her into submitting the report anyway. You don’t want to provoke a Rottweiler.’ ‘I thought your point was that social workers and Rottweilers are different.’ ‘My point was that they are only slightly different.’ Slightly different. The concept prompted an idea. ‘I could hire an actress. To impersonate Rosie.’ ‘Sophia Loren.’ ‘Isn’t she older?’ ‘Joking. Seriously, the problem would be that she wouldn’t know you well enough. I figure that’s what the social worker’s going to be focused on—can this woman handle Don Tillman? Because you’re not—’ I finished his sentence for him ‘—exactly average. Correct. How long do you think it would take to know me adequately?’ ‘I’d say six months. Minimum. Sorry Don, but I think telling Rosie is the lesser of two evils.’ I delegated the problem to my subconscious for a further week: Week 9 of Bud’s gestation. The mark on the tile representing his size was now 2.5 centimetres long, and my drawing of his slightly changed shape was more accomplished, due to practice. The actor idea was attractive, and I found it difficult to abandon. In problem-solving parlance I had become anchored—unable to see alternatives. But Gene was right: there was no time to brief a stranger on my personality to the extent that she could answer probing questions from a professional. In the end, there was only one person who could help me. I told her the story of the Playground Incident, and the requirement for an assessment. I tried to make it clear that my priority was to avoid causing stress and that the EPDS questionnaire had indicated that Lydia’s fears were unfounded. Nevertheless, I needed to emphasise the risk of not cooperating. ‘We have to show up and be assessed as parents and take her advice or I’m going to be prosecuted, deported and banned from contact with Bud.’ I may have exaggerated slightly, but Gene’s image of a Rottweiler was still in my mind. Martial-arts training did not cover attack dogs. ‘Bitch. She’s got to be way out of line doing this.’ ‘She’s a professional who has detected risk factors. Her requirement seems reasonable.’ ‘I think you’re being kind. Which is so like you. Anyway, I’m happy to do whatever I can to help.’ This was an incredibly generous response. I had been agonising over whether to proceed with my strategy, but the offer was clear. ‘I need you to impersonate Rosie.’ I interpreted Sonia’s expression as shock. I had not discussed the plan with Gene, but I was aware of his opinion that accountants were skilled at deception. I was relying on it being accurate. ‘Oh my God, Don.’ She laughed, but I detected nervousness. ‘You’re kidding me. I’m just saying that—I know you’re not. Oh my God. I don’t think I could be Rosie.’ ‘Morally or in terms of competence?’ ‘Oh, you know me. Totally immoral.’ This was not my impression of Sonia, but was consistent with Gene’s view of her profession. ‘Rosie and I are so different.’ ‘Correct. But Lydia hasn’t met Rosie. She doesn’t even know she’s Australian. Just that she’s a medical student with no friends.’ ‘No friends? What about Dave and me?’ ‘She only sees you because of me. Most of her interaction is with her study group. Occasionally she sees Judy Esler. She’s primarily interested in intellectual conversation.’ ‘I’ll have to catch up on my reading. You want a coffee?’ We were at Dave and Sonia’s apartment. It was a Sunday, but Rosie had gone into university in violation of the ‘weekend free time’ rule and Dave was also working. Sonia claimed that her Italian heritage required regular espresso coffee, and had a high-quality machine. Coffee was an excellent idea, but not the first priority. ‘After we resolve the impersonation question.’ ‘After I have my coffee.’ When Sonia returned with my double espresso and her pregnancy-compatible decaffeinated cappuccino, she appeared to have prepared a speech. ‘All right, Don, it’s just one session, no more?’ I nodded. ‘And no forms to fill in or anything, nothing to sign?’ ‘I don’t think so.’ Nothing was certain, but as Lydia was officially assessing me as a paedophile, it seemed unlikely that she would report anything about Rosie or the parenthood aspect. Sonia was probably right in characterising her behaviour as ‘way out of line’. ‘All right. I’m going to do this for you, for two reasons. The main one is because you’ve been so great to Dave. I know he’d be insolvent without the cash he gets from George the Drummer. I know that.’ Dave definitely did not know that Sonia knew that. Dave was extremely concerned to ensure that Sonia was unaware of his business problems. Which was a ridiculous expectation, considering Sonia’s profession. Sonia finished her coffee. ‘But I don’t want you to tell Dave,’ she said. ‘Why not?’ ‘He’s got enough on his mind. You know Dave, he’s a worrier.’ This was true. The motivation for the deception was to avoid causing stress to Rosie. It would be a terrible outcome if the solution caused stress to Dave, leading to a heart attack or stroke, which he was already susceptible to because of his weight. But secrets were accumulating. I am extremely poor at deception. I promised Sonia that I would do my best, but that my best was likely to be significantly below the average human ability to lie. I was in need of Gene’s skills, but his skills were a result of his personality which I was not in need of. ‘What’s the second reason?’ I asked. ‘To put that bitch back in her box,’ said Sonia. She was laughing. Rosie was putting flowers into our two vases and the wine decanter when I arrived home. She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. Her shape was not visibly different from its normal state of perfect. ‘I need a break from study,’ she said. ‘You were right about things getting out of perspective.’ ‘Excellent idea,’ I said. ‘You need to minimise stress.’ ‘How is Sonia doing?’ said Rosie. ‘Sonia is doing extremely well. Dave is nervous about becoming a father. As is normal for men.’ Rosie laughed. ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking. About what you said last week about us getting some counselling. I was probably a bit defensive. Maybe it would be a good idea. If you feel you need it.’ ‘No, no, I was only thinking of you. I’m feeling highly confident. Excited.’ ‘Okay. Well, I’m okay too. Let me know if you change your mind.’ Eight days earlier, I would have accepted Rosie’s offer. But now the Sonia approach seemed a better solution. There would be less stress for Rosie, less risk of the process being derailed by her becoming confrontational and less danger that she might be exposed to a negative assessment of my readiness for fatherhood. I arranged to meet Sonia at her place of work on the Upper East Side in the hope that I might be able to combine the pre-interview briefing with learning about advances in reproductive technology. But ‘place of work’ translated into ‘nearby coffee shop’. ‘I don’t work anywhere near the labs. I only met Dave because I thought his company had overcharged us.’ ‘Had they?’ ‘No, Dave screwed up the paperwork. But he was so honest about it, I bought him a coffee. Here.’ ‘Leading to sex after only two dates.’ ‘Dave told you that?’ ‘It’s incorrect?’ ‘Completely untrue. We didn’t sleep together until we were married.’ ‘Dave lied?’ Incredible. Dave was scrupulously honest. Sonia laughed. ‘No, I lied. You couldn’t tell?’ I shook my head. ‘I’m extremely gullible.’ Fooling Lydia, who was probably accustomed to dealing with welfare cheats, alimony avoiders and accountants within her own organisation, would be more difficult. ‘You definitely didn’t tell her that Rosie was Australian?’ ‘I said that she didn’t have any family here. She—you—can be from any location except New York.’ ‘All right. Take me through this depression test.’ ‘She may use some other. I’ve researched several. The common factor appears to be that risk of depression is detected via the respondent feeling unhappy and anxious.’ ‘Isn’t psychology amazing? I wonder what these people get paid for sometimes.’ ‘Do you think we’ll be able to deceive her?’ ‘Don’t worry, Don. The trick is only to lie about the things you have to lie about. You be you, I’ll be me, except for the name. I’m happy. And completely normal.’ I almost failed to recognise Sonia in the enormous foyer of the Bellevue Hospital. I had only ever seen her in her work costume and, on social occasions, in jeans. She was wearing a large patterned skirt and a white frilled shirt, creating an overall impression of a folk dancer. She greeted me effusively. ‘Ciao, Don. It’s a beautiful day, no?’ ‘You’re sounding strange. Like a comedian pretending to be Italian.’ ‘I am Italian. I’m only living here one year. I’ve got no family here, like you say to the lady. But I’m very happy! Because of the bambino!’ She rotated on the spot, and the centrifugal force caused her skirt to extend. She laughed. Sonia’s grandparents on her father’s side were Italian, but she did not speak Italian. If Lydia brought in an interpreter, we would be in trouble. I recommended Sonia keep the use of the accent subtle. But it was a brilliant idea to create a foreign Rosie without imitating an Australian accent, which would appear inauthentic next to mine. ‘I’m sorry to take you away from your studies,’ said Lydia after indicating that we should sit down. ‘You must be very busy.’ ‘I’m very busy all the time,’ said Sonia. She looked at her watch. I was impressed by the acting. ‘How long have you been in the States?’ ‘Since the start of the medical course. I come here for study.’ ‘And before that, what were you doing?’ ‘Working in an IVF facility in Milano. It is from this that I become interested in medicine.’ ‘How did you and Don meet?’ Disaster! Sonia looked at me. I looked at Sonia. If one of us had to invent a story, it was best that it be Sonia. ‘At Columbia. Don is my teacher. Everything is happening rapido.’ ‘When are you due?’ ‘December.’ This was the correct answer for Sonia. ‘Did you plan to get pregnant so quickly?’ ‘When you work in IVF, you learn how precious it is to have a baby. I think I’m so lucky.’ Sonia had forgotten the accent. But she sounded highly credible. ‘And you’re planning to defer your studies when you have the baby?’ This was a tricky question. Sonia—the real Sonia—planned to take a year off work, which was causing Dave stress, due to the impact on income. If Sonia answered as herself rather than as Rosie, I would be forced to act as Dave for consistency and would doubtless fail to be convincing. It was better that Sonia gave the answer that Rosie would give. Except that she did not know it. I answered for her. ‘Rosie intends to continue her studies uninterrupted.’ ‘No break?’ ‘A minimum of a week. Possibly more.’ Lydia looked at Sonia. ‘A week? You’re only taking a week off to have a baby?’ Lydia’s obvious surprise and disapproval was consistent with David Borenstein’s advice. Sonia’s surprise was consistent with her not being Rosie and her own plans to take indefinite leave. We were all in agreement—except Rosie who was not in the room. I tried to present her position. ‘The birth of a baby is no more disruptive than a minor upper respiratory tract infection.’ ‘You think having a baby is like having a cold?’ ‘Without the disease aspect.’ Rosie’s analogy had been faulty in that respect. ‘More equivalent to taking a week’s leave to attend the baseball play-offs.’ Sonia gave me a strange look; my baseball reference had doubtless been prompted by subconscious thoughts of Dave. Lydia changed the topic. ‘So, with Rosie studying full-time, you’re the sole breadwinner.’ Rosie would hate me answering ‘yes’ to this question. My answer was true until recently. ‘Incorrect. She works in a bar in the evenings.’ ‘I guess she’ll be giving that up at some point.’ ‘Absolutely not. She considers it critical to contribute to the finances.’ As Sonia had said, most of the time it was possible to tell the truth. ‘And what do you see as your role?’ ‘In what respect?’ ‘I’m thinking, with Rosie studying full-time and working part-time, you might need to help with the baby.’ ‘We’ve discussed it. Rosie requires zero assistance.’ Lydia turned to Sonia. ‘Are you comfortable with all that? Is that what you think?’ I had temporarily forgotten that Sonia was a virtual Rosie, and had been speaking of Rosie as a person external to our conversation. I hoped Lydia had not noticed. But the answer was a simple ‘Yes’. Lydia would have a consistent story, consistent with mine, consistent with Rosie having exactly what she required for happiness, consistent with reality. ‘Well—’ ‘Before you answer,’ said Lydia, ‘tell me a bit about your family. Was your mother allowed to speak for herself?’ ‘Not really. My father decided what she said and did.’ ‘So they were very traditional?’ ‘If you mean, did my father go to work and come home and never cook and expect dinner on the table while my mom who had diabetes had to manage five kids, yes, we were traditional. Tradition was the excuse.’ The Italian accent had gone. Sonia was sounding angry. ‘Seems like you might be about to follow in her footsteps.’ ‘Seems like it, doesn’t it? It was all about my father’s job. Oh, he had to work so hard. So hard. Well, you know what, I didn’t marry my father. I’m expecting just a little bit more from Dave.’ ‘Dave?’ ‘Don.’ There was a pause. Lydia was probably working backwards from Sonia’s error to arrive at the inevitable conclusion that she was an imposter. I needed an explanation. My mind was racing and the solution was so elegant that it overrode my natural aversion to lying. ‘My middle name is David. My father’s name is also Donald, so sometimes I’m called Dave. To avoid confusion.’ The idea was prompted by my cousin Barry and his father who is also named Barry, leading to my cousin being known within the family by his middle name, which is Victor. ‘Well, Don-Dave, what do you think of what Rosie just said?’ ‘Rosie?’ Now I was seriously confused. Sonia, Rosie, Don, Dave, Barry, Victor, which was also my grandfather’s name. My father’s father. I was about to be a father, too. Of a child with a temporary name. ‘Yes, Donald-David, Rosie. Your wife.’ With time I could have untangled it. But with Lydia staring at me, I gave the only practicable answer. ‘I need to process the new information.’ ‘When you’ve processed it, book another appointment.’ Lydia waved the police file. We were dismissed. And the problem was not solved. Sonia had to return to work, so we debriefed on the subway. ‘I have to tell Rosie,’ I said. ‘What are you going to say to Lydia? “Hello, this is the real Rosie? I’m a con man as well as a paedophile and an insensitive slob?”’ ‘There was no mention of insensitivity and slobbishness.’ ‘If you were a bit more sensitive, you might have picked it up.’ It was Sonia’s stop, but I got off too. The conversation was obviously critical, in two senses of the word. ‘Sorry, I’m angry with myself,’ said Sonia. ‘I messed it up. I don’t like to mess up.’ ‘The accidental use of Dave’s name was totally understandable. I had to concentrate hard to avoid calling you Sonia.’ ‘It’s a bigger deal than that. Things aren’t going the way I’d hoped with Dave and me. We tried for so long and now he’s not interested.’ I knew why. Dave was stressed by work and the possibility of business failure, leading to the prospect of Sonia having to work in violation of her plans, leading to rejection of Dave as a suitable partner, leading to divorce, estrangement from his child and all meaning disappearing from his life. We had reviewed this sequence many times. Unfortunately, I could not share the state of the business with Sonia, as this might accelerate the process. Now Sonia was identifying another path that might lead to the same conclusion. Sonia continued. ‘I’ve been reading up on everything, trying to do everything right, and he seems to think the pregnancy has nothing to do with him. Do you know what he did last night?’ ‘Ate dinner and went to bed?’ It seemed the most likely scenario. ‘You couldn’t have put it better. I’d made a meal right out of the pregnancy book, covering seven of the ten power foods. I had it waiting for him when he came in, and you know what he’d done? He’d bought a hamburger. A double cheeseburger with bacon and guacamole. He’s supposed to be on a diet.’ ‘Did it have tomato and leafy greens?’ ‘What?’ ‘I’m counting the pregnancy power foods.’ ‘He sat and ate it in front of me. And then went to bed. Just so inconsiderate.’ I thought it best not to reply. Dave trying to save his marriage, leading to working harder, leading to stress, leading to hamburger consumption and exhaustion, leading to health and marriage problems. More material to process. Neither of us spoke as we walked from the subway to the IVF facility. Sonia inexplicably went to hug me, but remembered in time. ‘Don’t say anything to Dave. We’ll get through it.’ ‘Can I tell him that part? About getting through it? He may also be worried about marriage failure.’ ‘He said that?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘Oh God. It’s all so hard.’ ‘Agreed. Human behaviour is highly confusing. I’ll tell Rosie about Lydia tonight.’ ‘No, you won’t. It’s my fault, and I don’t want to be responsible for upsetting Rosie. Sounds like she’s already carrying the weight of the world. We’ll get it right next time.’ ‘I’m not sure what we have to do.’ ‘Lydia and I are saying the same thing. You need to think more about supporting Rosie. No matter what she’s saying about being independent, she needs your help.’ ‘Why would she lie?’ ‘She’s not lying, not deliberately. She’s got this idea of herself as Wonder Woman. Or maybe she thinks you don’t want to help. Or can’t help.’ ‘So I need to demonstrate a contribution to the pregnancy process?’ ‘Support. Taking an interest. Being there. That’s all Lydia and I are looking for. And Don?’ ‘You have a question?’ ‘How many power foods in the hamburger? There was lettuce and tomato. On both of them.’ ‘Eight. But—’ ‘No buts.’ This time she did hug me. I kept still and it was over quite quickly. 14 Lydia was right. Six weeks had passed since Rosie’s announcement of the pregnancy. Yet despite setting up the tile schedule to support the Baby Project, I had actually done almost zero to prepare for baby production and maintenance, other than the purchase of ingredients for one pregnancy-compatible meal and the research excursion that led to the Playground Incident. Gene was wrong. Instincts that worked in the ancestral environment were not sufficient in a world that regulated playground visits and allowed choices between tofu and pizza. He was right, however, in recommending that I address the problem in my own way, working from my strengths. But I needed to begin now, not wait until after the baby was born. My search for appropriate texts on the practical issues of pregnancy produced a substantial list. I decided to begin with a well-regarded book as a broad guide to the field and then refer to the specific papers that it referenced for more detailed information. The sales assistant at the medical school bookshop recommended the fourth edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting by Murkoff and Mazel, with the warning that some readers found it too technical. Perfect. It was reassuringly thick. A quick examination of What to Expect identified some positive and negative attributes. The coverage of topics was impressive, although much was irrelevant to Rosie and me: we did not own a cat that might cause infection via its faeces; we were not habitual users of cocaine; Rosie did not have any fears about her competence as a mother. The referencing was poor, a fault doubtless caused by it being intended for a non-academic audience. I was constantly looking for the evidence. The first chapter I read was ‘Nine Months of Eating Well’. It provided the meta study I was looking for, drawing together the best research on diet in pregnancy and using it as the basis for practical recommendations. At least that appeared to be the intent. The chapter title was yet another reminder that Rosie and the developing foetus—exposed and vulnerable to toxins crossing the placental wall—had experienced nine weeks of not eating well, including three weeks of not drinking well, due to the lack of planning. But alcohol already ingested could not be un-ingested. I needed to focus on the things that I could change and accept the things I could not. The advocacy for organic and local produce was predictable. This was a subject that I had previously researched for obvious economic and health reasons. Any advice on pregnancy based on the premise that ‘natural is better’ should be accompanied by statistics on birth outcomes in the ‘natural’ environment, devoid of nutritional diversity, antibiotics and sterile operating theatres. And, of course, a rigorous definition of ‘natural’. The disparity between my well-researched conclusions about organics and the summary in the book was a useful warning not to accept recommendations without checking primary sources. Meanwhile, I had no choice but to rely on What to Expect as the best information available. I skimmed the rest of the book, learning some interesting facts, before devoting the remainder of the afternoon to developing a Standardised Meal System (Pregnancy Version) in line with its recommendations. Rosie’s rejection of meat and unsustainable seafood made the job simpler by reducing the number of options. I was confident that the resulting menu would provide an adequate nutritional base. As so often occurs in science, implementation proved more difficult than planning. Rosie’s initially negative reaction to the tofu meal should have been a warning. I had to remind myself that my acquisition of more comprehensive knowledge had not of itself changed Rosie’s view. Logical, but non-intuitive. Rosie raised the subject without prompting from me. ‘Where did you get the smoked mackerel from?’ she asked. ‘Irrelevant,’ I said. ‘It was cold-smoked.’ ‘So?’ ‘Cold-smoked fish is banned.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It could make you sick.’ I was conscious of the vagueness of my answer. I had not had time to research the evidence behind the unreferenced claim, but at this point I had to accept it as the best advice available. ‘Lots of things can make you sick. I’m sick every morning at the moment and I feel like some more of that smoked mackerel. It’s probably my body sending me a signal that I need smoked mackerel. Cold-smoked mackerel.’ ‘I recommend a tinned salmon and soybean-based mini-meal. The good news is that you can eat it immediately to satisfy your craving.’ I walked to the refrigerator and fetched Part One of Rosie’s dinner. ‘Mini-meal? What’s a mini-meal?’ It was fortunate that I was studying pregnancy. Rosie had clearly done minimal research. ‘A partial solution to the nausea problem. You should eat six mini-meals per day. I’ve organised a second meal for you at 9.00 p.m.’ ‘What about you? Are you eating at nine o’clock?’ ‘Of course not. I’m not pregnant.’ ‘What about my other four meals?’ ‘Pre-packaged. Breakfast and three daytime meals for tomorrow are already in the refrigerator.’ ‘Shit. I mean, that’s really nice, but…I don’t want you going to so much trouble. I can just grab something from the caf? at uni. Some of their stuff is okay.’ This was in direct contradiction to previous complaints about the caf?. ‘You should resist the temptation. In the interests of maternal and Bud health, we need to plan, plan and plan some more.’ I was quoting The Book. In this instance, the advice offered by What to Expect was in line with my own thinking. ‘Also, you need to control your coffee consumption. Caf? measures are inconsistent—hence I recommend drinking one standardised coffee in the morning at home and drinking only decaffeinated at university.’ ‘You’ve been reading up, haven’t you?’ ‘Correct. I recommend What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s intended for pregnant women.’ Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Gene, who now had his own key. He seemed in a good mood. ‘Evening all, what’s for dinner?’ He waved a bottle of red wine. ‘Appetiser is New England oysters, entr?e is deli meats, main course is rare New York steaks with a spice crust and alfalfa salad, followed by a selection of raw milk and blue cheeses, then affogato with Strega.’ As part of the change to the meal system, I had also designed meals suitable for Gene and myself, taking into account that we were neither pregnant nor sustainable pescatarians. As Rosie was looking a little confused, I added, ‘Rosie will be eating a legume-based curry, minus the spices.’ The Book warned of irrational behaviour due to hormonal changes. Rosie refused to eat her mini-meal and instead consumed a sample of every component of Gene’s and my dinner, including a small quantity of steak (in violation of her commitment to sustainable-seafood pescatarianism), and even a sip of wine. The predictable consequence was illness the next morning. She was sitting on the bed, head in her hands, when I alerted her to the time. ‘You go by yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take the morning off.’ ‘Feeling unwell is normal in pregnancy. It’s almost certainly a good sign. Lack of morning sickness is correlated with a higher risk of miscarriages and abnormalities. Your body is probably assembling some critical component, such as an arm, and is minimising the possibility of toxins disrupting the process.’ ‘You’re talking shit.’ ‘Flaxman and Sherman, Quarterly Review of Biology, Summer 2000. “An evolved mechanism to reduce toxin-induced deformities.”’ ‘Don, I appreciate all this, but it’s got to stop. I just want to eat normal food. I want to eat what I feel like. I’m feeling crap and tinned salmon and soybeans is going to make me feel more crap. It’s my body and I get to choose what I do with it.’ ‘Incorrect. Two bodies, one of which has fifty per cent of my genes.’ ‘So I get one and a half votes and you get half a vote. I win. I get to eat smoked mackerel and raw oysters.’ She must have noticed my expression. ‘I’m kidding, Don. But I don’t want you telling me what to eat. I can do this myself. I’m not going to get drunk or eat salami.’ ‘You ate pastrami last night.’ ‘Hardly any. I was making a point. Anyway, I’m not planning to eat meat again.’ ‘What about shellfish?’ I was testing. ‘I’m guessing no go?’ ‘You guess wrong. Cooked shellfish is acceptable.’ ‘Seriously, how important is all this stuff? I mean, this is so you—getting obsessed with every little thing. Judy Esler says she never worried about what she ate twenty-five years ago. I’m guessing I’m more likely to be run over walking to Columbia than poisoned by oysters.’ ‘I predict you’re incorrect.’ ‘Predict? You’re not sure, are you?’ Rosie knew me too well. The Book was short on hard data. Rosie stood up and retrieved her towel from the floor. ‘Make me a list of what I can’t eat. No more than ten things. And no big generic categories like “sweet stuff” or “salty stuff”. You cook dinner, I’ll eat what I like during the day. Except for your list. And no mini-meals.’ I remembered an item of extraordinarily unscientific advice from The Book, encouraging the most serious failing of the medical profession. It was in reference to caffeine: ‘Different practitioners have different recommendations, so check in with yours…’ Incredible—placing individual judgement ahead of the consensus from research. But it provided me with an opportunity to ask another question. ‘What advice has your medical practitioner provided on diet?’ ‘I haven’t had a chance to make an appointment. I’ve been frantic with the thesis. I’ll do it soon.’ I was stunned. I did not need The Book to tell me that a pregnant woman should schedule regular visits to an obstetrician. Despite my reservations about the competence of some members of the medical profession, there was no doubt that, statistically, involvement of a professional led to better outcomes. My sister had died due to medical misdiagnosis, but she would certainly have died if she had not seen a doctor at all. ‘You’re overdue for the eight-week ultrasound. I’ll ask David Borenstein for a recommendation and make an appointment for you.’ ‘Leave it. I’ll sort it out on Monday. I’m meeting Judy for lunch.’ ‘David is far more knowledgeable.’ ‘Judy knows everyone. Please. Just leave it to me.’ ‘You guarantee you’ll make an appointment on Monday?’ ‘Or Tuesday. It might be Tuesday I’m seeing Judy. She changed but we might have changed back. I can’t remember.’ ‘You’re too disorganised to have a baby.’ ‘And you’re too obsessional. Lucky I’m the one who’s having it.’ What had happened to We’re pregnant? 15 ‘I’ll let you guys have a romantic dinner alone,’ said Gene when I went to his office after completing my scheduled work the following Tuesday. ‘I’ve got a date.’ I had been expecting him to travel home with me on the subway to provide intellectual stimulation. Now I would have to download a paper to read. More seriously, Inge had left early to prepare for dinner at an upscale restaurant. I detected a pattern. ‘You’re having dinner with Inge?’ ‘Very perceptive. She’s delightful company.’ ‘I’ve scheduled dinner for you at our apartment.’ ‘I’m sure Rosie won’t miss me.’ ‘Inge is extremely young. Inappropriately young.’ ‘She’s over twenty-one. She can drink and vote and associate with unattached men. You’re in danger of being ageist, Don.’ ‘You should be thinking about Claudia. Fixing the problem of your promiscuity.’ ‘I’m not promiscuous. I’m only seeing one woman.’ Gene smiled. ‘Worry about your own problems.’ Gene was right. Rosie was pleased with his absence. When we got married, I had assumed I would have to spend uncomfortable amounts of time in the presence of another person. In fact, much of our time was spent apart, due to work and study, and our time together (excluding periods in bed when at least one of us—usually me—was asleep) was now frequently shared with Gene. Dedicated contact with Rosie had now fallen well below the optimum level. There was one encouraging item in The Book, which I had chosen not to raise in the presence of Gene. ‘Have you noticed an increase in libido?’ I asked. ‘Have you?’ ‘An increase in sexual appetite is not uncommon in the first trimester. I was wondering whether you were affected.’ ‘You’re hilarious. I guess if I wasn’t throwing up or feeling like shit…’ It struck me that our practice of having sex in the mornings rather than the evenings was contributing to the problem. After dinner, Rosie headed for her study to work on her thesis. On average, she was devoting ninety-five minutes to this pre-bed session, although the variance was high. After eighty minutes, I made her a cup of fruit infusion, which I accompanied with some fresh blueberries. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked. ‘Not so bad. Except for the stats.’ ‘There’s a lot of ugly things in this world. I wish I could keep them all away from you,’ I said. Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in supportive mode. It was probably my most effective line. Opportunities to impersonate Gregory Peck had been significantly reduced by Gene’s presence. Rosie stood up. ‘Good timing. I think I’ve had enough of ugly things for tonight.’ She put her arms around me and kissed me in passionate mode rather than greetings mode. We were interrupted by a familiar noise from an unfamiliar location: someone was calling Gene on Skype. I was not sure of the rules for answering another person’s VoIP communication, but perhaps it was Claudia with an emergency. Or a proposal for reconciliation. I entered Gene’s bedroom and saw Eugenie’s face on the screen. Gene and Claudia’s daughter is nine years old. I had not spoken to her since we moved to New York. I clicked on Answer with video. ‘Dad?’ Eugenie’s voice was clear and loud. ‘Greetings! It’s Don.’ Eugenie laughed. ‘I can tell from your face. I could have told from you saying greetings.’ ‘Your father is out.’ ‘What are you doing at his house?’ ‘It’s my apartment. We’re sharing. Like students.’ ‘That’s so cool. Were you and my dad friends at school?’ ‘No.’ Gene is sixteen years older than I am and would not have belonged to my social group if we had been contemporaries. Gene would have been dating girls, playing sport and soliciting votes for school captain. ‘Hey Don.’ ‘Hey Eugenie.’ ‘When do you think Dad will come home?’ ‘His sabbatical is six months. Hence, technically December 24, but the semester ends on December 20.’ ‘It’s a long time.’ ‘Four months and fourteen days.’ ‘Hey, move your head, Don.’ I looked at the small image of my face in the corner of the monitor and realised that Rosie had walked into the room behind me. I moved to one side and expanded the image. Rosie was wearing her one item of impractical nightwear. It was her equivalent of a blueberry muffin, although it was black rather than white with blue spots. She did a little dance and Eugenie called out to her. ‘Hey Rosie, hi.’ ‘Can she see me?’ said Rosie. ‘Yep,’ said Eugenie. ‘You’re wearing a—’ ‘I believe you,’ said Rosie, laughing, and left the room, waving to me from the doorway. Eugenie resumed our conversation but I was now distracted. ‘Does Dad want to come home?’ ‘Of course! He misses everyone.’ ‘Even Mum? Does he say that?’ ‘Of course. I should go to bed. It’s late here.’ ‘Mum says he needs to sort some things out. Is he?’ ‘He’s making excellent progress. We have a men’s group as recommended in my book on pregnancy, consisting of a refrigeration engineer, your father, a rock star and me. I’ll give you a progress report in a few days.’ ‘You’re so funny. You haven’t really got a rock star… Hey, why are you reading a book on pregnancy?’ ‘To assist Rosie with production of our baby.’ ‘You’re having a baby? Mum didn’t tell me.’ ‘Probably because she doesn’t know.’ ‘It’s a secret?’ ‘No, but I saw no use in giving her the information. She’s not required to take any action.’ ‘Mum! Mum! Don and Rosie are having a baby!’ Claudia pushed Eugenie out of the way, which seemed rude, and it was now obvious that the conversation would continue. I wanted to talk to Claudia, but not now and not with Eugenie present. ‘Don, that’s wonderful news. How do you feel?’ ‘Excited, end of story,’ I said, combining Gene’s recommended answer with the conversation terminator I had learned from Rosie. Claudia ignored my signal. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she repeated. ‘Where’s Rosie?’ ‘In bed. Possibly not sleeping due to my absence. It’s extremely late.’ ‘Oh, sorry. Well, please pass on my congratulations. When is she due?’ After conducting an interrogation on pregnancy-related topics, Claudia said, ‘So Gene’s out, is he? He’d promised to talk to Eugenie. Where is he?’ ‘I don’t know.’ I clicked the video off. ‘I’ve lost your face, Don.’ ‘Some technical issue.’ ‘I see. Or I don’t see. Well, doing whatever he’s doing isn’t going to solve Eugenie’s science problem.’ ‘I’m an expert at science problems.’ ‘And also a decent person. Are you sure you’ve got time?’ ‘When does it need to be completed?’ ‘She was very anxious to get it done tonight. But if you have other things…’ It would take less time to answer a primary-school science question than to negotiate an alternative arrangement with Claudia. ‘Proceed.’ Eugenie returned and I restored the video. Eugenie turned it off again. ‘What’s the science problem?’ I asked. ‘There’s no science problem. I just told Mum that. Like I’d have a science problem. Facepalm.’ ‘Face-palm?’ ‘Like der. I’m top of the class in science. And maths.’ ‘Can you do calculus?’ ‘Not yet.’ ‘So you’re probably not a genius. Excellent.’ ‘Why excellent? I thought it was good to be smart.’ ‘I recommend being smart but not a genius. Unless the only thing you care about is numbers. Professional mathematicians are usually socially inept.’ ‘Maybe that’s why everyone is saying mean things about me on Facebook.’ ‘Everyone?’ She laughed. ‘No, just lots of kids.’ ‘Can you construct some sort of filter?’ ‘I can block them. I kind of don’t want to. I want to see what they say. They’re still kind of my friends. I’m sounding stupid, right?’ ‘No. It’s normal to want information. It’s normal to want to be liked. Is there any threat of violence?’ ‘Nah. They just say stupid things.’ ‘Probably a result of being stupid. Highly intelligent people are often bullied. As a result of being different. That difference being high intelligence.’ I was conscious of not sounding highly intelligent. ‘Did you get bullied? I bet you did.’ ‘You would win the bet. Initially violently, until I learned martial arts. Then more subtly. Fortunately I am not a subtle person, so once the violence stopped, things were much better.’ We talked for fifty-eight minutes, including the initial conversation and the Claudia interaction, exchanging information about bullying experiences. I could not see any obvious solution to her problem, but if her distress was at the level I had experienced as a child, I was obliged to offer any knowledge that might assist. In the end, she said, ‘I have to go to horseriding. You’re the smartest person I know.’ In terms of intelligence quotient, she was probably right. In terms of knowledge of practical psychology, she was wrong. ‘I would not rely on my advice.’ ‘You didn’t give me any. I just liked talking to you. Can we do this again?’ ‘Of course.’ I had also enjoyed the conversation. Except for thinking about the alternative activity in the adjacent room. I terminated the connection. As I was leaving Gene’s room, the computer beeped with a text message: Good night.