The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  This gave me an opportunity. I righted my glass, and filled it with wine. It was a poorly made gordo blanco with excessive residual sugar. I drank it and poured another. Rosie got up from her seat and walked over to the band. She spoke to the singer, then the drummer.

  She returned and pointed at me in a stylised manner. I recognised the action – I had seen it twelve times. It was the signal that Olivia Newton-John gave to John Travolta in Grease to commence the dance sequence that I had been practising when Gene interrupted me nine days earlier. Rosie pulled me towards the dance floor.

  ‘Dance,’ she said. ‘Just fucking dance.’

  I started dancing without music. This was what I had practised. Rosie followed according to my tempo. Then she raised her arm and started waving it in time with our movements. I heard the drummer start playing and could tell in my body that he was in time with us. I barely noticed the rest of the band start up.

  Rosie was a good dancer and considerably easier to manipulate than the skeleton. I led her through the more difficult moves, totally focused on the mechanics and on not making errors. The Grease song finished and everyone clapped. But before we could return to the table, the band started again and the audience clapped in time: Satisfaction. It may have been due to the effect of the gordo blanco on my cognitive functions, but I was suddenly overwhelmed by an extraordinary feeling – not of satisfaction but of absolute joy. It was the feeling I had in the Museum of Natural History and when I was making cocktails. We started dancing again, and this time I allowed myself to focus on the sensations of my body moving to the beat of the song from my childhood and of Rosie moving to the same rhythm.

  The music finished and everyone clapped again.

  I looked for Bianca, my date, and located her near the exit with Gene. I had presumed she would be impressed that the problem was solved, but even from a distance and with my limited ability to interpret expressions, I could see that she was furious. She turned and left.

  The rest of the evening was incredible, changed totally by one dance. Everyone came up to Rosie and me to offer compliments. The photographer gave us each a photo without charging us. Stefan left early. Gene obtained some high-quality Champagne from the bar, and we drank several glasses with him and a Hungarian postdoc named Klara from Physics. Rosie and I danced again, and then I danced with almost every woman at the ball. I asked Gene if I should invite the Dean or her partner, but he considered this to be a question beyond even his social expertise. In the end I did not, as the Dean was visibly in a bad mood. The crowd had made it clear that they would rather dance than listen to her scheduled speech.

  At the end of the night, the band played a waltz, and when it was finished I looked around and it was just Rosie and me on the dance floor. And everyone applauded again. It was only later that I realised that I had experienced extended close contact with another human without feeling uncomfortable. I attributed it to my concentration on correctly executing the dance steps.

  ‘You want to share a taxi?’ asked Rosie.

  It seemed a sensible use of fossil fuel.

  In the taxi, Rosie said to me, ‘You should have practised with different beats. You’re not as smart as I thought you were.’

  I just looked out the window of the taxi.

  Then she said, ‘No way. No fucking way. You did, didn’t you? That’s worse. You’d rather make a fool of yourself in front of everyone than tell her she didn’t float your boat.’

  ‘It would have been extremely awkward. I had no reason to reject her.’

  ‘Besides not wanting to marry a parakeet,’ said Rosie.

  I found this incredibly funny, no doubt as a result of alcohol and decompensation after the stress. We both laughed for several minutes, and Rosie even touched me a few times on the shoulder. I didn’t mind, but when we stopped laughing I felt awkward again and averted my gaze.

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ said Rosie. ‘Look at me when I’m talking.’

  I kept looking out the window. I was already over-stimulated. ‘I know what you look like.’

  ‘What colour eyes do I have?’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘When I was born, I had blue eyes,’ she said. ‘Baby blues. Like my mother. She was Irish but she had blue eyes. Then they turned brown.’

  I looked at Rosie. This was incredible.

  ‘Your mother’s eyes changed colour?’

  ‘My eyes. It happens with babies. That was when my mother realised that Phil wasn’t my father. She had blue eyes and so does Phil. And she decided to tell him. I suppose I should be grateful he wasn’t a lion.’

  I was having trouble making sense of all that Rosie was saying, doubtless due to the effects of the alcohol and her perfume. However, she had given me an opportunity to keep the conversation on safe ground. The inheritance of common genetically influenced traits such as eye colour is more complex than is generally understood, and I was confident that I could speak on the topic for long enough to occupy the remainder of our journey. But I realised that this was a defensive action and impolite to Rosie who had risked considerable embarrassment and damage to her relationship with Stefan for my benefit.

  I rolled back my thoughts and re-parsed her statement: ‘I suppose I should be grateful he wasn’t a lion.’ I assumed she was referring to our conversation on the night of the Balcony Meal when I informed her that lions kill the offspring of previous matings. Perhaps she wanted to talk about Phil. This was interesting to me too. The entire motivation for the Father Project was Phil’s failure in that role. But Rosie had offered no real evidence beyond his opposition to alcohol, ownership of an impractical vehicle and selection of a jewellery box as a gift.

  ‘Was he violent?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ She paused for a while. ‘He was just – all over the place. One day I’d be the most special kid in the world, next day he didn’t want me there.’

  This seemed very general, and hardly a justification for a major DNA-investigation project. ‘Can you provide an example?’

  ‘Where do I start? Okay, the first time was when I was ten. He promised to take me to Disneyland. I told everyone at school. And I waited and waited and waited and it never happened.’

  The taxi stopped outside a block of flats. Rosie kept talking, looking at the back of the driver’s seat. ‘So I have this whole thing about rejection.’ She turned to me. ‘How do you deal with it?’

  ‘The problem has never occurred,’ I told her. It was not the time to begin a new conversation.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Rosie. It appeared that I would need to answer honestly. I was in the presence of a psychology graduate.

  ‘There were some problems at school,’ I said. ‘Hence the martial arts. But I developed some non-violent techniques for dealing with difficult social situations.’

  ‘Like tonight.’

  ‘I emphasised the things that people found amusing.’

  Rosie didn’t respond. I recognised the therapy technique, but could not think of anything to do but elaborate.

  ‘I didn’t have many friends. Basically zero, except my sister. Unfortunately she died two years ago due to medical incompetence.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Rosie, quietly.

  ‘An undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy.’

  ‘Oh, Don,’ said Rosie, very sympathetically. I sensed that I had chosen an appropriate person to confide in.

  ‘Was she … in a relationship?’

  ‘No.’ I anticipated her next question. ‘We never found out the source.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  This was, on the surface, an innocuous question, though I could see no purpose in Rosie knowing my sister’s name. The indirect reference was unambiguous, as I had only one sister. But I felt very uncomfortable. It took me a few moments to realise why. Although there had been no deliberate decision on my part, I had not said her name since her death.

  ‘Michelle,’ I said to Rosie. After that, neither of us spoke for a while.

  The taxi
driver coughed artificially. I presumed he wasn’t asking for a beer.

  ‘You want to come up?’ said Rosie.

  I was feeling overwhelmed. Meeting Bianca, dancing, rejection by Bianca, social overload, discussion of personal matters – now, just when I thought the ordeal was over, Rosie seemed to be proposing more conversation. I was not sure I could cope.

  ‘It’s extremely late,’ I said. I was sure this was a socially acceptable way of saying that I wanted to go home.

  ‘The taxi fares go down again in the morning.’

  If I understood correctly, I was now definitely far out of my depth. I needed to be sure that I wasn’t misinterpreting her.

  ‘Are you suggesting I stay the night?’

  ‘Maybe. First you have to listen to the story of my life.’

  Warning! Danger, Will Robinson. Unidentified alien approaching! I could feel myself slipping into the emotional abyss. I managed to stay calm enough to respond.

  ‘Unfortunately I have a number of activities scheduled for the morning.’ Routine, normality.

  Rosie opened the taxi door. I willed her to go. But she had more to say.

  ‘Don, can I ask you something?’

  ‘One question.’

  ‘Do you find me attractive?’

  Gene told me the next day that I got it wrong. But he was not in a taxi, after an evening of total sensory overload, with the most beautiful woman in the world. I believed I did well. I detected the trick question. I wanted Rosie to like me, and I remembered her passionate statement about men treating women as objects. She was testing to see if I saw her as an object or as a person. Obviously the correct answer was the latter.

  ‘I haven’t really noticed,’ I told the most beautiful woman in the world.

  18

  I texted Gene from the taxi. It was 1.08 a.m. but he had left the ball at the same time as I did, and had further to travel. Urgent: Run tomorrow 6 a.m. Gene texted back: Sunday at 8: Bring Bianca’s contact info. I was about to insist on the earlier date when I realised that I could profitably use the time to organise my thoughts.

  It seemed obvious that Rosie had invited me to have sex with her. I was right to have avoided the situation. We had both drunk a substantial quantity of Champagne, and alcohol is notorious for encouraging unwise decisions about sex. Rosie had the perfect example. Her mother’s decision, doubtless prompted by alcohol, was still causing Rosie significant distress.

  My own sexual experience was limited. Gene had advised that it was conventional to wait until the third date, and my relationships had never progressed beyond the first. In fact, Rosie and I had technically had only one date – the night of the Jacket Incident and the Balcony Meal.

  I did not use the services of brothels, not for any moral reason, but because I found the idea distasteful. This was not a rational reason, but, since the benefits I was seeking were only primitive, a primitive reason was sufficient.

  But I now seemed to have an opportunity for what Gene would call ‘no-strings-attached sex’. The required conditions were in place: Rosie and I had clearly agreed that neither of us had an interest in a romantic relationship, then Rosie had indicated that she wanted to have sex with me. Did I want to have sex with Rosie? There seemed no logical reason not to, leaving me free to obey the dictates of my primitive desires. The answer was an extremely clear yes. Having made this completely rational decision, I could think of nothing else.

  On Sunday morning, Gene met me outside his house. I had brought Bianca’s contact details and checked her nationality – Panamanian. Gene was very pleased about the latter.

  Gene wanted full details of my encounter with Rosie, but I had decided it was a waste of effort to explain it twice: I would tell him and Claudia together. As I had no other subject to discuss and Gene had difficulty in running and speaking concurrently, we spent the next forty-seven minutes in silence.

  When we returned to Gene’s house, Claudia and Eugenie were having breakfast.

  I sat down and said, ‘I require some advice.’

  ‘Can it wait?’ said Claudia. ‘We have to take Eugenie to horseriding and then we’re meeting people for brunch.’

  ‘No. I may have made a social error. I broke one of Gene’s rules.’

  Gene said, ‘Don, I think the Panamanian bird has flown. Put that one down to experience.’

  ‘The rule applies to Rosie, not Bianca. Never pass up a chance to have sex with a woman under thirty.’

  ‘Gene told you that?’ said Claudia.

  Carl had entered the room and I prepared to defend myself against his ritual attack, but he stopped to look at his father.

  ‘I thought I should consult with you because you’re a psychologist and with Gene because of his extensive practical experience,’ I said.

  Gene looked at Claudia, then at Carl.

  ‘In my misspent youth,’ he said. ‘Not my teens.’ He turned back to me. ‘I think this can wait till lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘What about Claudia?’ I asked.

  Claudia got up from the table. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing Gene doesn’t know.’

  This was encouraging, especially coming from his wife.

  ‘You said what?’ said Gene. We were having lunch in the University Club as scheduled.

  ‘I said that I hadn’t noticed her appearance. I didn’t want her to think I saw her as a sexual object.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Gene. ‘The one time you think before you speak is the one time you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I should have said she was beautiful?’ I was incredulous.

  ‘Got it in one,’ said Gene, incorrectly, as the problem was that I hadn’t got it right the first time. ‘That’ll explain the cake.’

  I must have looked blank. For obvious reasons.

  ‘She’s been eating chocolate cake. At her desk. For breakfast.’

  This seemed to me to be an unhealthy choice, consistent with smoking, but not an indicator of distress. But Gene assured me that it was to make herself feel better.

  Having supplied Gene with the necessary background information, I presented my problem.

  ‘You’re saying she’s not The One,’ said Gene. ‘Not a life partner.’

  ‘Totally unsuitable. But she’s extremely attractive. If I’m going to have uncommitted sex with anyone, she’s the perfect candidate. She has no emotional attachment to me either.’

  ‘So why the stress?’ said Gene. ‘You have had sex before?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘My doctor is strongly in favour.’

  ‘Frontiers of medical science,’ said Gene.

  He was probably making a joke. I think the value of regular sex has been known for some time.

  I explained further. ‘It’s just that adding a second person makes it more complicated.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Gene. ‘I should have thought of that. Why not get a book?’

  The information was available on the internet, but a few minutes of examining the search results on ‘sexual positions’ convinced me that the book option would provide a more relevant tutorial with less extraneous information.

  I had no difficulty finding a suitable book and, back in my office, selected a random position. It was called the Reverse Cowboy Position (Variant 2). I tried it – simple. But, as I had pointed out to Gene, the problem was the involvement of the second person. I got the skeleton from the closet and arranged it on top of me, following the diagram in the book.

  There is a rule at the university that no one opens a door without knocking first. Gene violates it in my case but we are good friends. I do not consider the Dean my friend. It was an embarrassing moment, especially as the Dean was accompanied by another person, but entirely her fault. It was fortunate that I had kept my clothes on.

  ‘Don,’ she said, ‘if you can leave off repairing that skeleton for a moment, I’d like you to meet Dr Peter Enticott from the Medical Research Council. I mentioned your work in cirrhosis and he was keen to meet you. To consider a funding package
.’ She emphasised the last two words as though I was so unconnected with university politics that I might forget that funding was the centre of her world. She was right to do so.

  I recognised Peter instantly. He was the former father candidate who worked at Deakin University, and who had prompted the cup-stealing incident. He also recognised me.

  ‘Don and I have met,’ he said. ‘His partner is considering applying for the MD programme. And we met recently at a social occasion.’ He winked at me. ‘I don’t think you’re paying your academic staff enough.’

  We had an excellent discussion about my work with alcoholic mice. Peter seemed highly interested and I had to reassure him repeatedly that I had designed the research so there was no need for external grants. The Dean was making hand signals and contorting her face, and I guessed that she wanted me to misrepresent my study as requiring funding, so that she could divert the money to some project that would not be funded on its merits. I chose to feign a lack of comprehension, but this had the effect of increasing the intensity of the Dean’s signalling. It was only afterwards that I realised that I should not have left the sexual positions book open on the floor.

  I decided that ten positions would be sufficient initially. More could be learned if the initial encounter was successful. It did not take long – less time than learning the cha-cha. In terms of reward for effort, it seemed strongly preferable to dancing and I was greatly looking forward to it.

  I went to visit Rosie in her workplace. The PhD students’ area was a windowless space with desks along the walls. I counted eight students, including Rosie and Stefan, whose desk was beside Rosie’s.

  Stefan gave me an odd smile. I was still suspicious of him.

  ‘You’re all over Facebook, Don.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘You’ll have to update your relationship status.’

  On his screen was a spectacular photo of Rosie and me dancing, similar to the one that the photographer had given me and which now sat by my computer at home. I was spinning Rosie, and her facial expression indicated extreme happiness. I had not technically been ‘tagged’ as I was not registered on Facebook (social networking not being an interest of mine) but our names had been added to the photo: A/Prof Don Tillman of Genetics and Rosie Jarman, PhD Candidate, Psychology.