‘I have a minor problem,’ I said. ‘I committed a social error which may have consequences.’ I did not add that the error was a direct result of following Gene’s advice to observe children.
‘Well, that’s all clear enough,’ said Gene. ‘You want to tell us a bit more?’
‘No. I just want to know whether I should tell Rosie. And if so, how.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Gene. ‘Marriage needs to be based on trust and openness. No secrets.’ Then he laughed, presumably to indicate that he was making a joke. This was consistent with his behaviour as a liar and cheat.
I turned to Dave. ‘What do you think?’
Dave looked at his empty plate. ‘Who am I to talk? We’re going broke and I haven’t told Sonia.’
‘Your refrigeration business is in trouble?’ said George.
‘The refrigeration part is okay,’ said Dave. ‘It’s the business part.’
‘Paperwork,’ said George. ‘I’d tell you to get someone to do it, but one day you wake up and find you’ve been working for them instead of the other way around.’
I found it hard to see how such information would become available at the point of waking, but agreed with George’s broad thesis: administration was a major inconvenience to me also. Conversely, Gene was an expert at using it to his own advantage.
The conversation had lost focus. I brought it back to the critical question: should I tell Rosie?
‘Seriously, does she need to know?’ said Gene. ‘Is it going to affect her?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘It depends on the consequences.’
‘Then wait. People spend their lives worrying about things that never happen.’
Dave nodded. ‘I guess she doesn’t need any more stress.’ That word again.
‘Agreed,’ said Gene. He turned to George. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think this wine is surprisingly palatable,’ said George. ‘Chianti, is it?’ He waved to our server. ‘Another bottle of your finest Chianti, squire.’
‘We’ve only got one kind of Chianti. The one you were drinking.’
‘Then bring us your finest red wine.’
Dave’s expression indicated horror. I was less worried. Dorian Gray’s finest red wine was unlikely to be expensive.
George waited for the wine to arrive. ‘How long have you been married?’ he said.
‘Ten months and fifteen days.’
‘And already you’re doing things you can’t tell her about?’
‘It seems so.’
‘No kids, I presume.’
‘Interesting question.’ It depended on the definition of ‘kid’. If George was a religious fundamentalist, he might consider that a kid had been created at some time between an hour and five days after the removal of my shirt on the life-changing Saturday, depending on the speed of travel of the successful sperm.
While I was thinking, Gene answered the question. ‘Don and Rosie are expecting their first child…when, Don?’
The mean human gestation period is forty weeks; thirty-eight weeks from conception. If Rosie’s reporting was correct, and conception had occurred on the same day, the baby was due to be born on 21 February.
‘Well,’ said George, ‘that answers your question about whether to put her in the picture. You don’t want to say anything that’s going to upset her.’
‘Good principle,’ said Gene.
Even without the scientific evidence linking stress to Bud’s future mental health, my companions had reached essentially the same conclusion as I had. The news needed to be withheld until the problem was resolved. Which needed to happen as quickly as possible if I was to avoid becoming a victim of cortisol poisoning myself.
Gene tasted the wine on behalf of the group and continued. ‘It’s natural for people to deceive their partners. You don’t want to go against nature.’
George laughed. ‘I’d like to hear you argue that one.’
Gene proceeded to give his standard lecture on women seeking the best genes, even from outside their primary relationship, and men seeking to impregnate as many women as possible without being caught. It was fortunate that he had given the talk many times, as I detected significant intoxication. George laughed a lot.
Dave did not laugh at all. ‘Sounds like baloney. I’ve never seriously thought of cheating on Sonia.’
‘How can I put this?’ said Gene. ‘There’s a hierarchy. The further up the pecking order you go, the more women are available to you. A colleague of ours is head of the Medical Research Institute in Melbourne and he just got caught with his pants down—almost literally. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.’ Gene was referring to my co-researcher in Melbourne, Simon Lefebvre, and it was good to know that he now regarded him as a ‘nice guy’. In the past there had been some unhealthy competitiveness.
Gene poured the last of the wine. ‘So, no offence, but Don is an associate professor and I’m a department head. I’m at about the same level as Lefebvre, but up the ladder from Don. I probably don’t get as many opportunities as Lefebvre, whose dedication to the task is an example to all of us, but I get more than Don.’
‘And I’m a refrigeration engineer, which is lower than both of you,’ said Dave.
‘In terms of the social hierarchy, that’s probably true. It doesn’t make you any less worthwhile as a person. If I need my fridge fixed, I’m not going to call Lefebvre, but on average someone in your profession is going to get fewer opportunities for sex with women who are unconsciously—or consciously for that matter—focused on status. You’re probably a better man than I am in lots of ways, but in this group I’m the alpha male.’
Gene turned to George. ‘Sorry, squire, I’m being presumptuous. I’m assuming you’re not the vice chancellor of Cambridge or an international soccer player.’
‘Too dumb for the first,’ he said. ‘Would’ve liked to be the second. Got a try-out with Norwich, not good enough.’ The waiter brought the bill and George grabbed it, put a pile of notes on it, and stood up.
George, Gene and I took a taxi back to the apartment building. When the elevator doors had closed in front of George, Gene said, ‘A free meal. Shows what a guy will do to challenge the alpha male. Do you know what he does for a living?’
‘Rock star,’ I said.
Rosie was in her sleeping costume, but still awake, when I entered the bedroom.
‘How was your night?’ she asked, and I had a moment of panic before realising that no deception was required.
‘Excellent. We drank wine and ate hamburgers.’
‘And talked about baseball and women.’
‘Incorrect. We never talk about women in general—only you and Sonia. Tonight we talked about genetics.’
‘I’m glad I stayed home. I’m guessing talking genetics meant Gene giving Dave the “men are programmed to deceive” lecture. Am I right?’
‘Correct. I consider it unlikely that Dave will modify his behaviour as a result.’
‘I hope nobody modifies their behaviour because of anything Gene says to them,’ she said and looked at me strangely. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Of course. There are vast numbers of things I don’t tell you. You’d have information overload.’ This was an excellent argument, but it was time to introduce a change of topic, shifting the focus to Rosie. I had prepared a suitable question during the taxi ride home.