‘No, no,’ said Rosie. ‘We shouldn’t have started before you. Have you eaten?’

‘I’m a bit jet-lagged. Not sure what time my body thinks it is.’

Here, I could help.

‘You should drink alcohol. Remind your body that it’s evening.’ I went to the coolroom to collect a bottle of pinot noir while Gene began unpacking in what, until now, had been the spare room. Rosie followed me.

Rosie stared at the barrels of beer, then looked suddenly ill and dashed out. It was true that the smell was much stronger inside the coolroom. I heard the bathroom door slam. Then there was a loud noise, a crash, but not from the bathroom. It was followed by a booming sound at similar volume. It was drumming from upstairs. An electric guitar joined in. When Rosie returned from the bathroom, I had the earplugs ready, but I suspected that her level of satisfaction had dropped.

She went to her new study while I fitted my own earplugs and finished my meal. Fifty-two minutes later the music stopped and I was able to talk with Gene. He was certain that his marriage was over, but it seemed to me that he merely needed to rectify his behaviour. Permanently.

‘That was the plan,’ he said.

‘It was the only reasonable plan. Draw up a spreadsheet. Two columns. On one side you have Claudia, Carl, Eugenie, stability, accommodation, domestic efficiency, moral integrity, respectability, no more inappropriate-conduct complaints, vast advantages. On the other, you have occasional sex with random women. Is it significantly better than sex with Claudia?’

‘Of course not. Not that I’ve had a chance to compare recently. Can we talk about this later? It’s been a long flight. Two flights.’

‘We can talk tomorrow. Every day until we get it resolved.’

‘Don, it’s over. I’ve accepted it. Now, tell me how it feels to be an expectant father.’

‘I don’t have any feelings about it yet. It’s too early.’

‘I think I might ask you every day until we get it resolved. You’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?’

‘How can you tell?’

‘All men are. Worried they’ll lose their wives to the baby. Worried they’ll never have sex again. Worried they won’t cut it.’

‘I’m not average. I expect I will have unique problems.’

‘And you’ll solve them in your own unique way.’

This was an extremely helpful contribution. Problem-solving is one of my strengths. But it failed to address the immediate dilemma.

‘What do I tell Rosie? She wants to know how I feel.’

‘You tell her that you’re excited about being a father. Don’t burden her with your insecurities. Got any port?’

The music started again. I didn’t have any port, so substituted Cointreau and we sat without talking until Rosie came out to get me. Gene had fallen asleep in the chair. It was probably more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. It was certainly better than being homeless in New York.

In the bedroom, Rosie smiled and kissed me.

‘So the Gene situation is acceptable?’ I said.

‘No. It’s not. Nor is the beer smell, which we’re going to have to do something about if you don’t want me throwing up in the evenings as well as the mornings. And obviously you need to talk to the people upstairs about the noise. I mean, you can’t give earplugs to a baby. But the apartment is just stunningly, wonderfully brilliant.’

‘Sufficient to compensate for the problems?’

‘Almost.’ She smiled.

I looked at the world’s most beautiful woman, dressed only in a too-large t-shirt, sitting up in my bed—our bed. Waiting for me to say the words that would allow this extraordinary situation to continue.

I took a deep breath, expelled the air, then took another breath to allow speech. ‘I’m incredibly excited about becoming a father.’ I was using the word excited in the sense that I would use it to say an electron was excited: activated rather than in a particular emotional state. Hence I was speaking sincerely, which was a good thing, as Rosie would have detected a lie.

Rosie flung her arms around me and hugged me for longer than she had hugged Gene. I was feeling much better. I could allow my intellect to rest and enjoy the experience of being close to Rosie. Gene’s advice had been excellent and had, at least for me, justified his presence. I would solve the noise problem and the beer problem and the fatherhood problem in my own way.

I woke with a headache, which I attributed to the stress associated with recalling the Bluefin Tuna Incident. My life was becoming more complex. In addition to my duties as professor and spouse, I was now responsible for monitoring beer, Gene and, potentially, Rosie, whom I suspected would continue to be neglectful of her health, even during this critical period. And, of course, I needed to do some research to prepare myself for fatherhood.

There were two possible responses to the increased load. The first was to put in place a more formal schedule to ensure that time was allocated efficiently, taking into account the relative priority of each task and its contribution to critical goals. The second was to embrace chaos. The correct choice was obvious. It was time to initiate the Baby Project.

I suspected Rosie would have a negative reaction to the installation of a whiteboard in the living room. I discovered a brilliant solution. The white tiles on the walls of my new bathroom-office were tall and narrow: approximately thirty centimetres high and ten centimetres wide. They provided a ready-made grid with a surface suitable for a whiteboard marker. On one wall were nineteen columns of seven tiles, interrupted only by the toilet-roll holder which occupied one tile and obscured another—an almost perfect template for a rolling eighteen-week calendar. Each tile could be divided into seventeen horizontal slots to cover waking hours, with the possibility of further vertical subdivision. Rosie was unlikely to see the schedule, given her statement about respecting my personal space.