As I stared at the two orange juices on the table, I realised that I had been looking forward to the alcohol to counteract my anxiety about conveying the Gene news to Rosie. I told myself that I was being unnecessarily concerned. Rosie claimed to welcome spontaneity. This simple analysis, however, ignored three factors.

1. Rosie disliked Gene. He had been her PhD supervisor in Melbourne and technically still was. She had numerous complaints about his academic conduct and regarded his infidelity to Claudia as unacceptable. My argument that he had reformed had now been undermined.

2. Rosie considered it important that we had ‘time to ourselves’. Now I would inevitably be devoting time to Gene. He was insistent that his relationship with Claudia was over. But if there was any chance that we could help to save it, it seemed reasonable to give temporarily lower priority to our own healthy marriage. I was certain that Rosie would disagree.

3. Factor Three was the most serious, and possibly a result of misjudgement on my part. I put it out of my mind to focus on the immediate problem.

The two highball glasses filled with orange fluid reminded me of the night that Rosie and I first ‘bonded’—the Great Cocktail Night where we secured a sample of DNA from every male in attendance at the reunion of her mother’s medical year and eliminated all of them as candidates for Rosie’s biological father. Once again, my cocktail-making skills would provide a solution.

Rosie and I worked three nights per week at The Alchemist, a cocktail bar on West 19th Street in the Flatiron neighbourhood, so drink-making equipment and ingredients were tools of trade (although I had not been able to convince our accountant of this). I located vodka, Galliano and ice cubes, added these to the orange juices and stirred. Rather than commence my drink before Rosie, I poured myself a shot of vodka on ice, added a squeeze of lime, and drank it rapidly. Almost instantly, I felt my stress level returning to its default state.

Finally Rosie emerged from the bathroom. Other than the change in direction of travel, the only difference in her appearance was that her red hair was now wet. But her mood appeared to have elevated: she was almost dancing towards the bedroom. Obviously the scallops had been a good choice.

It was possible that her emotional state would make her more receptive to the Gene Sabbatical, but it seemed advisable to defer the news until the next morning, after we had had sex. Of course, if she realised that I had withheld data for that purpose, I would be criticised. Marriage was complex.

As Rosie reached the bedroom door, she spun around: ‘I’ll be five minutes getting dressed and then I’m expecting the world’s best scallops.’ Her use of the words ‘world’s best’ was an appropriation of one of my own expressions—a definite indication of a positive mood.

‘Five minutes?’ An underestimate would have a disastrous impact on scallop preparation.

‘Give me fifteen. No hurry to eat. We can have a drink and a chat, Captain Mallory.’

The Gregory Peck character’s name was a further good sign. The only problem was the chat. ‘Anything happen in your day?’ she would say, and I would be obliged to mention the Gene Sabbatical. I decided to make myself unavailable by undertaking cooking tasks. In the meantime, I put the Harvey Wallbangers in the freezer, as they were in danger of warming above optimum temperature when the ice melted. Cooling would also reduce the rate of deterioration of the orange juice.

I returned to dinner preparation. I had not used this recipe before and it was only after commencing that I discovered that the vegetables needed to be chopped into quarter-inch cubes. The list of ingredients made no mention of a ruler. I was able to download a measuring application to my phone, but had barely finished production of the reference cube when Rosie re-emerged. She was now wearing a dress—highly unusual for dinner at home. It was white and contrasted dramatically with her red hair. The effect was stunning. I decided to delay the Gene news only slightly, until later in the evening. Rosie could hardly complain about that. I would reschedule aikido practice for the next morning. That would leave time for sex after dinner. Or before. I was prepared to be flexible.

Rosie sat in one of the two armchairs that occupied a significant percentage of the living room.

‘Come and talk to me,’ she said.

‘I’m chopping vegetables. I can talk from here.’

‘What happened to the orange juices?’

I retrieved the modified orange juices from the freezer, gave one to Rosie, and sat opposite. The vodka and Rosie’s friendliness had relaxed me, although I suspected the effect was superficial. The Gene, Jerome and juice problems were still running as background processes.

Rosie raised her glass as if proposing a toast. This turned out to be exactly what she was doing.

‘We’ve got something to celebrate, Captain,’ she said. She looked at me for a few seconds. She knows that I am not fond of surprises. I assumed that she had achieved some important milestone with her thesis. Or perhaps she had been offered a place in the psychiatry-training program on completion of the medical course. This would be extremely good news, and I estimated the probability of sex at greater than ninety per cent.

She smiled—then, presumably to increase the suspense, drank from her glass. Disaster! It was as if it contained poison. She spat it out, over her white dress, and ran to the bathroom. I followed her as she removed the dress and ran water over it.

Standing in her half-purple underwear, pumping water in and out of the dress, she turned back to me. Her expression was far too complex to analyse.