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.
Approximately twenty minutes into the story, when Rosie was interspersing her usual requests for ‘overview’ and ‘cutting to the chase’ with profane expressions of astonishment, Gene returned.
‘You might as well join us,’ said Lydia. ‘What sort of professor are you?’
‘I’m the head of the Department of Psychology at Australia’s highest-ranked university, currently undertaking research at Columbia.’ Gene’s statement was correct, but did not actually answer the question, which could have been responded to precisely and accurately with a single word: Genetics. And I was the one being accused of unnecessary detail.
‘Well,’ said Lydia, ‘it’s nice to have some professional support. Let me summarise what Don’s told us, which so far is not news to me. But apparently it is to this Rosie.’
‘Not necessary,’ I said. ‘Gene is familiar with the Playground Incident and the requirement for psychological assessment.’
Rosie looked at Gene. She did not appear happy.
‘Sworn to secrecy,’ he said. ‘Don didn’t want to upset you.’
I continued the story. ‘So then I asked Sonia to impersonate Rosie.’
I had not told Gene this part. I had allowed him to think that the pending charges had been dropped after the first meeting with Lydia. Another component of the web of deceit.
The reactions of Rosie, Gene and Lydia varied in intensity and detail, but were all variants of ‘You did what?’
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Lydia. ‘You’re saying she’—she pointed at Rosie—‘is your wife? Rosie is Rosie?’
This question could be answered with zero contextual knowledge. It was the simplest of tautologies and the fact that it was asked at all was an indicator of Lydia’s confusion. Rosie had also stated explicitly that she was my wife.
Gene took the opportunity to make some sort of witticism.
‘A Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie,’ he said.
I tried to help. ‘There is only one Rosie relevant to this story. She has red hair. She is my wife. I have exactly one wife. This is her.’
‘Who’s Sonia, then?’ asked Lydia.
This was easy. ‘You’ve met Sonia. She’s currently delivering a baby.’
‘No. Who is she? You recruited some Italian village girl…’
‘She’s Dave’s wife.’
‘Dave?’
‘Oh my God,’ said Rosie. ‘We need to call Dave. I was so caught up in not screwing up, I forgot about Dave.’
‘Dave?’ said Lydia to me. ‘There’s another Dave? Your father? I thought he was another Don.’
‘I’ve called Dave,’ I said.