The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(10)

Cycling home, I reflected on the dinner. It had been a grossly inefficient method of selection, but the questionnaire had been of significant value. Without the questions it prompted, I would undoubtedly have attempted a second date with Olivia, who was an interesting and nice person. Perhaps we would have gone on a third and fourth and fifth date, then one day, when all of the desserts at the restaurant contained egg, we would have crossed the road to the ice-cream parlour, and discovered they had no egg-free pistachio. It was better to find out before we made an investment in the relationship.





5


I stood inside the entrance of a suburban house that reminded me of my parents’ brick veneer residence in Shepparton. I had resolved never to attend another singles party, but the questionnaire allowed me to avoid the agony of unstructured social interaction with strangers.

As the female guests arrived, I gave each a questionnaire to complete at their convenience and return to me either at the party or by mail. The host, a woman, initially invited me to join the crowd in the living room, but I explained my strategy and she left me alone. After two hours, a woman of about thirty-five, estimated BMI twenty-one, returned from the living room, holding two glasses of sparkling wine. In her other hand was a questionnaire.

She passed me a glass. ‘I thought you might be thirsty,’ she said in an attractive French accent.

I was not thirsty, but I was pleased to be offered alcohol. I had decided that I would not give up drinking unless I found a non-drinking partner. And, after some self-analysis, I had concluded that (c) moderately was an acceptable answer to the drinking question and made a note to update the questionnaire.

‘Thank you.’ I hoped she would give me the questionnaire and that it might, improbably, signal the end of my quest. She was extremely attractive, and her gesture with the wine indicated a high level of consideration not exhibited by any of the other guests or the host.

‘You are a researcher, am I right?’ She tapped the questionnaire.

‘Correct.’

‘Me, also,’ she said. ‘There are not many academics here tonight.’ Although it is dangerous to draw conclusions based on manner and conversation topics, my assessment of the guests was consistent with this observation.

‘I’m Fabienne,’ she said, and extended her free hand, which I shook, careful to apply the recommended level of firmness. ‘This is terrible wine, no?’

I agreed. It was a carbonated sweet wine, acceptable only because of its alcohol content.

‘You think we should go to a wine bar and get something better?’ she asked.

I shook my head. The poor wine quality was annoying but not critical.

Fabienne took a deep breath. ‘Listen. I have drunk two glasses of wine, I have not had sex for six weeks, and I would rather wait six more than try anyone else here. Now, can I buy you a drink?’

It was a very kind offer. But it was still early in the evening. I said, ‘More guests are expected. You may find someone suitable if you wait.’

Fabienne gave me her questionnaire and said, ‘I presume you will be notifying the winners in due course.’ I told her that I would. When she had gone, I quickly checked her questionnaire. Predictably, she failed in a number of dimensions. It was disappointing.

My final non-internet option was speed dating, an approach I had not previously tried.

The venue was a function room in a hotel. At my insistence, the convenor disclosed the actual start time, and I waited in the bar to avoid aimless interaction until then. When I returned, I took the last remaining seat at a long table, opposite a person labelled Frances, aged approximately fifty, BMI approximately twenty-eight, not conventionally attractive.

The convenor rang a bell and my three minutes with Frances commenced.

I pulled out my questionnaire and scribbled her name on it – there was no time for subtlety under these circumstances.

‘I’ve sequenced the questions for maximum speed of elimination,’ I explained. ‘I believe I can eliminate most women in less than forty seconds. Then you can choose the topic of discussion for the remaining time.’

‘But then it won’t matter,’ said Frances. ‘I’ll have been eliminated.’

‘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.