Sonia wanted Rosie and me to ride in the ambulance with her, but one of the other paramedics (male, approximately forty-five, BMI approximately thirty-three) provided further reassurance in a highly professional manner, and Sonia allowed them to carry her to the ambulance. The photographer took photos. The overweight paramedic gave me a card with the hospital location.

Lydia pushed through the crowd to me. ‘You’re not going with her?’

‘I see no reason. The paramedics seem highly competent. My contribution is complete. I plan to drink a glass of beer.’

‘Jeeesus,’ she said. ‘You don’t have any feelings at all.’

I was suddenly angry. I wanted to shake not just Lydia but the whole world of people who do not understand the difference between control of emotion and lack of it, and who make a totally illogical connection between inability to read others’ emotions and inability to experience their own. It was ridiculous to think that the pilot who landed the plane safely on the Hudson River loved his wife any less than the passenger who panicked. I brought the anger under control quickly, but my confidence in Lydia’s qualifications to advise me had been reduced.

Rosie interrupted my thoughts. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Can you clear everybody out?’

I realised I had failed to perform the basic social ritual of introductions, due partly to not knowing some of the people who had arrived. I began by filling in what gaps I could.

‘Lydia, this is George the Third and the Prince, Eddie, Billy, Mr Jimmy. Guys, Lydia is my social worker.’

George introduced the journalist (Sally) and photographer (Enzo) who had been interviewing the Dead Kings about the change in line-up.

‘Who was the lady?’ said George.

‘Dave’s wife.’

‘You’re in shock. You’re dissociating,’ said Lydia to me. ‘Try to take some deep breaths.’

‘Has someone rung Dave?’ said George.

I had forgotten about Dave. He would definitely be interested.

I waited for the Dead Kings and the journalists to leave, then phoned Dave. Lydia walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle. I diagnosed confusion.

Dave seemed panicked. ‘Is Sonia all right?’ he asked.

‘The risk to Sonia was minimal. The danger—’

‘I’m asking you, is Sonia all right?’

I needed to reply to Dave’s question several times. He seemed to have caught the sentence-repetition problem. Obviously my answer did not change, so our dialogue was like a looping error. Finally I managed to force an interrupt and was able to convey details of the hospital. As he did not ask, I did not inform him of the risk to the baby. I drew myself a glass of beer from the beer room. Lydia followed me.

‘Would you like a beer?’ I asked. ‘We have unlimited beer.’

‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ she said. ‘Actually, I will have one.’

33

When Rosie returned from the shower, changed into clean clothes, Lydia and I were sitting on the sofa.

‘Who are you?’ Rosie asked Lydia. I detected a minor level of aggression.

‘I’m a social worker. Lydia Mercer. I came to see Don and Rosie, and then all this happened.’

‘Don didn’t say anything about it. Is there some issue?’

‘I don’t think it’s something I can discuss with… Did you just take a shower? I thought you were with the ambulance team. The first ambulance team. With the tall professor.’

It was an odd description of Gene, who is five centimetres shorter than I am and hence approximately the same height as Lydia. And Lydia seemed to have confused herself. Why would a professor be included in a paramedical team?

‘Gene left with the band,’ I explained. ‘But he’ll be back. He lives here.’

‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie. ‘I live here too. So I hope you don’t have a problem with me using the shower.’

‘Your name’s Rosie?’

‘Is there a problem with that? You just said you came—’

‘No…just a coincidence with Don’s—Don-Dave’s—wife being…Rosie too.’

‘There is no Rosie II,’ I explained. ‘Only the Georges are numbered.’

‘I’m Don’s wife,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that okay with you?’

‘You’re his wife?’ Lydia turned to me. ‘I need to speak to you privately, Don-Dave.’

I assumed Lydia had concluded I had two wives, both named Rosie, both pregnant and living in the same house, and referred to as Rosie I and Rosie II to avoid confusion. This was improbable, but so were the chances of the real situation occurring randomly. Of course it had not. I took a few moments to contemplate its cause. I, Don Tillman, had woven a web of deceit. Incredible. Fortunately there was no longer any purpose in deception. And Lydia could now provide advice based on her assessment of the real Rosie.

‘No privacy is required,’ I said.

I began to tell them both the story. In detail. I refilled Lydia’s glass and then mine and also drew a glass for Rosie, which I justified on the basis of three facts:

1. Her pregnancy was in the third trimester, where the risk of damage to the foetus from small quantities of alcohol was minimal as shown by research previously cited by Rosie.

2. English ale has a lower alcohol content than American or Australian lager.

3. Rosie said, ‘I need a drink,’ with an expression that indicated something bad would happen if this need was not met.