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.’