The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(18)

Rosie immediately covered it with her hand. ‘What’s on it?’

‘An image of Isis with an inscription: Sum omnia quae fuerunt suntque eruntque ego. “I am all that has been, is and will be.” ’ I hoped I had read the Latin correctly; the writing was very small.

Rosie seemed impressed. ‘What about the pendant I had on this morning?’

‘Dagger with three small red stones and four white ones.’

Rosie finished her wine. She seemed to be thinking about something. It turned out not to be anything profound.

‘Want to get another bottle?’

I was a little stunned. We had already drunk the recommended maximum amount. On the other hand, she smoked, so obviously she had a careless attitude to health.

‘You want more alcohol?’

‘Correct,’ she said, in an odd voice. She may have been mimicking me.

I went to the kitchen to select another bottle, deciding to reduce the next day’s alcohol intake to compensate. Then I saw the clock: 11.40 p.m. I picked up the phone and ordered a taxi. With any luck it would arrive before the after-midnight tariff commenced. I opened a half-bottle of shiraz to drink while we waited.

Rosie wanted to continue the conversation about her biological father.

‘Do you think there might be some sort of genetic motivation? That it’s built into us to want to know who our parents are?’

‘It’s critical for parents to be able to recognise their own children. So they can protect the carriers of their genes. Small children need to be able to locate their parents to get that protection.’

‘Maybe it’s some sort of carry-over from that.’

‘It seems unlikely. But possible. Our behaviour is strongly affected by instinct.’

‘So you said. Whatever it is, it eats me up. Messes with my head.’

‘Why don’t you ask the candidates?’

‘ “Dear Doctor. Are you my father?” I don’t think so.’

An obvious thought occurred to me, obvious because I am a geneticist.

‘Your hair is a very unusual colour. Possibly –’

She laughed. ‘There aren’t any genes for this shade of red.’

She must have seen that I was confused.

‘This colour only comes out of a bottle.’

I realised what she was saying. She had deliberately dyed her hair an unnaturally bright colour. Incredible. It hadn’t even occurred to me to include hair dyeing on the questionnaire. I made a mental note to do so.

The doorbell buzzed. I had not mentioned the taxi to her, so brought her up to date with my plan. She quickly finished her wine, then stuck her hand out and it seemed to me that I was not the only one feeling awkward.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s been an evening. Have a good life.’

It was a non-standard way of saying goodnight. I thought it safer to stick with convention.

‘Goodnight. I’ve really enjoyed this evening.’ I added, ‘Good luck finding your father’ to the formula.

‘Thanks.’

Then she left.

I was agitated, but not in a bad way. It was more a case of sensory overload. I was pleased to find some wine left in the bottle. I poured it into my glass and phoned Gene. Claudia answered and I dispensed with pleasantries.

‘I need to speak with Gene.’

‘He’s not home,’ said Claudia. She sounded disoriented. Perhaps she had been drinking. ‘I thought he was having lobster with you.’

‘Gene sent me the world’s most incompatible woman. A barmaid. Late, vegetarian, disorganised, irrational, unhealthy, smoker – smoker! – psychological problems, can’t cook, mathematically incompetent, unnatural hair colour. I presume he was making a joke.’

Claudia must have interpreted this as a statement of distress because she said, ‘Are you all right, Don?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘She was highly entertaining. But totally unsuitable for the Wife Project.’ As I said these words, indisputably factual, I felt a twinge of regret at odds with my intellectual assessment. Claudia interrupted my attempt to reconcile the conflicting brain states.

‘Don, do you know what time it is?’

I wasn’t wearing a watch. And then I realised my error. I had used the kitchen clock as my reference when phoning the taxi. The clock that Rosie had reset. It must have been almost 2.30 a.m. How could I have lost track of time like that? It was a severe lesson in the dangers of messing with the schedule. Rosie would be paying the after-midnight tariff in the taxi.

I let Claudia return to sleep. As I picked up the two plates and two glasses to bring them inside, I looked again at the night-time view of the city – the view I had never seen before even though it had been there all the time.

I decided to skip my pre-bed aikido routine. And to leave the makeshift table in place.





9


‘I threw her in as a wild card,’ said Gene when I woke him up from the unscheduled sleep he was taking under his desk the next day.

Gene looked terrible and I told him he should refrain from staying up so late – although for once I had been guilty of the same error. It was important that he eat lunch at the correct time to get his circadian rhythm back on schedule. He had a packed lunch from home, and we headed for a grassy area in the university grounds. I collected seaweed salad, miso soup and an apple from the Japanese café on the way.