The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(20)

I am quite familiar with bars, perhaps even more familiar than most people. When I travel to conferences, I generally find a pleasant bar near my hotel and eat and drink there every evening. I replied in the affirmative and entered.

I wondered if I had come to the right location. The most obvious characteristic of Rosie was that she was female, and the patrons at the Marquess of Queensbury were without exception male. Many were wearing unusual costumes, and I took a few minutes to examine the range. Two men noted me looking at them and one smiled broadly and nodded. I smiled back. It seemed to be a friendly place.

But I was there to find Rosie. I walked to the bar. The two men followed and sat on either side of me. The clean-shaven one was wearing a cut-off t-shirt and clearly spent time at the gym. Steroids could also have been involved. The one with the moustache wore a leather costume and a black cap.

‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said Black Cap.

I gave him the simple explanation. ‘I haven’t been here before.’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘You’re offering to buy my drink?’ It was an unusual proposition from a stranger, and I guessed that I would be expected to reciprocate in some way.

‘I think that’s what I said,’ said Black Cap. ‘What can we tempt you with?’

I told him that the flavour didn’t matter, as long as it contained alcohol. As in most social situations, I was nervous.

Then Rosie appeared from the other side of the bar, dressed conventionally for her role in a collared black shirt. I was hugely relieved. I had come to the correct place and she was on duty. Black Cap waved to her. He ordered three Budweisers. Then Rosie saw me.

‘Don.’

‘Greetings.’

Rosie looked at us and asked, ‘Are you guys together?’

‘Give us a few minutes,’ said Steroid Man.

Rosie said, ‘I think Don’s here to see me.’

‘Correct.’

‘Well, pardon us interrupting your social life with drinks orders,’ Black Cap said to Rosie.

‘You could use DNA,’ I said.

Rosie clearly didn’t follow, due to lack of context. ‘What?’

‘To identify your father. DNA is the obvious approach.’

‘Sure,’ said Rosie. ‘Obvious. “Please send me your DNA so I can see if you’re my father.” Forget it, I was just mouthing off.’

‘You could collect it.’ I wasn’t sure how Rosie would respond to the next part of my suggestion. ‘Surreptitiously.’

Rosie went silent. She was at least considering the idea. Or perhaps wondering whether to report me. Her response supported the first possibility. ‘And who’s going to analyse it?’

‘I’m a geneticist.’

‘You’re saying if I got a sample, you could analyse it for me?’

‘Trivial,’ I said. ‘How many samples do we need to test?’

‘Probably only one. I’ve got a pretty good idea. He’s a family friend.’

Steroid Man coughed loudly, and Rosie fetched two beers from the refrigerator. Black Cap put a twenty-dollar note on the counter, but Rosie pushed it back and waved them away.

I tried the cough trick myself. Rosie took a moment to interpret the message this time, but then got me a beer.

‘What do you need?’ she asked. ‘To test the DNA?’

I explained that normally we would use scrapings from the inner cheek, but that it would be impractical to obtain these without the subject’s knowledge. ‘Blood is excellent, but skin scrapings, mucus, urine –’

‘Pass,’ said Rosie.

‘– faecal material, semen –’

‘It keeps getting better,’ said Rosie. ‘I can screw a sixty-year-old family friend in the hope that he turns out to be my father.’

I was shocked. ‘You’d have sex –’

Rosie explained that she was making a joke. On such a serious matter! It was getting busy around the bar, and there were a lot of cough signals happening. An effective way to spread disease. Rosie wrote a telephone number on a piece of paper.

‘Call me.’





10


The next morning, I returned with some relief to the routine that had been so severely disrupted over the past two days. My Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday runs to the market are a feature of my schedule, combining exercise, meal-ingredients purchase and an opportunity for reflection. I was in great need of the last of these.

A woman had given me her phone number and told me to call her. More than the Jacket Incident, the Balcony Meal and even the excitement of the potential Father Project, this had disrupted my world. I knew that it happened regularly: people in books, films and TV shows do exactly what Rosie had done. But it had never happened to me. No woman had ever casually, unthinkingly, automatically, written down her phone number, given it to me and said, ‘Call me.’ I had temporarily been included in a culture that I considered closed to me. Although it was entirely logical that Rosie should provide me with a means of contacting her, I had an irrational feeling that, when I called, Rosie would realise she had made some kind of error.

I arrived at the market and commenced purchasing. Because each day’s ingredients are standard, I know which stalls to visit, and the vendors generally have my items pre-packaged in advance. I need only pay. The vendors know me well and are consistently friendly.