The Rosie Effect
Page 28

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.’