The headmaster was, in fact, reasonably sympathetic, but warned me that I needed to show ‘respect’. But he was too late: as I walked to his office I had made the decision that it was pointless to try to fit in. I would be the class clown for the next six years.
I have thought about this event often. At the time my decision felt like a rational response based on my assessment of the new environment, but in retrospect I understood that I was driven by anger at the power structure that suppressed my arguments.
Now as I walked to the Dean’s office another thought occurred to me. What if my teacher had been a brilliant theologian, equipped with two thousand years of well-articulated Christian thinking? She would have had more compelling arguments than an eleven-year-old. Would I have then been satisfied? I suspect not. As a scientist, with an allegiance to scientific thinking, I would have had a deep-seated feeling that I was being, as Rosie would say, bullshitted. Was that how Faith Healer had felt?
Had the flounder demonstration been an instance of bullying as heinous as the one committed by my religious education teacher, even though I was right?
As we entered the Dean’s office for what I expected to be the last time, I took notice of her full name on the door, and a minor confusion was resolved. Professor Charlotte Lawrence. I had never thought of her as ‘Charlie’, but presumably Simon Lefebvre did.
We entered her office and sat down. ‘I see we’re in our job interview clothes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t see fit to grace us with them during your time here.’
I did not respond.
‘So. No report. No explanation?’
Again, I could not think of anything appropriate to say.
Simon Lefebvre appeared at the door. Obviously this had been planned. The Dean – Charlie – waved him in.
‘You can save time by explaining to Simon and me together.’
Lefebvre was carrying the documents that I had given him.
At that point, the Dean’s personal assistant, Regina, who is not objectified by having the words ‘The Beautiful’ included in her name, entered the room.
‘Sorry to bother you, Professor,’ she said, ambiguously, as we were all professors, for the next few minutes at least, but the context made it clear she was addressing the Dean. ‘I’ve got a problem with your booking at Le Gavroche. They seem to have taken you off the VIP list.’
The Dean’s face registered annoyance but she waved Regina away.
Simon Lefebvre smiled at me. ‘You could’ve just sent me this,’ he said, referring to the documents. ‘No need for the idiot-savant impression. Which I have to concede was beautifully done. As is the proposal. We’ll need to run it by the ethics guys, but it’s exactly what we’re looking for. Genetics and medicine, topic’s current, we’ll both get publicity.’
I attempted to analyse the Dean’s expression. It was beyond my current skill set.
‘So congratulations, Charlie,’ said Simon. ‘You’ve got your joint research project. The Medical Research Institute is prepared to put in four mill, which is more than the budget actually specifies, so you’re set to go.’
I presumed he meant four million dollars.
He pointed to me. ‘Hang on to this one, Charlie. He’s a dark horse. And I need him to be part of the project.’
I got my first real return on my investment in improved social skills. I had worked out what was going on. I did not ask a silly question. I did not put the Dean in a position of untenable embarrassment where she might work against her own interests. I just nodded and walked back to my office.
Phil Jarman had blue eyes. I knew this but it was the first thing I noticed. He was in his mid-fifties, about ten centimetres taller than me, powerfully built and extremely fit-looking. We were standing in front of the reception desk at Jarman’s Gym. On the wall were newspaper cuttings and photos of a younger Phil playing football. If I had been a medical student without advanced martial-arts skills, I would have thought carefully before having sex with this man’s girlfriend. Perhaps this was the simple reason that Phil had never been informed of the identity of Rosie’s father.
‘Get the prof some gear and get his signature on a waiver form.’
The woman behind the counter seemed puzzled.
‘It’s just an assessment.’
‘New procedure starts today,’ said Phil.
‘I don’t require an assessment,’ I began, but Phil seemed to have fixed ideas.
‘You booked one,’ he said. ‘Sixty-five bucks. Let’s get you some boxing gloves.’
I wondered if he realised that he had called me ‘prof’. Presumably Rosie had been right, and he had seen the dancing picture. I had not bothered to disguise my name. But at least I knew that he knew who I was. Did he know that I knew that he knew who I was? I was getting quite good at social subtleties.
I changed into a singlet and shorts, which smelled freshly laundered, and we put on boxing gloves. I had only done the occasional boxing workout, but I was not afraid of getting hurt. I had good defensive techniques if necessary. I was more interested in talking.
‘Let’s see you hit me,’ said Phil.
I threw some gentle punches which Phil blocked.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Try to hurt me.’
He asked for it.
‘Your stepdaughter is trying to locate her real father because she’s dissatisfied with you.’
Phil dropped his guard. Very poor form. I could have landed a punch unimpeded if we were in a real bout.
‘Stepdaughter?’ he said. ‘That’s what she’s calling herself? That’s why you’re here?’
He threw a hard punch and I had to use a proper block to avoid being hit. He recognised it and tried a hook. I blocked that too and counterpunched. He avoided it nicely.
‘Since it’s unlikely she’ll succeed, we need to fix the problem with you.’
Phil threw a straight hard one at my head. I blocked and stepped away.
‘With me?’ he said. ‘With Phil Jarman? Who built his own business from nothing, who bench-presses a hundred and forty-five kilos, who plenty of women still think is a better deal than some doctor or lawyer? Or egghead?’
He threw a combination and I attacked back. I thought there was a high probability that I could take him down, but I needed to continue the conversation.
‘It’s none of your business but I was on the school council, coached the senior football team –’
‘Obviously these achievements were insufficient,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Rosie requires something in addition to personal excellence.’ In a moment of clarity, I realised what that something might be in my own case. Was all my work in self-improvement in vain? Was I going to end up like Phil, trying to win Rosie’s love but regarded with contempt?
Fighting and contemplation are not compatible. Phil’s punch took me in the solar plexus. I managed to step back and reduce the force, but went down. Phil stood over me, angry.
‘Maybe one day she’ll know everything. Maybe that’ll help, maybe it won’t.’ He shook his head hard, as though he was the one who had taken a punch. ‘Did I ever call myself her stepfather? Ask her that. I’ve got no other children, no wife. I did all the things – I read to her, got up in the night, took her horseriding. After her mother was gone, I couldn’t do a thing right.’
I sat up and shouted. I was angry too. ‘You failed to take her to Disneyland. You lied to her.’
I scissored his legs, bringing him down. He didn’t fall competently, and hit the floor hard. We struggled and I pinned him. His nose was bleeding badly and there was blood all over my singlet.
‘Disneyland!’ said Phil. ‘She was ten!’
‘She told everyone at school. It’s still a major problem.’
He tried to break free, but I managed to hold him, despite the impediment of the boxing gloves.
‘You want to know when I told her I’d take her to Disneyland? One time. Once. You know when? At her mother’s funeral. I was in a wheelchair. I was in reha
b for eight months.’
It was a very reasonable explanation. I wished Rosie had provided this background information prior to me holding her stepfather’s head on the floor with blood pouring from his nose. I explained to Phil that at my sister’s funeral I made an irrational promise to donate to a hospice when the money would have been better applied to research. He seemed to understand.
‘I bought her a jewellery box. She’d been on her mother’s case forever to buy it. I thought she’d forgotten about Disneyland when I came out of rehab.’
‘Predicting the impact of actions on other people is difficult.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Phil. ‘Can we get up?’
His nose was still bleeding and was probably broken, so it was a reasonable request. But I was not prepared to let him go yet.
‘Not until we solve the problem.’
It had been a very full day but the most critical task was still ahead. I examined myself in the mirror. The new glasses, vastly lighter, and the revised hair shape made a bigger difference than the clothes.
I put the important envelope in my jacket pocket and the small box in my trouser pocket. As I phoned for a taxi, I looked at my whiteboard. The schedule, now written in erasable marker, was a sea of red writing – my code for the Rosie Project. I told myself that the changes it had produced were worthwhile, even if tonight I failed to achieve the final objective.
33
The taxi arrived and we made an intermediate stop at the flower shop. I had not been inside this shop – or indeed purchased flowers at all – since I’d stopped visiting Daphne. Daphne for Daphne; obviously the appropriate choice for this evening was roses. The vendor recognised me and I informed her of Daphne’s death. After I purchased a dozen long-stemmed red roses, consistent with standard romantic behaviour, she snipped a small quantity of daphne and inserted it in the buttonhole of my jacket. The smell brought back memories of Daphne. I wished she was alive to meet Rosie.
I tried to phone Rosie as the taxi approached her apartment building, but there was no answer. She was not outside when we arrived, and most of the bell buttons did not have names beside them. There was a risk that she had chosen not to accept my invitation.
It was cold and I was shaking. I waited a full ten minutes, then called again. There was still no answer and I was about to instruct the driver to leave when she came running out. I reminded myself that it was I who had changed, not Rosie – I should have expected her to be late. She was wearing the black dress that had stunned me on the night of the Jacket Incident. I gave her the roses. I read her expression as surprised.
Then she looked at me.
‘You look different … really different … again,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘I decided to reform myself.’ I liked the sound of the word: ‘re-form’. We got in the taxi, Rosie still holding the roses, and travelled the short distance to the restaurant in silence. I was looking for information about her attitude towards me, and thought it best to let her speak first. In fact she didn’t say anything until she noticed that the taxi was stopping outside Le Gavroche – the scene of the Jacket Incident.
‘Don, is this a joke?’
I paid the driver, exited the taxi and opened Rosie’s door. She stepped out but was reluctant to proceed, clutching the roses to her chest with both hands. I put one hand behind her and guided her towards the door, where the maître d’ whom we had encountered on our previous visit was standing in his uniform. Jacket Man.
He recognised Rosie instantly, as evidenced by his greeting. ‘Rosie.’
Then he looked at me. ‘Sir?’
‘Good evening.’ I took the flowers from Rosie and gave them to the maître d’. ‘We have a reservation in the name of Tillman. Would you be kind enough to look after these?’ It was a standard formula but very confidence-boosting. Everyone seemed very comfortable now that we were behaving in a predictable manner. The maître d’ checked the reservation list. I took the opportunity to smooth over any remaining difficulties and made a small prepared joke.
‘My apologies for the misunderstanding last time. There shouldn’t be any difficulties tonight. Unless they overchill the white Burgundy.’ I smiled.
A male waiter appeared, the maître d’ introduced me, briefly complimenting me on my jacket, and we were led into the dining room and to our table. It was all very straightforward.
I ordered a bottle of chablis. Rosie still seemed to be adjusting.
The sommelier appeared with the wine. He was looking around the room, as if for support. I diagnosed nervousness.
‘It’s at thirteen degrees but if sir would like it less chilled … or more chilled …’
‘That will be fine, thank you.’
He poured me a taste and I swirled, sniffed and nodded approval according to the standard protocol. Meanwhile, the waiter who had led us to the table reappeared. He was about forty, BMI approximately twenty-two, quite tall.
‘Professor Tillman?’ he said. ‘My name’s Nick and I’m the head waiter. If there’s anything you need, or anything that’s a problem, just ask for me.’
‘Much appreciated, Nick.’
Waiters introducing themselves by name was more in the American tradition. Either this restaurant deliberately chose to do so as a point of difference, or we were being given more personal treatment. I guessed the latter: I was probably marked as a dangerous person. Good. I would need all the support I could get tonight.
Nick handed us menus.
‘I’m happy to leave it to the chef,’ I said. ‘But no meat, and seafood only if it’s sustainable.’
Nick smiled. ‘I’ll speak to the chef and see what he can do.’
‘I realise it’s a little tricky, but my friend lives by some quite strict rules,’ I said.
Rosie gave me a very strange look. My statement was intended to make a small point, and I think it succeeded. She tried her chablis and buttered a bread roll. I remained silent.
Finally she spoke.
‘All right, Gregory Peck. What are we doing first? The My Fair Lady story or the big revelation?’
This was good. Rosie was prepared to discuss things directly. In fact, directness had always been one of Rosie’s positive attributes, though on this occasion she had not identified the most important topic.
‘I’m in your hands,’ I said. Standard polite method for avoiding a choice and empowering the other person.
‘Don, stop it. You know who my father is, right? It’s Table-Napkin Man, isn’t it?’
‘Possibly,’ I said, truthfully. Despite the positive outcome of the meeting with the Dean, I did not have my lab key back. ‘That isn’t what I want to share.’
‘All right then. Here’s the plan. You share your thing; tell me who my father is; tell me what you’ve done to yourself; we both go home.’
I couldn’t put a name to her tone of speech and expression, but it was clearly negative. She took another sip of her wine.
‘Sorry.’ She looked a little apologetic. ‘Go. The sharing thing.’
I had grave doubts about the likely efficacy of my next move, but there was no contingency plan. I had sourced my speech from When Harry Met Sally. It resonated best with me and with the situation, and had the additional advantage of the link to our happy time in New York. I hoped Rosie’s brain would make that connection, ideally subconsciously. I drank the remainder of my wine. Rosie’s eyes followed my glass, then she looked up at me.
‘Are you okay, Don?’
‘I asked you here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.’
I studied Rosie’s expression carefully. I diagnosed stunned.
‘Oh my God,’ said Rosie, confirming the diagnosis. I followed up while she was still receptive.
‘It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’
I could see that Rosie could not place the line fr
om The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused.
‘Don, what are you … what have you done to yourself?’
‘I’ve made some changes.’
‘Big changes.’
‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’
Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care.
‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required.’
I heard someone clapping. It was a slim woman of about sixty sitting with another woman of approximately the same age.
Rosie took a drink of her wine, then spoke in a very measured way. ‘Don, I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know who’s asking me – the old Don or Billy Crystal.’
‘There’s no old and new,’ I said. ‘It’s just behaviour. Social conventions. Glasses and haircut.’
‘I like you, Don,’ said Rosie. ‘Okay? Forget what I said about outing my father. You’re probably right. I really really like you. I have fun with you. The best times. But, you know I couldn’t eat lobster every Tuesday. Right?’
‘I’ve abandoned the Standardised Meal System. I’ve deleted thirty-eight per cent of my weekly schedule, excluding sleep. I’ve thrown out my old t-shirts. I’ve eliminated all of the things you didn’t like. Further changes are possible.’
‘You changed yourself for me?’
‘Only my behaviour.’
Rosie was silent for a while, obviously processing the new information.
‘I need a minute to think,’ she said. I automatically started the timer on my watch. Suddenly Rosie started laughing. I looked at her, understandably puzzled at this outburst in the middle of a critical life decision.
‘The watch,’ she said. ‘I say “I need a minute” and you start timing. Don is not dead.’
The Rosie Project Page 22
