I cancelled the restaurant and began to prepare my mind for the unexpected.

The unexpected began at 3.32 p.m. on Sunday. The doorbell rang. It was Isaac and Judy Esler, neither of whom I had seen since the Bluefin Tuna Incident. They were on their way to view the Search for the Unicorn exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and wondered if I would like to join them.

‘Go,’ said Rosie. ‘I see Judy every week. I can use the time to work on my thesis.’

We took the subway to the exhibition, which was moderately interesting, but it became clear that the primary purpose of the excursion was to verify that our friendship was still operational following the Bluefin Tuna Incident. Judy did almost all of the talking.

‘I couldn’t believe Lydia. She hasn’t shown up at book club since, and we’ve had three meetings. I’m so sorry, Don.’

‘No apologies required,’ I said. ‘You did nothing wrong and I was guilty of insensitivity regarding food preferences. Rosie would also object if I ordered bluefin tuna.’

It seemed sensible not to reveal that I had been seeing Lydia for professional assessment. In any case, another matter was more critical.

‘Did you inform Rosie of Lydia’s assessment of me?’ I asked.

‘I told her what Lydia said. And that Isaac put her in her place.’

‘It was Seymour,’ said Isaac.

‘I’m sure it was you. It doesn’t matter. Lydia has her own issues. I thought she and Seymour would be a good pair. He’s not happy unless he’s got someone who needs him and she’d have her own private therapist. I’m not telling you both anything when I say she could use one.’

Judy had not answered my question, or at least not provided the information I wanted.

‘Did you mention anything to Rosie about what Lydia said concerning my capabilities as a parent?’ I said.

‘I don’t remember Lydia saying anything about that. What did she say?’

I stopped myself just in time. ‘These paintings are so interesting.’

Judy obviously did not notice the change in topic. I was getting better at it.

I returned home at 6.43 p.m. having purchased a single high-quality red rose (indicating one year of marriage) on the way. As I opened the door, it occurred to me that Rosie might have organised the Eslers to remove me from the house while she prepared some sort of surprise. I was right, and my worst fears were realised. Rosie was in the kitchen.

She was cooking, or at least preparing food. Or attempting to prepare food. On our first date, Rosie had confessed that she ‘could not cook to save her life’ and I had seen no evidence to contradict this. The scallops on the night of the Orange Juice Incident, when I was unavailable due to meltdown and then sex, were the most recent culinary disaster.

As I headed to the kitchen to deliver advice and render assistance, Gene emerged from his room and pushed me back out the door, which he closed behind us.

‘You were about to help Rosie out in the kitchen, am I right?’

‘Correct.’

‘And you would have started by saying, “Do you need any help, darling?”’

I reflected for a few moments. In reality I would have assessed the situation, and determined what needed to be done. As would be appropriate for a qualified person arriving at the scene of an accident.

Gene spoke before I had formulated a response. ‘Before you do anything, think about which is more important: the quality of one meal or the quality of your relationship. If the answer is the second, you are about to have one of the great meals of your life, prepared without any assistance from you.’

Naturally my focus had been on the meal. But I could see the logic of Gene’s argument.

‘Nice work with the rose,’ said Gene.

We walked back inside.

‘Are you guys okay?’ said Rosie.

‘Of course,’ I said and gave her the rose without comment.

‘Don had dog crap on his shoe. I saved the carpet,’ said Gene.

Rosie instructed me to dress formally, which meant wearing my collared shirt and my non-bushwalking jacket. The leather shoes would also be required.

‘I assumed we were eating at home,’ I said from the bedroom.

Gene came in again.

‘I’m going out now. Dress as if you were going somewhere with a dress code. Do whatever you’re told. Express unalloyed joy at everything. Reap the rewards for decades.’

I located my formal clothes.

‘Go out on the balcony,’ called Rosie. I had retreated to my office, where the opportunities to cause relationship damage were minimised. Rationally, the worst that could happen was poisoning, resulting in a slow and agonising death for both of us. I started again. Statistically, the most likely outcome was an unpalatable meal. I had eaten plenty of those—some, admittedly, as the result of errors on my part. I had even served such failures to Rosie. But I was still irrationally tense.

It was 7.50 p.m. Rosie had put out a small table—one of the surplus items of furniture that lived in her study—and set it in restaurant style for two people. I estimated the temperature as twenty-two degrees Celsius. There was plenty of light. I sat.

Then Rosie appeared. I was stunned. She was wearing the amazing white dress that she had used only once before: on the occasion of our marriage. Unlike the stereotypical wedding dress, it was—to use a technical term—elegant, like a computer algorithm that achieved an impressive outcome with just a few lines of code. The impression of simplicity was enhanced by the deletion of the veil that she had worn twelve months earlier.