The Rosie Effect
Page 46

‘You said you could never wear that dress again,’ I said.
‘I can wear what I like at home,’ she said, in direct contradiction to the instructions she had given regarding my own costume. ‘It’s a bit tight.’
She was correct about the tightness, which was primarily in the upper region. The effect was spectacular. It took me a while to realise that she was holding two glasses. In fact I did not notice until she handed one to me.
‘Yes, mine’s got champagne in it too,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to have a little, but I could have a whole glass with virtually zero risk to the baby. Henderson, Gray and Brocklehurst, 2007.’ She smiled widely and raised her glass. ‘Happy Anniversary, Don. This is how it started, remember?’
I had to think hard. Our relationship had developed significantly on our earlier visit to New York, but we had not had dinner on a balcony… Of course! She was referring to the Balcony Dinner at my Melbourne apartment on our first date. It was a brilliant idea to reproduce it. I hoped she had not attempted the lobster salad. It was critical not to over-fry the leeks or they would become bitter… I stopped myself. Instead I raised my own glass and said the first words that came into my mind.
‘To the world’s most perfect woman.’ It was lucky my father was not present. Perfect is an absolute that cannot be modified, like unique or pregnant. My love for Rosie was so powerful that it had caused my brain to make a grammatical error.
We drank champagne and watched the sun go down over the Hudson River. Rosie brought out tomato slices with buffalo mozzarella, olive oil and basil leaves. They tasted exactly as they should. Possibly better. I was conscious of smiling.
‘Pretty hard to screw up stacking cheese slices and tomato,’ said Rosie. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t tried anything too tricky. I want to sit out here with you and watch the lights and talk.’
‘Are there any particular subjects you plan to discuss?’ I asked.
‘There’s one, but I’ll get to it. It’ll be nice to just talk. But let me get the next course. Prepare not to freak out.’
Rosie returned with a plate covered in thin slices of something with a sprinkling of herbs. I looked more closely. Tuna! Sashimi tuna. Raw tuna. Raw fish was of course on the banned substances list. I did not ‘freak out’. A few seconds of reflection revealed that Rosie, in an act of selflessness, had prepared my favourite food even though she could not share it with me.
I was about to express my thanks when I saw that she had brought two pairs of chopsticks. I could feel a freak-out building.
‘I told you not to freak,’ she said. ‘You know what’s wrong with raw fish? It might make me sick, like you said. Like it can any time, pregnant or not, and never has. But it won’t directly harm the foetus in the way that toxoplasmosis or listeria would. Mercury is a risk, but not in this quantity. Tuna is a good source of Omega-3 fatty acids which are correlated with higher IQ. Hibbeln et al, “Maternal Seafood Consumption in Pregnancy and Neurodevelopmental Outcomes in Childhood”, The Lancet, 2007. And it’s bluefin. A few grams once in a lifetime can’t hurt the planet too much.’
She smiled, lifted a slice of tuna with her chopsticks and dipped it in the soy sauce. I was right. I had married the world’s most perfect woman.
Rosie’s prediction that it would be nice just to talk was correct. We talked about Gene and Claudia and Carl and Eugenie and Inge, about Dave and Sonia and what we would do when our pseudo-lease expired. George had promised me three months’ notice. No conclusions were reached, but I was conscious that Rosie and I had not scheduled sufficient time for talking since we had arrived in New York and become busy with work. Neither of us raised the topic of pregnancy, in my case since it had been the source of recent conflict. Rosie’s reason may have been the same.
At intervals, Rosie went to the kitchen and returned with food, in every instance competently executed. We had fried crab cakes and then the main course, which Rosie retrieved from the oven.
‘Striped bass en papillote,’ she said. ‘Which is to say in paper, since this is our paper anniversary.’
‘Incredible. You solved the problem and the result is disposable.’
‘I know you hate clutter. So we’ll just have the memory.’ Rosie waited while I tasted it.
‘Okay?’ she said.
‘Delicious.’ It was true.
‘So,’ she said, ‘that brings me to the one thing I wanted to say. It’s nothing dramatic. I can cook. I’m not going to cook every night, and you’re a better cook than I am, but I can follow a recipe if I need to. If I screw up occasionally, no big deal. I love everything you do for me, but I also want you to know that I’m not helpless and incompetent. That’s really important to me.’
Rosie took a sip from my wineglass and continued her speech. ‘I know I do it to you too. Remember the night I left you at the cocktail bar and was worried you wouldn’t cope without me? And you were fine, right?’
I must have been too slow to hide my expression.
‘What happened?’ she said.
There was no reason now, seven weeks later, to hide the story of Loud Woman and the consequent loss of our jobs. I related the story, and we both laughed. It was a huge relief.
‘I knew something had happened,’ said Rosie. ‘I knew you’d been hiding something. You shouldn’t ever worry about telling me stuff.’
It was a critical moment. Should I tell Rosie about the Playground Incident and Lydia? Tonight she was relaxed and accepting. But perhaps tomorrow morning she would begin worrying and stress would replace her happy mood. The threat of prosecution was still present.