The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘I am worried. If we need the money, maybe I can go back to work after the baby. Part-time.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that. I just need to get the money in.’

  ‘Tell me how much we’re owed, and I’ll decide.’

  Dave shrugged. ‘You know me, I don’t keep track exactly. Twenty, thirty thousand. We’re good.’

  The next morning, Sonia was angry with Dave—not at Dave as he had gone to work early. She was directing her anger towards me.

  ‘He’s out all day and half the night and he’s not earning any money. Is he actually working? Maybe he’s going to the library, like these guys who lose their jobs and can’t tell their wives. Is that what’s going on, Don?’

  It was unlikely. Dave discussed his work with me, in detail. He seemed to have plenty of it, but perhaps he was not charging enough, or was lying about the clients’ satisfaction level. I had been wrong about my friends before. I was still unsure if a central component of Gene’s identity was a manufactured fiction. Claudia was in a relationship with Simon Lefebvre. And Rosie was in love with another man.

  ‘If I have to go back to work, he can stay home and look after the baby. Maybe it’ll force him to take an interest.’

  I retreated to Dave’s office and worked on the problem. One possibility was that Dave had not entered all of the invoices into the computer. This had been the case, but I had rectified the problem. There had only been two small ones. When I thought more about it, it seemed odd that Dave was almost up-to-date in recording his invoices.

  A metaphorical light bulb went on. The obvious explanation was not that Dave had been unusually conscientious in one aspect of his administration. No! Dave had been consistently lax. He had failed to create the invoices at all.

  I opened the file of scanned worksheets and began to match them with invoices. I was right. Most of his work had not been entered into the computer, hence not billed to the clients. There was a limit to what I could do to rectify the situation. Creating invoices required accounting knowledge that I did not have. If I made errors in billing, Dave might be perceived as incompetent or a cheat.

  Fortunately I had access to a qualified accountant. It took Sonia and me until 3.18 p.m. to create the invoices: state taxes varied, invoices for labour and materials were filed separately, Dave had offered a variety of inconsistent mark-ups and discounts.

  Sonia contributed comments that alternated between sympathetic and critical: ‘God, this is so complex. No wonder he put it aside.’

  ‘Eight thousand dollars. From three months ago!’

  ‘We’ve been living on cash from George. Dave’s an idiot.’

  When we were finished we had a pile of envelopes ready for posting and had emailed numerous other bills.

  ‘Show me the creditors’ total first. I want to know what we owe before I get too excited.’

  I checked: $0.00.

  ‘That’s Dave for you,’ said Sonia. ‘We can’t afford to eat, but no fridge manufacturer is going to have a cash flow problem because of Dave Bechler. Now you can show me the debtors’ total. I’ve been too scared to keep track.’

  ‘$53,216.65,’ I said. ‘Dave’s estimate of twenty to thirty thousand was incorrect. And it’s reduced because payment has arrived online for two of the invoices you phoned about.’

  Sonia began crying.

  ‘You were hoping for more?’ I asked.

  Sonia was now laughing and crying simultaneously. How can it be possible to make sense of such displays of emotion?

  ‘I’m going to make a coffee to celebrate,’ she said. ‘A real coffee.’

  ‘You’re pregnant.’

  ‘You noticed.’ It would have been impossible not to notice. Sonia was huge. The reminder to moderate caffeine could not have been more obvious.

  ‘How many have you had today?’

  ‘I’m Italian. I’m having da coffee alla da time.’ She laughed.

  ‘I’ll have an alcoholic drink with Dave when he gets home.’ I was being empathetic to Dave at a distance.

  ‘Dave caused this.’ The crying appeared to have stopped. ‘Don, you’ve saved my life.’

  ‘Incorrect. I—’

  ‘I know, I know. Don, when you said a therapist told you that you weren’t right for Rosie, I couldn’t ask in front of Dave, but you weren’t talking about Lydia, were you?’

  English is annoying in not having unambiguous responses for answering a question framed in the negative. The simple addition of the equivalent of the French word si (‘Yes, I am talking about Lydia’) would solve the problem. Sonia, however, must have read my expression, as no verbal reply was required.

  ‘Don. Lydia doesn’t even know Rosie. She knows me.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I was approved for parenthood with you, but not with someone like Rosie. Lydia described Rosie perfectly.’

  ‘Oh God, Don, you’re making a terrible mistake.’

  ‘I’m following the best advice available. Objective, research-based, professional advice.’

  Sonia would not accept the clear evidence that Rosie did not want me, evidence that was additional to Lydia’s assessment.

  ‘Do you want this marriage to work or not?’ she said.

  ‘My spreadsheet identified—’

  I interpreted Sonia’s expression as I don’t want to hear about your fucking spreadsheet. Do you, emotionally, as a whole mature person, want to live the rest of your life with Rosie and the Baby Under Development or are you going to let a computer make that decision for you, you pathetic geek?

  ‘Work. But I don’t think—’

  ‘You think too much. Take her out to dinner and talk it over.’

  31

  Gene, Inge and I had a total of seven connections to the Momofuku Ko website: a notebook computer and a mobile phone each, plus the desktop computer in my office at Columbia. I was issuing instructions, calculated to maximise our chances of securing a table when reservations opened.

  Gene had supported Sonia’s idea of taking Rosie to dinner. ‘Regardless of whether you can repair this, you’re going to be parents of a child. She doesn’t seem to have many other friends, besides her Jewish mama who’s been around every day.’ I assumed he was referring to Judy Esler.

  On our first visit to New York together, a year and eight months earlier, Rosie had organised dinner at Momofuku Ko, and it had been the best meal of my life. Rosie had been similarly impressed.

  At exactly 10.00 a.m. we clicked the reservation button. Available slots on the newly opened day popped up and we selected different times as planned.

  ‘Gone,’ said Gene. Someone had taken his slot already. ‘Trying the second option.’

  ‘Mine are also gone,’ said Inge.

  ‘Missed that one too,’ said Gene.

  ‘Gone,’ said Inge.

  My messages came back. We had failed, mere humans attempting a task better handled by software.

  I refreshed the screen. It was possible that someone employing a similar strategy had secured multiple bookings and would now release
one. I refreshed again. No success.

  ‘What’s wrong with that one?’ said Inge, who had been looking over my shoulder. She pointed to the screen.

  I had been focused on the newly opened bookings ten days ahead and had not observed a single unreserved spot at 8.00 p.m. under today’s date. It had probably been there all the time. I clicked on it, and the booking program responded with a request for credit card details. I had a reservation for two for this evening!

  ‘Believe me,’ said Gene. ‘She won’t have made plans. I’ll lock her in for dinner with me to make sure, and you can roll up and surprise her.’

  ‘What happened to your shirt?’ said Sonia.

  ‘A laundry accident.’

  ‘It looks like you tie-dyed it. You can’t go out looking like that.’

  ‘The restaurant is highly unlikely to refuse me entry. If my shirt was unhygienic or I had failed to wash or—’

  ‘It’s not about the restaurant. It’s about Rosie.’

  ‘Rosie knows me.’

  ‘Then it’s about time you were a bit less predictable. In the right direction.’

  ‘I’ll borrow—’

  ‘You will not borrow one of Dave’s. Have you looked at Dave lately?’ Dave’s weight reduction project was going as badly as my marriage.

  I detoured to Bloomingdale’s on the way to the apartment. There were other menswear shops closer to the route, but it would be inefficient to navigate an unfamiliar layout. Expert salesmanship resulted in a new pair of jeans to accommodate a change in my waist measurement. I estimated my current BMI at twenty-four, an increase of two points. This was totally unexpected. My return to a version of the Standardised Meal System meant my carbohydrate intake was again tightly managed. My exercise effort of running, cycling and martial-arts classes had been stable, and I should have been burning additional kilojoules in the cold weather. A few seconds of reflection sufficed to identify the variable factor: alcohol. I now had another reason to reduce my drinking.

  As I walked towards the apartment building, a man of about my own age approached from the opposite direction carrying a coffee in each hand. He smiled and waited for me to enter the security code for the front door. University laboratories and computer rooms are similarly secured, and our compulsory training had covered exactly this scenario.

  ‘Let me take one of your coffees,’ I said. ‘So you can enter the code and I am not complicit in a security violation.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ he said. ‘Game’s not worth the candle.’ He began to walk away.

  It seemed that I had foiled an attempted break-in. Unless I alerted the police, the man would be back to take advantage of a less conscientious tenant. He could be a murderer, rapist or a person who might violate one of the many building bylaws with impunity. And Rosie was in the building!

  As I unclipped my phone from my belt to dial 911, another possibility occurred to me. The man’s accent was familiar, as was the metaphor comparing the cost of illumination with the enjoyment of recreation. I called out to him.

  ‘Are you visiting George?’

  He walked back.

  ‘That was the idea.’

  ‘You can press the buzzer. He’s on the top floor.’

  ‘I know. I wanted to knock on his door.’

  ‘Better to use the buzzer. That way if he doesn’t want to see you he doesn’t have to open the door.’

  ‘You worked it out.’

  I had made the right decision. It was easy to forget that George was a rock star, or at least a former rock star, and therefore likely to be pursued by autograph hunters and other stalkers.

  ‘Are you a fan of the Dead Kings?’ I said.

  ‘Not really. I got enough of them growing up. George is my father.’

  My facial-recognition ability is poor, and humans tend to over-recognise patterns, due to the greater risk of failing to recognise them. But there was a distinct resemblance in the thin face and the long, curved nose.

  ‘You’re the drug addict?’

  ‘I think the term they use here is recovering addict. I’m George.’

  ‘George too?’ I said.

  ‘Actually, George Four. Started with my great-grandfather George. So my old man’s George the Third. You’ve met him?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So it fits, doesn’t it? The madness of George the Third. And I’m George the Fourth, the Prince Regent. That’s what my family used to call me. The Prince.’

  It was possible that the Prince was an imposter, an inventive autograph hunter, but I was confident I could protect George from him if necessary. Assuming he wasn’t armed.

  ‘I’m going to check you for weapons then take you up,’ I said. The formulation seemed natural, though it was possibly derived from visual entertainment rather than direct experience.

  The Prince laughed. ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘This is America,’ I said, in what I hoped was an authoritative voice, and patted him down. He was clean.

  George was not home or not answering. It was now 7.26 p.m. and I needed to allow thirty-five minutes to travel to the restaurant.

  I could not leave the Prince in the building unsupervised.

  ‘I propose telephoning your father.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’m not planning to be around after tomorrow. It was just on the off-chance.’

  ‘If he says no, it’s the same result as if you leave. You don’t see him.’

  ‘It’s not the same. Not by a long shot. But go ahead.’

  George’s phone was not responding.

  ‘I’ll be off, then,’ said the Prince.

  ‘Shall I give George a message?’

  ‘Tell him it wasn’t his fault. We make our own lives.’

  I did not want to let the Prince leave. George had seemed upset about the damage he had caused to his son, and it would be good for him to hear directly that it was not his fault. But there was no obvious way I could keep the Prince in the building without remaining there myself or violating security.

  ‘I recommend you return later.’

  ‘Thanks. I might do that.’

  I knew with absolute certainty that the Prince was lying and would not return. It was an odd feeling to be so sure of something for which I was unable to cite concrete evidence. There must have been some information that I had subconsciously processed. I was still trying to work out what it was when I knocked on the door of my own apartment.

  Rosie opened it, looking incredibly beautiful. She was wearing makeup and freshly applied perfume, and a tight dress that adhered to her new shape. Gene was standing behind her.

  She smiled. ‘Hi Don, what are you doing here? I thought Gene was taking me to dinner.’ She smiled again.

  ‘He is,’ I said. ‘I just needed to check the beer. But there’s no sign of flooding. Inspection complete.’

  I ran back to the elevator, pushing my foot into the crack before the door closed. Gene followed me.

  ‘What the hell, Don?
Where are you going?’

  ‘It’s an emergency. I’m unavailable. Rosie was expecting you to take her out. The change is transparent to her.’

  ‘I’m not taking Rosie to Momofuku Ko.’

  There was no time to argue.

  At the ground level I looked up and down the street and saw him, standing on the street waving for a taxi. I started running as one pulled over and arrived just in time to drag him away from the opened door. The driver was not happy with my intervention, and I ended up with my arms around the Prince as he drove away.

  ‘What the hell?’ said the Prince, expressing his surprise in the same words as Gene.

  ‘I’m going to buy you dinner,’ I said. ‘At Momofuku Ko. World’s Best Restaurant. While we wait for your father to return.’

  I had made the connection just as Rosie opened the door and startled me with her beauty. A wave of pain had run over me, a realisation that I was going to lose her, and a consequent feeling that life would not be worth living. It was an extreme emotion and an irrational conclusion, and both would have passed, as they had passed in my twenties, when I had looked into the pit of depression and managed to step back. That was what I had recognised in the Prince. He was at the edge of the pit. He had said he would not be around after tomorrow.

  I was trusting my least reliable skills when I decided to follow him. It was possible I was losing the last chance to save my marriage. I was sure that Rosie or Gene would have told me I had got it wrong. But the risk associated with an error was too great.

  I released the Prince.

  ‘You’re going to have to explain before you take me anywhere,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’ll explain as we walk. Our first priority is to catch the subway. Reservations are forfeited fifteen minutes after the scheduled arrival time.’

  I was trying to think of a way of discovering if my depression hypothesis was correct without asking the question directly. I tried to recover the mindset I had in the bad times to work out what sort of question might have elicited an honest response. It was not pleasant.