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-time jobs as a result of my actions.

7. How to reveal (6) to Rosie without causing stress and associated toxic effects of cortisol.

8. Risk of recurrence of the meltdown and fatal damage to my relationship with Rosie 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.