The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(36)

‘How nice for them. Here’s a thought for you. Any woman who takes that test is happy to be treated as an object. You can say that’s their choice. But, if you spent two minutes looking at how much society forces women to think of themselves as objects, you might not think so. What I want to know is, do you want a woman who thinks like that? Is that the sort of wife you want?’ Rosie was sounding angry. ‘You know why I dress the way I do? Why these glasses? Because I don’t want to be treated as an object. If you knew how insulted I am that you think I was an applicant, a candidate –’

‘Then why did you come to see me that day?’ I asked. ‘The day of the Jacket Incident?’

She shook her head. ‘Remember at your apartment, on your balcony, I asked you a question about the size of testicles?’

I nodded.

‘It didn’t strike you as odd that here I was, on a first date, asking about testicles?’

‘Not really. On a date I’m too focused on not saying odd things myself.’

‘Okay, strike that.’ She seemed a little calmer. ‘The reason I asked the question was that I had a bet with Gene. Gene, who is a sexist pig, bet me that humans were naturally non-monogamous, and that the evidence was the size of their testicles. He sent me to a genetics expert to settle the bet.’

It took me a few moments to process fully the implications of what Rosie was saying. Gene had not prepared her for the dinner invitation. A woman – Rosie – had accepted an offer of a date with me without being pre-warned, set up. I was suffused with an irrationally disproportionate sense of satisfaction. But Gene had misled me. And it seemed he had taken advantage of Rosie financially.

‘Did you lose much money?’ I asked. ‘It seems exploitative for a professor of psychology to make a bet with a barmaid.’

‘I’m not a f*cking barmaid.’

I could tell by the use of the obscenity that Rosie was getting angry again. But she could hardly contradict the evidence. I realised my error – one that would have caused trouble if I had made it in front of a class.

‘Bar-?person.’

‘Bartender is the established non-sexist term,’ she said. ‘That’s not the point. It’s my part-time job. I’m doing my PhD in psychology, okay? In Gene’s department. Does that make sense now?’

Of course! I suddenly remembered where I had seen her before – arguing with Gene after his public lecture. I recalled that Gene had asked her to have coffee with him – as he habitually did with attractive women – but that she had refused. For some reason I felt pleased about this. But if I had recognised her when she first came to my office, the whole misunderstanding could have been avoided. Everything now made sense, including the performance she had given in her medical-school enquiry. Except for two things.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I am a barmaid, and I’m not ashamed of it. You can take me or leave me as a barmaid.’ I assumed she was speaking metaphorically.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘That explains almost everything.’

‘Oh, that’s fine then. Why the “almost”? Don’t feel you have to leave anything hanging.’

‘Why Gene didn’t tell me.’

‘Because he’s an arsehole.’

‘Gene is my best friend.’

‘God help you,’ she said.

With matters clarified, it was time to finish the project, although our chances of finding the father tonight were looking poor. Fourteen candidates remained and we had only three samples left. I got up and walked to the machine.

‘Listen,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m going to ask you again. Why are you doing this?’

I remembered my reflection on this question, and the answer I had reached involving scientific challenge and altruism to adjacent humans. But as I began my explanation I realised that it was not true. Tonight we had corrected numerous invalid assumptions and errors in communication. I should not create a new one.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

I turned back to the machine and began to load the sample. My work was interrupted by a sudden smashing of glass. Rosie had thrown a beaker, fortunately not one containing an untested sample, against the wall.

‘I am so so over this.’ She walked out.

The next morning there was a knock at my office door. Rosie.

‘Enter,’ I said. ‘I assume you want to know the final three results.’

Rosie walked unnaturally slowly to my desk where I was reviewing some potentially life-changing data. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I figured they were negative. Even you would have phoned if you’d got a match.’

‘Correct.’

She stood and looked at me without saying anything. I am aware that such silences are provided as opportunities for me to speak further, but I could think of nothing useful to say. Finally, she filled the gap.

‘Hey – sorry I blew up last night.’

‘Totally understandable. It’s incredibly frustrating to work so hard for no result. But very common in science.’ I remembered that she was a science graduate, as well as a barmaid. ‘As you know.’

‘I meant your Wife Project. I think it’s wrong, but you’re no different from every other man I know in objectifying women – just more honest about it. Anyway, you’ve done so much for me –’