Without speaking, Rosie climbed into bed with me. She was moving differently with the additional weight of Bud and his or her support system, leaning back to take advantage of the third wedge-shaped vertebra that human females have for that purpose. It seemed that she should ask permission, as it had never occurred to me to join her after she had relocated to her study. But I was not going to object.

She put one arm around me, and I wished I had thought to freeze an emergency supply of blueberry muffins. To my surprise, the preliminary ritual was not necessary.

In the morning, I slept past my automatic wake-up time. Rosie was still there. She would be late for her Saturday morning tutorial.

‘You don’t have to go,’ she said.

I parsed the sentence. She was giving me an option. But she was not suggesting she would change her plans to return to Australia. And she was not saying, ‘I want you to stay.’

I packed a bag and, after taking over an hour to create an accurate picture of Bud on Tile 31, I took the subway to Dave’s.

When Sonia arrived home from visiting her parents, she wanted Dave to drive me back to my apartment. Immediately. Dave had already helped me to move into his office, which was also the bedroom for their baby under construction, due to arrive in ten days.

‘She’s pregnant,’ said Sonia. ‘We all have ups and downs. Don’t we, Dave?’ She turned to me. ‘You can’t walk out on her just because you’ve had a fight. It’s your job to make the relationship work.’

I checked Dave’s expression. He looked surprised. Any psychologist, including Rosie, would surely agree that relationship success was a joint responsibility.

‘We haven’t had a fight. I’ve seen a therapist. It’s clear I’m a negative influence on Rosie. She’s going back to Australia. She’ll have proper support.’

‘You’re the proper support.’

‘I’m unsuited to fatherhood.’

‘Dave. Drive Don home. Help him sort this out.’

It was 7.08 p.m. when we arrived at the apartment. Gene was home, as his social life with Inge was over.

‘Where have you been?’ he said. ‘You’re not answering your phone.’

‘It’s in my bag. At Dave’s. I’m now living with Dave.’

‘Where’s Rosie?’

‘I assumed she was here. She’s usually home before 1.00 p.m. on a Saturday.’

I explained the situation. Gene was in agreement with Sonia that we should attempt some sort of reconciliation.

‘I’ve been trying to make the relationship work,’ I said. ‘I think Rosie has too. The fault is intrinsic to my personality.’

‘She’s got your kid on board, Don. You can’t walk away from that.’

‘According to your theory, women seek the best genes from the biological father but make a separate decision as to who they want to care for the child.’

‘One thing at a time, Don. Like I said to Dave, it’s theory. Priority one is to find Rosie. She’s probably off in some bar drowning her sorrows.’

‘You think she’d drink alcohol?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘I’m not pregnant.’

If Gene was right, we had an emergency. Perhaps Rosie had left some clue in her study.

I entered, and her computer was on. A Skype message was on the screen. From a person with the Skype name of 34, time zone Melbourne, Australia.

I told you I’d be here for you. Stay strong. I love you.

I love you! I opened the application and looked at the preceding conversation:

Everything’s turned to shit. It’s over with me and Don.

Are you sure?

Are you sure you’ll still have me? With a baby and everything?

Rosie walked in. She did not appear drunk.

‘Hello Dave. What are you doing in my room, Don?’

It was obvious what I was doing.

‘Is there some other man?’ I asked.

‘Since you ask, yes.’ She turned away from Dave and me and looked out the window. ‘And he tells me he loves me. I think I feel the same way about him. Sorry, but you asked.’

Repeating patterns. Rosie’s mother had slept with one man and married another who remained loyal to her despite them both believing Rosie was the original man’s child. Rosie had deceived me, just as I had deceived Rosie. And for the same reason, no doubt: in order not to cause distress.

Dave drove me home to his apartment. He had heard the conversation. Neither of us could think of anything useful to say. Despite the plausibility—possibly the inevitability—of what I had just learned, I was stunned. I had no doubt who the other man was: Stefan, Rosie’s conventionally attractive study partner, whom she acknowledged had been pursuing her in Melbourne before we became a couple. He had been thirty-two when I met him, and could be thirty-four now. She had chosen him ahead of me to help with her statistics. Now she had chosen him to help her raise Bud. I considered him stupid enough to use an unstable string of characters as his identifier.

30

Dave’s office, which was now my bedroom, was a disaster! His desk was covered in paperwork, the stack of seven filing trays was overflowing and the cardboard boxes with dividers that he was using instead of a filing cabinet were in danger of tearing from internal pressure. It was obvious to me why his business was failing.

Lectures were over for the year. My mouse-data analysis was being performed competently by Inge and I was not required by the Lesbian Mothers Project. It would have been a perfect opportunity for joint activities with Rosie. Instead I had vast unscheduled time. I volunteered as a filing clerk.