The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

‘Running late. It’s not a problem. I don’t have any lectures today.’ All three statements were technically true, but the first was deceptive. I planned to take the whole day off.

  ‘Are you okay, Don? This pregnancy thing has thrown you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Only by a few minutes.’

  Rosie had joined me in the bathroom and was examining some component of her face in the mirror. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘Not necessary. In fact, I’m considering riding my bike. To make up time.’

  ‘Hey. I want to talk to you. We hardly talked all weekend.’

  It was true that the weekend had been disrupted and that communication had thus been reduced. I began to formulate a response but, now that I was in deception mode, it was difficult to conduct a normal conversation.

  Fortunately, Rosie conceded without further input from me. ‘All right. But call me for lunch or something.’

  Rosie kissed me on the cheek, then turned and left our apartment for the last time.

  Dave arrived in his van eight minutes later. We needed to move swiftly as he was required at the Cellar in the Sky to take delivery of the English ale.

  It took fifty-eight minutes to pack the furniture and plants. Then I tackled the bathroom. I was astonished by the number of cosmetic and aromatic chemicals that Rosie owned. It would presumably have been insulting for me to tell her that, beyond the occasional dramatic use of lipstick or perfume (which faded rapidly after application due to absorption, evaporation or my becoming accustomed to it), they made no observable difference. I was satisfied with Rosie without any modifications.

  Despite the quantity, the chemicals fitted in a single garbage bag. As Dave and I packed the remaining contents of the apartment into Rosie’s suitcases, cardboard boxes and additional polythene bags, I was amazed by the sheer quantity of stuff we had accumulated since arriving. I remembered a statement Rosie had made prior to leaving Melbourne.

  ‘I’m leaving all the crap behind. I’m hardly bringing anything.’ It was true that she had contradicted this statement by bringing three suitcases, but her intent was clear: moving was an opportunity to review possessions. I decided to discard anything not essential to our lives. I recalled some advice I had read in a magazine, waiting for the dentist, on 5 May 1996: ‘If you haven’t worn it or used it for six months, you don’t need it.’ The principle seemed sensible and I began applying it.

  Dave accompanied me to the doorman’s office to surrender my key. Rosie’s would need to be returned later. We were greeted by the superintendent. He was, as usual, unfriendly.

  ‘I hope you’re not here to complain about anything, Mr Tillman. I haven’t forgotten about talking to the owners,’ he said.

  ‘Unnecessary. We’re leaving.’ I gave him the key.

  ‘What, no notice? You got to give thirty days’ notice.’

  ‘You indicated that I was an undesirable tenant who could be replaced tomorrow with a desirable one. It seems like a good outcome for everyone.’

  ‘If you don’t care about a month’s rent.’ He laughed.

  ‘That seems unreasonable. If you have a new tenant in the apartment, you would be receiving double rent for a month.’

  ‘I don’t make the rules, Mr Tillman. Take it up with the owner if you want.’

  I was conscious of becoming annoyed. Today was inevitably going to involve a high level of stress, beginning with the abandonment of scheduled Monday activities. It was time to practise my empathy skills. Why was the supervisor consistently so unpleasant? The answer did not require much reflection. He was required to deal with tenants who complained about problems that he was powerless to rectify, due to his low status and the recalcitrance of the company that owned the building. He was constantly dealing with people in conflict. His low status alone put him at increased risk of coronary heart disease due to elevated cortisol. World’s worst job. I suddenly felt sorry for him.

  ‘I apologise for causing you trouble. Can you connect me with the owner, please?’

  ‘You want to speak with the owner?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Incredible. My simple exercise in empathy now had the superintendent on my side, offering his good wishes. He made a call.

  ‘I’ve got the tenant in 204 with me. He’s leaving—right now, today—you got it, no notice—and thinks he should get his deposit back.’ He laughed and handed me the phone.

  Dave took it from me. ‘Let me do this.’

  Dave’s voice changed. The tone was difficult to describe, but it was as if Woody Allen had been cast instead of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.

  ‘My friend here’s got a problem with the legality of the air-conditioning system. Might be a safety risk.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘A licensed air-conditioning inspector,’ said Dave. ‘You got self-contained units all over the building like warts on a toad. We don’t act unless we get a complaint, but then we’d be obliged to look at the whole damn building. I guess if my friend’s paying the rent for another month, he might just want to do that: make a complaint. Which could be very expensive for you. Or maybe you’d like to let him go now. With his security deposit.’

  There was a longer pause. Dave’s face registered disappointment. Perhaps the ‘warts on a toad’ metaphor had confused the owner. Toads are presumed to cause warts, not to have warts. He handed me the phone.

  ‘You done?’ said a male voice down the line.

  ‘Greetings.’

  ‘Oh shit, it’s you. You’re leaving?’

  I recognised the voice now. It was not the owner. It was the employee I frequently spoke to about problems that the owner was contractually responsible for but the superintendent considered outside his domain: the stability of temperature, the speed of the internet service, regularity of fire drills. Et cetera.

  ‘Correct. Actually, until now, I was unaware of the air-conditioning compliance problem. It sounds extremely serious. I recommend—’

  ‘Forget it. Just drop by and I’ll have a cheque waiting for you.’

  ‘What about the air conditioning?’

  ‘Forget about the air conditioning and we’ll write you a lovely reference for your next landlord. We’re going to miss you, Professor.’

  In the van, Dave’s hands were shaking.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I need something to eat. I hate doing that stuff. Confrontation. I’m no good at it.’

  ‘You didn’t need to—’

  ‘Yes, I did. Not just for your rent. I need the practice. People think they can take me down.’

  George was waiting for us and the beer when we arrived at the Cellar in the Sky.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said to Dave. ‘Don tells me he cares so much about the beer that he’s going to sleep with it.’

  ‘Not because I care so much about the beer. Because it’s high-quality accommodation that would otherwise be unused.’

  ‘In the best location in New York City. And you’re getting it for free.’

  ‘No rent, no complaints,’ said Dave. He wa
s practising his tough-guy voice.

  ‘You know we practise upstairs?’ said George. ‘Loud. There’s bugger-all sound insulation.’

  ‘So it’s unrentable,’ said Dave.

  Incredible. A three-bedroom apartment plus coolroom considered unrentable because of an occasional noise problem, easily counteracted with earplugs. Or George could have advertised for deaf tenants.

  George shrugged. ‘I’m not allowed to rent it. I bought it so the kids could visit. You know, any time they’re in New York and want to see their father. I don’t think that’s going to be a risk for you.’

  ‘How often do you practise?’ I asked.

  George laughed. ‘About once a year. But maybe the beer will inspire me.’

  We were interrupted by the arrival of the beer: six large barrels with stands. There was a minor accident carrying the last of these through the living room, resulting in a spillage which I estimated at twenty litres. By the time Dave obtained cloths and mops, it had soaked into the carpet.

  ‘Sorry,’ said George. ‘But no complaints, remember. I’ve got a hairdryer, if you want.’

  While Dave dried the carpet with Rosie’s hairdryer, I unpacked the garbage bags. The Cellar in the Sky had three bathrooms, which was patently excessive. The non-ensuite bathroom was large enough to serve as an office, so I installed my computer and work table there. There was no room for a chair, but the toilet seat was at the correct height. I covered it with a towel for hygiene and comfort. Now I would be able to work all day without ever needing to come out, except for nourishment.

  I pulled my mind away from the fantasy of permanent isolation. I had practical tasks to complete in a limited timeframe.

  I designated the largest bedroom as Rosie’s office and with Dave’s help moved in the plants and surplus chairs. I selected the smallest and least well-lit bedroom as our sleeping quarters. Sleeping, I explained over Dave’s objections, requires minimal space, and light is an impediment. There were still a few square metres of unused floor after we installed the bed.

  We finished at 6.27 p.m. Rosie seldom left Columbia before 6.30 p.m., to avoid subway crowds in the heat. To maximise the surprise, I delayed communicating our change of accommodation until the last possible moment. A few seconds after I sent the text message, I heard a sound from her handbag—the one she took to work at The Alchemist rather than the larger one she used for university. She had left her phone at home. It was not the first time and was the predictable result of owning more than one handbag.

  Dave came back from returning George’s hairdryer and offered to intercept her at our former apartment.

  ‘While I’m gone, you better get rid of the stink,’ he said. I had become accustomed to it, but the beer smell was now mingled with the acrid fumes that the motor in Rosie’s hairdryer had produced when it burned out. George’s was obviously of a higher quality and had lasted almost three times as long. I decided that a strong-smelling fish would be appropriate to mask the smell and also solve the dinner problem.

  At the delicatessen, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number. It was Rosie.

  ‘Don, what’s happened? They won’t let me in.’

  ‘You left your phone at home.’

  ‘I know. This is Jerome’s phone.’

  ‘Jerome? Are you in danger?’

  ‘No, no, he apologised about the washing. He’s right here. What did you say to him?’ She did not allow adequate time to answer. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve moved. I’ll text you the address. I need to ring Dave.’

  I hung up and texted our new location to Jerome’s phone. Dave, Rosie, Jerome, Gene, the fish. I was at my limit of multitasking.

  The smoked mackerel was already in the oven and generating aromas of similar intensity to the stale beer and burned wiring when the doorbell rang. It was Rosie. I released the building entrance lock, and approximately thirty seconds later she knocked.

  ‘You don’t have to knock,’ I said. ‘This is our apartment.’

  I opened the door dramatically to display the large living room.

  Rosie looked around, then walked straight to the windows and looked out over the balcony. The view! Of course, Rosie was interested in views. I hoped she did not have a problem with looking at New Jersey.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘You’re kidding me. What’s it costing?’

  ‘Zero.’

  I retrieved our list of desirable apartment attributes from my pocket and showed her. It was like the Wife Project questionnaire, which, despite Rosie’s criticisms, had indirectly brought us together, except now every box was ticked. The perfect apartment. It was apparent that Rosie agreed. She opened the doors to the balcony and spent approximately six minutes looking across the Hudson before stepping back inside.

  ‘What are you cooking?’ she asked. ‘Is that fish? I’ve been craving something smoked all day. I thought being pregnant was making me want to smoke again. Which is totally weird. But smoked fish is brilliant. You’ve blackened it and cooked it in beer, right? You read my mind.’ She dropped her phone-free handbag on the floor and hugged me.

  I had not read Rosie’s mind, nor created the culinary disaster which it contained. But there was no point in undermining her happiness. She wandered around without any obvious purpose for a while, then started exploring in a more systematic manner, starting with her bathroom, which seemed an odd choice.

  ‘Don, my cosmetics! All my stuff. How could you do this?’

  ‘I’ve made some sort of error?’

  ‘The opposite. It’s like—everything is exactly where it was. In the same position.’

  ‘I took photos. Your system was impossible to understand. I did the same with your clothes.’

  ‘You moved everything today?’

  ‘Of course. I had planned to do some culling, but I couldn’t remember everything you’d worn in the last six months. I generally don’t notice what you wear. So I had to retain everything.’

  ‘This is where you’re planning to work?’ she said, a few seconds after opening the door to my bathroom-office.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be invading your personal space. Given I won’t know what you’re using it for.’

  When she discovered the beer room, I explained the arrangement with George.

  ‘It’s like house-sitting. Instead of a dog, he has beer. Which, unlike a dog, does not require feeding.’

  ‘I gather it still managed to do the equivalent of pee on the floor.’

  I had forgotten the smell. Humans rapidly become accustomed to their environments. I doubted that Rosie’s long-term happiness would be significantly decreased if the beer smell remained. Nor, for that matter, would it be increased by the change of apartments. After the most basic physical requirements are satisfied, human happiness is almost independent of wealth. A meaningful job is far more important. One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich laying bricks in Siberia probably generated a higher level of happiness than one day in the life of a retired rock star in a Manhattan penthouse with all the beer he could drink. Work was crucial to sanity. Which was probably why George continued to perfo
rm on the cruise ship.

  Rosie was still talking. ‘You’re serious about not paying rent?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘How would you feel if I gave up the cocktail bar job? It’s not the same any more. It’s probably only a matter of time before Wineman fires me anyway.’

  Incredible. It appeared that our being fired by Wineman was a positive, or at least had zero impact. An item of bad news that would have detracted from my day’s success had been rendered irrelevant.

  ‘We can both give it up,’ I said. ‘It would be vastly less enjoyable without you.’

  Rosie hugged me again. I was hugely relieved. I had undertaken a major, risk-prone project, solving multiple problems simultaneously, with complete success. I had cut the Gordian knot.

  Rosie’s only negative reaction was to the use of the smallest room as our bedroom, as predicted by Dave. But then she said, ‘You gave me the biggest room for my office. And, of course, we’ll need an extra bedroom.’

  It was good that she had accepted my solution to the Gene problem without further discussion. I texted him the good news along with our new address.

  I served the fish with a Robert Mondavi Reserve chardonnay (me) and celery juice (Rosie). I had not bothered to buy the vacuum pump for the wine. Any surplus could be kept cool in the beer storage room. For the next eight months, I would be drinking for two.

  Rosie raised her juice glass, clinked it with my wine, and then, with just a few words, reminded me of the problem, the terrible problem that had been hiding behind all the others.

  ‘So, Professor Tillman, how do you feel about being a father?’

  7

  My thoughts about being a father had progressed in the following sequence:

  1. Prior to my late teens, I assumed that fatherhood would occur as my life proceeded according to the most common pattern. I did not contemplate it in any more detail.