The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(11)

‘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?’