‘Ignoring the testosterone factor,’ I added.

‘Is there a compliment buried in there somewhere?’

The conversation was getting complicated. I tried to clarify my position. ‘It would be unreasonable to give you credit for being incredibly beautiful.’

What I did next was undoubtedly a result of my thoughts being scrambled by a sequence of extraordinary and traumatic incidents in the preceding few hours: the hand-holding, the escape from the cosmetic surgery and the extreme impact of the world’s most beautiful woman standing naked under a towel in front of me.

Gene should also take some blame for suggesting that earlobe size was a predictor of sexual attraction. Since I had never been so sexually attracted to a woman before, I was suddenly compelled to examine her ears. In a moment that was, in retrospect, similar to a critical incident in Albert Camus’ The Outsider, I reached out and brushed her hair aside. But in this case, amazingly, the response was different from that documented in the novel we had studied in high school. Rosie put her arms round me and kissed me.

I think it is likely that my brain is wired in a non-standard configuration, but my ancestors would not have succeeded in breeding without understanding and responding to basic sexual signals. That aptitude was hardwired in. I kissed Rosie back. She responded.

We pulled apart for a moment. It was obvious that dinner would be delayed. Rosie studied me and said, ‘You know, if you changed your glasses and your haircut, you could be Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.’

‘Is that good?’ I assumed, given the circumstances, that it was, but wanted to hear her confirm it.

‘He was only the sexiest man that ever lived.’

We looked at each other some more, and I moved to kiss her again. She stopped me.

‘Don, this is New York. It’s like a holiday. I don’t want you to assume it means anything more.’

‘What happens in New York stays in New York, right?’ It was a line Gene had taught me for conference use. I had never needed to employ it before. It felt a little odd, but appropriate for the circumstances. It was obviously important that we both agreed there was no emotional continuation. Although I did not have a wife at home like Gene, I had a concept of a wife that was very different from Rosie, who would presumably step out on the balcony for a cigarette after sex. Oddly, the prospect didn’t repel me as much as it should have.

‘I have to get something from my room,’ I said.

‘Good thinking. Don’t take too long.’

My room was only eleven floors above Rosie’s, so I walked up the stairs. Back in my room, I showered, then thumbed through the book Gene had given me. He had been right after all. Incredible.

I descended the stairs to Rosie’s room. Forty-three minutes had passed. I knocked on the door, and Rosie answered, now wearing a sleeping costume that was, in fact, more revealing than the towel. She was holding two glasses of Champagne.

‘Sorry, it’s gone a bit flat.’

I looked around the room. The bed cover was turned down, the curtains were closed and there was just one bedside lamp on. I gave her Gene’s book.

‘Since this is our first – and probably only – time, and you are doubtless more experienced, I recommend that you select the position.’

Rosie thumbed through the book, then started again. She stopped at the first page where Gene had written his symbol.

‘Gene gave you this?’

‘It was a present for the trip.’

I tried to read Rosie’s expression, and guessed anger, but that disappeared and she said, in a non-angry tone, ‘Don, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m really sorry.’

‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘No, it’s me. I’m really sorry.’

‘You changed your mind while I was gone?’

‘Yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s what happened. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you sure I didn’t do something wrong?’ Rosie was my friend and the risk to our friendship was now at the forefront of my mind. The sex issue had evaporated.

‘No, no, it’s me,’ she said. ‘You were incredibly considerate.’

It was a compliment I was unaccustomed to receiving. A very satisfying compliment. The night had not been a total disaster.

I could not sleep. I had not eaten and it was only 8.55 p.m. Claudia and Gene would be at work now, back in Melbourne, and I did not feel like talking to either of them. I considered it inadvisable to contact Rosie again, so I rang my remaining friend. Dave had eaten already, but we walked to a pizza restaurant and he ate a second dinner. Then we went to a bar and watched baseball and talked about women. I do not recall much of what either of us said, but I suspect that little of it would have been useful in making rational plans for the future.

28

My mind had gone blank. That is a standard phrase, and an exaggeration of the situation. My brain stem continued to function, my heart still beat, I did not forget to breathe. I was able to pack my bag, consume breakfast in my room, navigate to JFK, negotiate check-in and board the plane to Los Angeles. I managed to communicate with Rosie to the extent that it was necessary to coordinate these activities.

But reflective functioning was suspended. The reason was obvious – emotional overload! My normally well-managed emotions had been allowed out in New York – on the advice of Claudia, a qualified clinical psychologist – and had been dangerously overstimulated. Now they were running amok in my brain, crippling my ability to think. And I needed all my thinking ability to analyse the problem.