‘Only as a potential partner. We may still be able to have an interesting discussion.’
‘But I’ll have been eliminated.’
I nodded. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘Occasionally,’ she said.
I put the questionnaire away.
‘Excellent.’ I was pleased that my question sequencing was working so well. We could have wasted time talking about ice-cream flavours and make-up only to find that she smoked. Needless to say, smoking was not negotiable. ‘No more questions. What would you like to discuss?’
Disappointingly, Frances was not interested in further conversation after I had determined that we were not compatible. This turned out to be the pattern for the remainder of the event.
These personal interactions were, of course, secondary. I was relying on the internet, and completed questionnaires began to flow in shortly after my initial postings. I scheduled a review meeting in my office with Gene.
‘How many responses?’ he asked.
‘Two hundred and seventy-nine.’
He was clearly impressed. I did not tell him that the quality of responses varied widely, with many questionnaires only partially completed.
‘No photos?’
Many women had included photos, but I had suppressed them in the database display to allow space for more important data.
‘Let’s see the photos,’ Gene said.
I modified the settings to show photos, and Gene scanned a few before double-clicking on one. The resolution was impressive. It seemed that he approved, but a quick check of the data showed that the candidate was totally unsuitable. I took the mouse back and deleted her. Gene protested.
‘Wha wha wha? What’re you doing?’
‘She believes in astrology and homeopathy. And she calculated her BMI incorrectly.’
‘What was it?’
‘Twenty-three point five.’
‘Nice. Can you undelete her?’
‘She’s totally unsuitable.’
‘How many are suitable?’ asked Gene, finally getting to the point.
‘So far, zero. The questionnaire is an excellent filter.’
‘You don’t think you’re setting the bar just a tiny bit high?’
I pointed out that I was collecting data to support life’s most critical decision. Compromise would be totally inappropriate.
‘You always have to compromise,’ Gene said. An incredible statement and totally untrue in his case.
‘You found the perfect wife. Highly intelligent, extremely beautiful and she lets you have sex with other women.’
Gene suggested that I not congratulate Claudia in person for her tolerance, and asked me to repeat the number of questionnaires that had been completed. The actual total was greater than the number I had told him, as I had not included the paper questionnaires. Three hundred and four.
‘Give me your list,’ said Gene. ‘I’ll pick out a few out for you.’
‘None of them meet the criteria. They all have some fault.’
‘Treat it as practice.’
He did have a point. I had thought a few times about Olivia the Indian Anthropologist, and considered the implications of living with a Hindu vegetarian with a strong ice-cream preference. Only reminding myself that I should wait until an exact match turned up had stopped me from contacting her. I had even rechecked the questionnaire from Fabienne the Sex-Deprived Researcher.
I emailed the spreadsheet to Gene.
‘No smokers.’
‘Okay,’ said Gene, ‘but you have to ask them out. To dinner. At a proper restaurant.’
Gene could probably tell that I was not excited by the prospect. He cleverly addressed the problem by proposing an even less acceptable alternative.
‘There’s always the faculty ball.’
‘Restaurant.’
Gene smiled as if to compensate for my lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s easy. “How about we do dinner tonight?” Say it after me.’
‘How about we do dinner tonight?’ I repeated.
‘See, that wasn’t so hard. Make only positive comments about their appearance. Pay for the meal. Do not mention sex.’ Gene walked to the door, then turned back. ‘What about the paper ones?’
I gave him my questionnaires from Table for Eight, the singles party and, at his insistence, even the partially completed ones from the speed dating. Now it was out of my hands.
6
Approximately two hours after Gene left my office with the completed Wife Project questionnaires, there was a knock on the door. I was weighing student essays, an activity that is not forbidden, but I suspect only because nobody is aware that I am doing it. It was part of a project to reduce the effort of assessment, by looking for easily measured parameters such as the inclusion of a table of contents, or a typed versus handwritten cover sheet, factors which might provide as good an indication of quality as the tedious process of reading the entire assignment.
I slipped the scales under my desk as the door opened and looked up to see a woman I did not recognise standing in the doorway. I estimated her age as thirty and her body mass index at twenty.
‘Professor Tillman?’
As my name is on the door, this was not a particularly astute question.
‘Correct.’
‘Professor Barrow suggested I see you.’
I was amazed at Gene’s efficiency, and looked at the woman more carefully as she approached my desk. There were no obvious signs of unsuitability. I did not detect any make-up. Her body shape and skin tone were consistent with health and fitness. She wore glasses with heavy frames that revived bad memories of Apricot Ice-cream Woman, a long black t-shirt that was torn in several places, and a black belt with metal chains. It was lucky that the jewellery question had been deleted because she was wearing big metal earrings and an interesting pendant round her neck.
Although I am usually oblivious to dress, hers seemed incompatible with my expectation of a highly qualified academic or professional and with the summer weather. I could only guess that she was self-employed or on holiday and, freed from workplace rules, had chosen her clothes randomly. I could relate to this.
There had been quite a long gap since either of us had spoken and I realised it must be my turn. I looked up from the pendant and remembered Gene’s instructions.
‘How about we do dinner tonight?’
She seemed surprised at my question then replied, ‘Yeah, right. How about we do dinner? How about Le Gavroche and you’re paying?’
‘Excellent. I’ll make a reservation for 8.00 p.m.’
‘You’re kidding.’
It was an odd response. Why would I make a confusing joke with someone I barely knew?
‘No. Is 8.00 p.m. tonight acceptable?’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re offering to buy me dinner at Le Gavroche tonight?’
Coming on top of the question about my name, I was beginning to think that this woman was what Gene would call ‘not the sharpest tool in the shed’. I considered backing out, or at least employing some delaying tactic until I could check her questionnaire, but could not think of any socially acceptable way to do this, so I just confirmed that she had interpreted my offer correctly. She turned and left and I realised that I did not even know her name.
I called Gene immediately. There seemed to be some confusion on his part at first, followed by mirth. Perhaps he had not expected me to handle the candidate so effectively.
‘Her name’s Rosie,’ he said. ‘And that’s all I’m telling you. Have fun. And remember what I said about sex.’
Gene’s failure to provide me with more details was unfortunate, because a problem arose. Le Gavroche did not have a table available at the agreed time. I tried to locate Rosie’s profile on my computer, and for once the photos were useful. The woman who had come to my office did not look like any candidate whose name began with ‘R’. She must have been one of the paper responses. Gene had left and his phone was off.
I was forced to tak
e action that was not strictly illegal, but doubtless immoral. I justified it on the basis that it would be more immoral to fail to meet my commitment to Rosie. Le Gavroche’s online reservation system had a facility for VIPs and I made a reservation under the name of the Dean after logging on using relatively unsophisticated hacking software.
I arrived at 7.59 p.m. The restaurant was located in a major hotel. I chained my bike in the foyer, as it was raining heavily outside. Fortunately it was not cold and my Gore-Tex jacket had done an excellent job of protecting me. My t-shirt was not even damp underneath.
A man in uniform approached me. He pointed towards the bike, but I spoke before he had a chance to complain.
‘My name is Professor Lawrence and I interacted with your reservation system at 5.11 p.m.’
It appeared that the official did not know the Dean, or assumed that I was another Professor Lawrence, because he just checked a clipboard and nodded. I was impressed with the efficiency, though it was now 8.01 p.m. and Rosie was not there. Perhaps she was (b) a little early and already seated.
But then a problem arose.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we have a dress code,’ said the official.
I knew about this. It was in bold type on the website: Gentlemen are required to wear a jacket.
‘No jacket, no food, correct?’
‘More or less, sir.’
What can I say about this sort of rule? I was prepared to keep my jacket on throughout the meal. The restaurant would presumably be air-conditioned to a temperature compatible with the requirement.
I continued towards the restaurant entrance, but the official blocked my path. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You need to wear a jacket.’
‘I’m wearing a jacket.’
‘I’m afraid we require something a little more formal, sir.’
The hotel employee indicated his own jacket as an example. In defence of what followed, I submit the Oxford English Dictionary (Compact, 2nd Edition) definition of ‘jacket’: 1(a) An outer garment for the upper part of the body.
I also note that the word ‘jacket’ appears on the care instructions for my relatively new and perfectly clean Gore-Tex ‘jacket’. But it seemed his definition of jacket was limited to ‘conventional suit jacket’.
‘We would be happy to lend you one, sir. In this style.’
‘You have a supply of jackets? In every possible size?’ I did not add that the need to maintain such an inventory was surely evidence of their failure to communicate the rule clearly, and that it would be more efficient to improve their wording or abandon the rule altogether. Nor did I mention that the cost of jacket purchase and cleaning must add to the price of their meals. Did their customers know that they were subsidising a jacket warehouse?
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir,’ he said. ‘Let me organise a jacket.’
Needless to say I was uncomfortable at the idea of being re-dressed in an item of public clothing of dubious cleanliness. For a few moments, I was overwhelmed by the sheer unreasonableness of the situation. I was already under stress, preparing for the second encounter with a woman who might become my life partner. And now the institution that I was paying to supply us with a meal – the service provider who should surely be doing everything possible to make me comfortable – was putting arbitrary obstacles in my way. My Gore-Tex jacket, the high-technology garment that had protected me in rain and snowstorms, was being irrationally, unfairly and obstructively contrasted with the official’s essentially decorative woollen equivalent. I had paid $1,015 for it, including $120 extra for the customised reflective yellow. I outlined my argument.
‘My jacket is superior to yours by all reasonable criteria: impermeability to water, visibility in low light, storage capacity.’ I unzipped the jacket to display the internal pockets and continued, ‘Speed of drying, resistance to food stains, hood …’
The official was still showing no interpretable reaction, although I had almost certainly raised my voice.
‘Vastly superior tensile strength …’
To illustrate this last point, I took the lapel of the employee’s jacket in my hands. I obviously had no intention of tearing it but I was suddenly grabbed from behind by an unknown person who attempted to throw me to the ground. I automatically responded with a safe, low-impact throw to disable him without dislodging my glasses. The term ‘low impact’ applies to a martial-arts practitioner who knows how to fall. This person did not, and landed heavily.
I turned to see him – he was large and angry. In order to prevent further violence, I was forced to sit on him.
‘Get the fuck off me. I’ll fucking kill you,’ he said.
On that basis, it seemed illogical to grant his request. At that point another man arrived and tried to drag me off. Concerned that Thug Number One would carry out his threat, I had no choice but to disable Thug Number Two as well. No one was seriously hurt, but it was a very awkward social situation, and I could feel my mind shutting down.
Fortunately, Rosie arrived.
Jacket Man said, apparently in surprise, ‘Rosie!’
Obviously he knew her. She looked from him to me and said, ‘Professor Tillman – Don – what’s going on?’
‘You’re late,’ I said. ‘We have a social problem.’
‘You know this man?’ said Jacket Man to Rosie.
‘What do you think, I guessed his name?’ Rosie sounded belligerent and I thought this might not be the best approach. Surely we should seek to apologise and leave. I was assuming we would not now be eating in the restaurant.
A small crowd had gathered and it occurred to me that another thug might arrive, so I needed to work out a way of freeing up a hand without releasing the original two thugs. In the process one poked the other in the eye, and their anger levels increased noticeably. Jacket Man added, ‘He assaulted Jason.’
Rosie replied, ‘Right. Poor Jason. Always the victim.’ I could now see her. She was wearing a black dress without decoration, thick-soled black boots and vast amounts of silver jewellery on her arms. Her red hair was spiky like some new species of cactus. I have heard the word ‘stunning’ used to describe women, but this was the first time I had actually been stunned by one. It was not just the costume or the jewellery or any individual characteristic of Rosie herself: it was their combined effect. I was not sure if her appearance would be regarded as conventionally beautiful or even acceptable to the restaurant that had rejected my jacket. ‘Stunning’ was the perfect word for it. But what she did was even more stunning. She took her phone from her bag and pointed it at us. It flashed twice. Jacket Man moved to take it from her.
‘Don’t you fucking think about it,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m going to have so much fun with these photos that these guys will never stand on a door again. Professor teaches bouncers a lesson.’
As Rosie was speaking, a man in a chef’s hat arrived. He spoke briefly to Jacket Man and Rosie and, on the basis that we would be permitted to leave without further harassment, Rosie asked me to release my assailants. We all got to our feet, and, in keeping with tradition, I bowed, then extended my hand to the two men, who I had concluded must be security personnel. They had only been doing what they were paid for, and had risked injury in the course of their duties. It seemed that they were not expecting the formalities, but then one of them laughed and shook my hand, and the other followed his example. It was a good resolution, but I no longer felt like eating at the restaurant.
I collected my bike and we walked into the street. I expected Rosie to be angry about the incident, but she was smiling. I asked her how she knew Jacket Man.
‘I used to work there.’
‘You selected the restaurant because you were familiar with it?’
‘You could say that. I wanted to stick it up them.’ She began to laugh. ‘Maybe not quite that much.’
I told her that her solution was brilliant.
‘I work in a bar,’ she said. ‘Not just a bar – the Marquess of Queensbury. I deal w
ith jerks for a living.’
I pointed out that if she had arrived on schedule she could have used her social skills and the violence would have been unnecessary.
‘Glad I was late then. That was judo, right?’
‘Aikido.’ As we crossed the road, I switched my bike to my other side, between Rosie and me. ‘I’m also proficient in karate, but aikido was more appropriate.’
‘No way. It takes forever to learn that stuff, doesn’t it?’
‘I commenced at seven.’
‘How often do you train?’
‘Three times per week, except in the case of illness, public holidays and travel to overseas conferences.’
‘What got you into it?’ asked Rosie.
I pointed to my glasses.
‘Revenge of the nerds,’ she said.
‘This is the first time I’ve required it for self-defence since I was at school. It’s primarily for fitness.’ I had relaxed a little, and Rosie had provided an opportunity to slip in a question from the Wife Project questionnaire. ‘Do you exercise regularly?’
‘Depends what you call regularly.’ She laughed. ‘I’m the unfittest person on the planet.’
‘Exercise is extremely important for maintaining health.’
‘So my dad tells me. He’s a personal trainer. Constantly on my case. He gave me a gym membership for my birthday. At his gym. He has this idea we should train for a triathlon together.’
‘Surely you should follow his advice,’ I said.
‘Fuck, I’m almost thirty. I don’t need my dad telling me what to do.’ She changed the subject. ‘Listen, I’m starving. Let’s get a pizza.’
I was not prepared to consider a restaurant after the preceding trauma. I told her that I intended to revert to my original plan for the evening, which was cooking at home.
‘Got enough for two?’ she asked. ‘You still owe me dinner.’
This was true but there had been too many unscheduled events already in my day.
‘Come on. I won’t criticise your cooking. I can’t cook to save my life.’
I was not concerned about my cooking being criticised. But the lack of cooking skills on her part was the third fault so far in terms of the Wife Project questionnaire, after the late arrival and the lack of fitness. There was almost certainly a fourth: it was unlikely that her profession as waitress and barmaid was consistent with the specified intellectual level. There was no point in continuing.
The Rosie Project Page 4
