The Rosie Effect (12 page)

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.