The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  The bathroom was in need of Eva’s services. I managed to open the window, which had obviously not been used for a long time. We were four floors up, but there seemed to be plenty of handholds on the wall. I eased myself through the window and started climbing down, slowly, focusing on the task, hoping Rosie had escaped successfully. It had been a long time since I had practised rock climbing and the descent was not as simple as it first seemed. The wall was slippery from rain earlier in the day and my running shoes were not ideal for the task. At one point I slipped and only just managed to grasp a rough brick. I heard shouts from below.

  When I finally reached the ground, I discovered that a small crowd had formed. Rosie was among them. She flung her arms around me. ‘Oh my God, Don, you could have killed yourself. It didn’t matter that much.’

  ‘The risk was minor. It was just important to ignore the height issue.’

  We headed for the subway. Rosie was quite agitated. Freyberg had thought that she was some sort of private investigator, working on behalf of a dissatisfied patient. He was trying to have the security personnel detain her. Whether his position was legally defensible or not, we would have been in a difficult position.

  ‘I’m going to get changed,’ said Rosie. ‘Our last night in New York City. What do you want to do?’

  My original schedule specified a steakhouse, but now that we were in the pattern of eating together, I would need to select a restaurant suitable for a sustainable-seafood-eating ‘vegetarian’.

  ‘We’ll work it out,’ she said. ‘Lots of options.’

  It took me three minutes to change my shirt. I waited downstairs for Rosie for another six. Finally I went up to her room and knocked. There was a long wait. Then I heard her voice.

  ‘How long do you think it takes to have a shower?’

  ‘Three minutes, twenty seconds,’ I said, ‘unless I wash my hair, in which case it takes an extra minute and twelve seconds.’ The additional time was due primarily to the requirement that the conditioner remain in place for sixty seconds.

  ‘Hold on.’

  Rosie opened the door wearing only a towel. Her hair was wet, and she looked extremely attractive. I forgot to keep my eyes directed towards her face.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘No pendant.’ She was right. I couldn’t use the pendant excuse. But she didn’t give me a lecture on inappropriate behaviour. Instead, she smiled and stepped towards me. I wasn’t sure if she was going to take another step, or if I should. In the end, neither of us did. It was an awkward moment but I suspected we had both contributed to the problem.

  ‘You should have brought the ring,’ said Rosie.

  For a moment, my brain interpreted ‘ring’ as ‘wedding ring’, and began constructing a completely incorrect scenario. Then I realised that she was referring to the spiked ring I had proposed as a means of obtaining Freyberg’s blood.

  ‘To come all this way and not get a sample.’

  ‘Fortunately, we have one.’

  ‘You got a sample? How?’

  ‘His bathroom. What a slob. He should get his prostate checked. The floor –’

  ‘Stop,’ said Rosie. ‘Too much information. But nice work.’

  ‘Very poor hygiene,’ I told her. ‘For a surgeon. A pseudo-surgeon. Incredible waste of surgical skill – inserting synthetic materials purely to alter appearance.’

  ‘Wait till you’re fifty-five and your partner’s forty-five and see if you say the same thing.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be a feminist,’ I said, though I was beginning to doubt it.

  ‘It doesn’t mean I want to be unattractive.’

  ‘Your appearance should be irrelevant to your partner’s assessment of you.’

  ‘Life is full of should-be’s,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re the geneticist. Everyone notices how people look. Even you.’

  ‘True. But I don’t allow it to affect my evaluation of them.’

  I was on dangerous territory: the issue of Rosie’s attractiveness had got me into serious trouble on the night of the faculty ball. The statement was consistent with my beliefs about judging people and with how I would wish to be judged myself. But I had never had to apply these beliefs to someone standing opposite me in a hotel bedroom wearing only a towel. It dawned on me that I had not told the full truth.

  ‘Ignoring the testosterone factor,’ I added.

  ‘Is there a compliment buried in there somewhere?’

  The conversation was getting complicated. I tried to clarify my position. ‘It would be unreasonable to give you credit for being incredibly beautiful.’

  What I did next was undoubtedly a result of my thoughts being scrambled by a sequence of extraordinary and traumatic incidents in the preceding few hours: the hand-holding, the escape from the cosmetic surgery and the extreme impact of the world’s most beautiful woman standing naked under a towel in front of me.

  Gene should also take some blame for suggesting that earlobe size was a predictor of sexual attraction. Since I had never been so sexually attracted to a woman before, I was suddenly compelled to examine her ears. In a moment that was, in retrospect, similar to a critical incident in Albert Camus’ The Outsider, I reached out and brushed her hair aside. But in this case, amazingly, the response was different from that documented in the novel we had studied in high school. Rosie put her arms round me and kissed me.

  I think it is likely that my brain is wired in a non-standard configuration, but my ancestors would not have succeeded in breeding without understanding and responding to basic sexual signals. That aptitude was hardwired in. I kissed Rosie back. She responded.

  We pulled apart for a moment. It was obvious that dinner would be delayed. Rosie studied me and said, ‘You know, if you changed your glasses and your haircut, you could be Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.’

  ‘Is that good?’ I assumed, given the circumstances, that it was, but wanted to hear her confirm it.

  ‘He was only the sexiest man that ever lived.’

  We looked at each other some more, and I moved to kiss her again. She stopped me.

  ‘Don, this is New York. It’s like a holiday. I don’t want you to assume it means anything more.’

  ‘What happens in New York stays in New York, right?’ It was a line Gene had taught me for conference use. I had never needed to employ it before. It felt a little odd, but appropriate for the circumstances. It was obviously important that we both agreed there was no emotional continuation. Although I did not have a wife at home like Gene, I had a concept of a wife that was very different from Rosie, who would presumably step out on the balcony for a cigarette after sex. Oddly, the prospect didn’t repel me as much as it should have.

  ‘I have to get something from my room,’ I said.

  ‘Good thinking. Don’t take too long.’

  My room was only eleven floors above Rosie’s, so I walked up the stairs. Back in my room, I showered, then thumbed through the book Gene had given me. He had been right after all. Incredible.

  I descended the stairs to Rosie’s room. Forty-three minutes had passed. I knocked on the door, and Rosie answered, now wearing a sleeping costume that was, in fact, more revealing than the towel. She was holding two glasses of Champagne.

  ‘Sorry, it’s gone a bit flat.’

  I looked around the room. The bed cover was turned down, the curtains were closed and there was just one bedside lamp on. I gave her Gene’s book.

  ‘Since this is our first – and probably only – time, and you are doubtless more experienced, I recommend that you select the position.’

  Rosie thumbed through the book, then started again. She stopped at the first page where Gene had written his symbol.

  ‘Gene gave you this?’

  ‘It was a present for the trip.’

  I tried to read Rosie’s expression, and guessed anger, but that disappeared and she said, in a non-angry tone, ‘Don, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Did I say something wro
ng?’

  ‘No, it’s me. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘You changed your mind while I was gone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s what happened. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure I didn’t do something wrong?’ Rosie was my friend and the risk to our friendship was now at the forefront of my mind. The sex issue had evaporated.

  ‘No, no, it’s me,’ she said. ‘You were incredibly considerate.’

  It was a compliment I was unaccustomed to receiving. A very satisfying compliment. The night had not been a total disaster.

  I could not sleep. I had not eaten and it was only 8.55 p.m. Claudia and Gene would be at work now, back in Melbourne, and I did not feel like talking to either of them. I considered it inadvisable to contact Rosie again, so I rang my remaining friend. Dave had eaten already, but we walked to a pizza restaurant and he ate a second dinner. Then we went to a bar and watched baseball and talked about women. I do not recall much of what either of us said, but I suspect that little of it would have been useful in making rational plans for the future.

  28

  My mind had gone blank. That is a standard phrase, and an exaggeration of the situation. My brain stem continued to function, my heart still beat, I did not forget to breathe. I was able to pack my bag, consume breakfast in my room, navigate to JFK, negotiate check-in and board the plane to Los Angeles. I managed to communicate with Rosie to the extent that it was necessary to coordinate these activities.

  But reflective functioning was suspended. The reason was obvious – emotional overload! My normally well-managed emotions had been allowed out in New York – on the advice of Claudia, a qualified clinical psychologist – and had been dangerously overstimulated. Now they were running amok in my brain, crippling my ability to think. And I needed all my thinking ability to analyse the problem.

  Rosie had the window seat and I was by the aisle. I followed the pre-take-off safety procedures, for once not dwelling on their unjustified assumptions and irrational priorities. In the event of impending disaster, we would all have something to do. I was in the opposite position. Incapacitated.

  Rosie put her hand on my arm. ‘How are you feeling, Don?’

  I tried to focus on analysing one aspect of the experience and the corresponding emotional reaction. I knew where to start. Logically, I did not need to go back to my room to get Gene’s book. Showing a book to Rosie was not part of the original scenario I had planned back in Melbourne when I prepared for a sexual encounter. I may be socially inept, but with the kiss underway, and Rosie wearing only a towel, there should have been no difficulties in proceeding. My knowledge of positions was a bonus, but probably irrelevant the first time.

  So why did my instincts drive me to a course of action that ultimately sabotaged the opportunity? The first-level answer was obvious. They were telling me not to proceed. But why? I identified three possibilities.

  1. I was afraid that I would fail to perform sexually.

  It did not take long to dismiss this possibility. I might well have been less competent than a more experienced person and could even have been rendered impotent by fear, though I considered this unlikely. But I was accustomed to being embarrassed, even in front of Rosie. The sexual drive was much stronger than any requirement to protect my image.

  2. No condom.

  I realised, on reflection, that Rosie had probably assumed that I had left her room to collect or purchase a condom. Obviously I should have obtained one, in line with all recommendations on safe sex, and presumably the concierge would have some for emergencies, along with spare toothbrushes and razors. The fact that I did not do so was further evidence that subconsciously I did not expect to proceed. Gene had once told me a story about racing around Cairo in a taxi trying to find a condom vendor. My motivation had clearly not been as strong.

  3. I could not deal with the emotional consequences.

  The third possibility only entered my mind after I eliminated the first and second. I immediately knew – instinctively! – that it was the correct one. My brain was already emotionally overloaded. It was not the death-defying climb from the surgeon’s window or the memory of being interrogated in a dark cellar by a bearded psychiatrist who would stop at nothing to protect his secret. It was not even the experience of holding Rosie’s hand from the museum to the subway, although that was a contributor. It was the total experience of hanging out with Rosie in New York.

  My instincts were telling me that if I added any more to this experience – if I added the literally mind-blowing experience of having sex with her – my emotions would take over my brain. And they would drive me towards a relationship with Rosie. That would be a disaster for two reasons. The first was that she was totally unsuitable in the longer term. The second was that she had made it clear that such a relationship would not extend beyond our time in New York. These reasons were completely contradictory, mutually exclusive and based on entirely different premises. I had no idea which one was correct.

  We were in the final stages of our descent into LAX. I turned to Rosie. It had been several hours since she asked her question, and I had now given it considerable thought. How was I feeling?

  ‘Confused,’ I said to her.

  I expected her to have forgotten the question, but perhaps the answer made sense in any case.

  ‘Welcome to the real world.’

  I managed to stay awake for the first six hours of the fifteen-hour flight home from LA in order to reset my internal clock, but it was difficult.

  Rosie had slept for a few hours then watched a movie. I looked over, and saw that she was crying. She removed her headphones and wiped her eyes.

  ‘You’re crying,’ I said. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Sprung,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just a sad story. Bridges of Madison County. I presume you don’t cry at movies.’

  ‘Correct.’ I realised that this might be viewed as a negative, so added, in defence, ‘It seems to be a predominantly female behaviour.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ Rosie went quiet again but seemed to have recovered from the sadness that the movie had stimulated.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘do you feel anything when you watch a movie? You’ve seen Casablanca?’

  I was familiar with this question. Gene and Claudia had asked it after we watched a DVD together. So my answer was the result of reflection.

  ‘I’ve seen several romantic movies. The answer is no. Unlike Gene and Claudia, and apparently the majority of the human race, I am not emotionally affected by love stories. I don’t appear to be wired for that response.’

  I visited Claudia and Gene for dinner on the Sunday night. I was feeling unusually jet-lagged, and as a result had some difficulty in providing a coherent account of the trip. I tried to talk about my meeting with David Borenstein at Columbia, what I saw at the museums and the meal at Momofuku Ko, but they were obsessed with grilling me about my interactions with Rosie. I could not reasonably be expected to remember every detail. And obviously I could not talk about the Father Project activities.

  Claudia was very pleased with the scarf, but it provided another opportunity for interrogation. ‘Did Rosie help you choose this?’

  Rosie, Rosie, Rosie.

  ‘The sales assistant recommended it. It was very straightforward.’

  As I left, Claudia said, ‘So, Don, are you planning to see Rosie again?’

  ‘Next Saturday,’ I said, truthfully, not bothering to tell her that it was not a social occasion – we had scheduled the afternoon to analyse the DNA.

  She seemed satisfied.

  I was eating lunch alone in the University Club, reviewing the Father Project file, when Gene arrived with his meal and a glass of wine and sat opposite me. I tried to put the file away, but succeeded only in giving him the correct impression that I was trying to hide something. Gene suddenly looked over at the service counter, behind me.

  ‘Oh God!’ he said.

  I turned to look and Gene snatched the
folder, laughing.

  ‘That’s private,’ I said, but Gene had opened it. The photo of the graduating class was on top.

  Gene seemed genuinely surprised. ‘My God. Where did you get this?’ He was studying the photo intently. ‘It must be thirty years old. What’s all the scribble?’

  ‘Organising a reunion,’ I said. ‘Helping a friend. Weeks ago.’ It was a good answer, considering the short time I had to formulate it, but it did have a major defect. Gene detected it.

  ‘A friend? Right. One of your many friends. You should have invited me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who do you think took the photo?’

  Of course. Someone had been required to take the photo. I was too stunned to speak.

  ‘I was the only outsider,’ said Gene. ‘The genetics tutor. Big night – everyone pumped, no partners. Hottest ticket in town.’

  Gene pointed to a face in the photo. I had always focused on the males, and never looked for Rosie’s mother. But now that Gene was pointing to her, she was easy to identify. The resemblance was obvious, including the red hair, although the colour was less dramatic than Rosie’s. She was standing between Isaac Esler and Geoffrey Case. As in Isaac Esler’s wedding photo, Case was smiling broadly.

  ‘Bernadette O’Connor.’ Gene sipped his wine. ‘Irish.’

  I was familiar with the tone of Gene’s statement. There was a reason for him remembering this particular woman, and it was not because she was Rosie’s mother. In fact, it seemed that he didn’t know the connection, and I made a quick decision not to inform him.

  His finger moved one space to the left.

  ‘Geoffrey Case. Not a great return on his tuition fees.’

  ‘He died, correct?’

  ‘Killed himself.’

  This was new information. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Gene. ‘Come on, what’s this about?’

  I ignored the question. ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘Probably forgot to take his lithium,’ said Gene. ‘He had bipolar disorder. Life of the party on a good day.’ He looked at me. I assumed he was about to interrogate me as to the reason for my interest in Geoffrey Case and the reunion, and I was thinking frantically to invent a plausible explanation. I was saved by an empty pepper grinder. Gene gave it a twist, then walked away to exchange it. I used a table napkin to swab his wine glass and left before he returned.