The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(42)

I rolled back my thoughts and re-parsed her statement: ‘I suppose I should be grateful he wasn’t a lion.’ I assumed she was referring to our conversation on the night of the Balcony Meal when I informed her that lions kill the offspring of previous matings. Perhaps she wanted to talk about Phil. This was interesting to me too. The entire motivation for the Father Project was Phil’s failure in that role. But Rosie had offered no real evidence beyond his opposition to alcohol, ownership of an impractical vehicle and selection of a jewellery box as a gift.

‘Was he violent?’ I asked.

‘No.’ She paused for a while. ‘He was just – all over the place. One day I’d be the most special kid in the world, next day he didn’t want me there.’

This seemed very general, and hardly a justification for a major DNA?-investigation project. ‘Can you provide an example?’

‘Where do I start? Okay, the first time was when I was ten. He promised to take me to Disneyland. I told everyone at school. And I waited and waited and waited and it never happened.’

The taxi stopped outside a block of flats. Rosie kept talking, looking at the back of the driver’s seat. ‘So I have this whole thing about rejection.’ She turned to me. ‘How do you deal with it?’

‘The problem has never occurred,’ I told her. It was not the time to begin a new conversation.

‘Bullshit,’ said Rosie. It appeared that I would need to answer honestly. I was in the presence of a psychology graduate.

‘There were some problems at school,’ I said. ‘Hence the martial arts. But I developed some non-violent techniques for dealing with difficult social situations.’

‘Like tonight.’

‘I emphasised the things that people found amusing.’

Rosie didn’t respond. I recognised the therapy technique, but could not think of anything to do but elaborate.

‘I didn’t have many friends. Basically zero, except my sister. Unfortunately she died two years ago due to medical incompetence.’

‘What happened?’ said Rosie, quietly.

‘An undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy.’

‘Oh, Don,’ said Rosie, very sympathetically. I sensed that I had chosen an appropriate person to confide in.

‘Was she … in a relationship?’

‘No.’ I anticipated her next question. ‘We never found out the source.’

‘What was her name?’

This was, on the surface, an innocuous question, though I could see no purpose in Rosie knowing my sister’s name. The indirect reference was unambiguous, as I had only one sister. But I felt very uncomfortable. It took me a few moments to realise why. Although there had been no deliberate decision on my part, I had not said her name since her death.

‘Michelle,’ I said to Rosie. After that, neither of us spoke for a while.

The taxi driver coughed artificially. I presumed he wasn’t asking for a beer.

‘You want to come up?’ said Rosie.

I was feeling overwhelmed. Meeting Bianca, dancing, rejection by Bianca, social overload, discussion of personal matters – now, just when I thought the ordeal was over, Rosie seemed to be proposing more conversation. I was not sure I could cope.

‘It’s extremely late,’ I said. I was sure this was a socially acceptable way of saying that I wanted to go home.

‘The taxi fares go down again in the morning.’

If I understood correctly, I was now definitely far out of my depth. I needed to be sure that I wasn’t misinterpreting her.

‘Are you suggesting I stay the night?’

‘Maybe. First you have to listen to the story of my life.’

Warning! Danger, Will Robinson. Unidentified alien approaching! I could feel myself slipping into the emotional abyss. I managed to stay calm enough to respond.

‘Unfortunately I have a number of activities scheduled for the morning.’ Routine, normality.

Rosie opened the taxi door. I willed her to go. But she had more to say.

‘Don, can I ask you something?’

‘One question.’

‘Do you find me attractive?’

Gene told me the next day that I got it wrong. But he was not in a taxi, after an evening of total sensory overload, with the most beautiful woman in the world. I believed I did well. I detected the trick question. I wanted Rosie to like me, and I remembered her passionate statement about men treating women as objects. She was testing to see if I saw her as an object or as a person. Obviously the correct answer was the latter.

‘I haven’t really noticed,’ I told the most beautiful woman in the world.





18


I texted Gene from the taxi. It was 1.08 a.m. but he had left the ball at the same time as I did, and had further to travel. Urgent: Run tomorrow 6 a.m. Gene texted back: Sunday at 8: Bring Bianca’s contact info. I was about to insist on the earlier date when I realised that I could profitably use the time to organise my thoughts.

It seemed obvious that Rosie had invited me to have sex with her. I was right to have avoided the situation. We had both drunk a substantial quantity of Champagne, and alcohol is notorious for encouraging unwise decisions about sex. Rosie had the perfect example. Her mother’s decision, doubtless prompted by alcohol, was still causing Rosie significant distress.