Approximately twenty minutes into the story, when Rosie was interspersing her usual requests for ‘overview’ and ‘cutting to the chase’ with profane expressions of astonishment, Gene returned.

‘You might as well join us,’ said Lydia. ‘What sort of professor are you?’

‘I’m the head of the Department of Psychology at Australia’s highest-ranked university, currently undertaking research at Columbia.’ Gene’s statement was correct, but did not actually answer the question, which could have been responded to precisely and accurately with a single word: Genetics. And I was the one being accused of unnecessary detail.

‘Well,’ said Lydia, ‘it’s nice to have some professional support. Let me summarise what Don’s told us, which so far is not news to me. But apparently it is to this Rosie.’

‘Not necessary,’ I said. ‘Gene is familiar with the Playground Incident and the requirement for psychological assessment.’

Rosie looked at Gene. She did not appear happy.

‘Sworn to secrecy,’ he said. ‘Don didn’t want to upset you.’

I continued the story. ‘So then I asked Sonia to impersonate Rosie.’

I had not told Gene this part. I had allowed him to think that the pending charges had been dropped after the first meeting with Lydia. Another component of the web of deceit.

The reactions of Rosie, Gene and Lydia varied in intensity and detail, but were all variants of ‘You did what?’

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Lydia. ‘You’re saying she’—she pointed at Rosie—‘is your wife? Rosie is Rosie?’

This question could be answered with zero contextual knowledge. It was the simplest of tautologies and the fact that it was asked at all was an indicator of Lydia’s confusion. Rosie had also stated explicitly that she was my wife.

Gene took the opportunity to make some sort of witticism.

‘A Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie,’ he said.

I tried to help. ‘There is only one Rosie relevant to this story. She has red hair. She is my wife. I have exactly one wife. This is her.’

‘Who’s Sonia, then?’ asked Lydia.

This was easy. ‘You’ve met Sonia. She’s currently delivering a baby.’

‘No. Who is she? You recruited some Italian village girl…’

‘She’s Dave’s wife.’

‘Dave?’

‘Oh my God,’ said Rosie. ‘We need to call Dave. I was so caught up in not screwing up, I forgot about Dave.’

‘Dave?’ said Lydia to me. ‘There’s another Dave? Your father? I thought he was another Don.’

‘I’ve called Dave,’ I said.

‘This is getting surreal,’ said Gene. ‘Now we’re relying on Don to look after the people issues.’

We were becoming distracted. Distractions were everywhere. Text messages, Lydia consulting her watch, Gene responding to Lydia consulting her watch.

‘Do you have to be somewhere?’ he said to Lydia.

‘Not really, but I have to eat. I feel like this is going to take a while.’

‘I’ll order pizza,’ said Gene.

While Gene was on the phone, there was a knock. It was the young journalist and the photographer who had been interviewing the Dead Kings: Sally and Enzo.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Sally. ‘We just wanted to check that everything was okay with the lady who went to hospital. And…it seems there’s a story here, if you’d like to share it.’

‘Not if it means Don going through it again,’ said Gene, who had rejoined us. He paused. ‘I suppose I’m here all night anyway. I’ll get some pizza for you guys too.’

‘We won’t be that long,’ said Sally.

‘That’s what you think,’ said Gene. ‘Family-size margheritas and pepperonis to share?’

Sally the journalist was obsessed with the details of the Sonia Emergency, whereas I remembered Rosie’s and B1’s concern about misreporting of the Lesbian Mothers Project. I considered it vastly more important for their readers to have information about important research than an isolated instance of a pregnancy complication. Although I did my best to relate both stories accurately, while accommodating Sally’s frequent requests to omit detail, I suspected she did not achieve a full understanding of events. Rosie spent most of the time on the phone.

After Sally and Enzo left, I resumed the conversation with Lydia, Rosie and Gene. I had classified it as very important, but not so urgent as to require refusing the press interview. I was having to perform some real-time schedule adjustment to maintain sanity.

‘I’ve been trying to reach Dave,’ Rosie said.

‘Why?’

‘To find out what’s happened with Sonia and the baby, that’s why.’

‘Emergency caesarean, as predicted. No permanent damage to either party.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘Text message from Dave 138 minutes ago.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

I explained about priorities. Now I could resume the explanation of the therapy deception.

‘Boy or girl?’ said Rosie.

‘Male, I think.’ I checked my message. ‘No, female.’ It was a detail that could have waited. It would be years before the difference was important.

‘Wait,’ said Lydia. ‘Why did Sonia do all this for you? She could have gotten herself in a lot of trouble. She still could.’ The last statement was obviously a threat, but even I could see that Lydia lacked conviction.