The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(54)

In the end I left the choice to Rosie. She chose the first scarf that they had shown us.

As we walked out of the store, Rosie said, ‘I think I just wasted an hour of your life.’

‘No, no, the outcome was irrelevant,’ I said. ‘It was so entertaining.’

‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘any time you need entertaining, I could use a pair of Manolo Blahniks.’ From the word ‘pair’, I guessed that she was referring to shoes.

‘Do we have time?’ We had already used the time that Rosie had intended for the hotel visit.

‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding.’

It was fortunate, as we had to move quickly to arrive at the Eslers’ on schedule. But Rosie needed to change. There was a bathroom at Union Square station. Rosie dashed in and reappeared looking amazingly different.

‘That was incredible,’ I said. ‘So quick.’

Rosie looked at me. ‘You’re going like that?’ Her tone suggested dissatisfaction.

‘These are my clothes,’ I said. ‘I have a spare shirt.’

‘Show it to me.’

I reached into the bag to get the alternative shirt, which I doubted Rosie would prefer, and remembered Claudia’s gift. I showed the shirt to Rosie.

‘It was a gift from Claudia,’ I said. ‘I’ve got jeans as well, if that helps.’

‘All hail Claudia,’ said Rosie. ‘She earned the scarf.’

‘We’ll be late.’

‘Politely late is fine.’

Isaac and Judy Esler had an apartment in Williamsburg. My US cell-phone card was working to specification, and we were able to navigate by GPS to the location. I hoped that forty-six minutes met Rosie’s definition of ‘politely late’.

‘Austin, remember,’ said Rosie as she rang the bell.

Judy answered the door. I estimated her age as fifty and her BMI as twenty-six. She spoke with a New York accent, and was concerned that we might have become lost. Her husband Isaac was a caricature of a psychiatrist: mid-fifties, short, receding hair, black goatee beard, BMI nineteen. He was not as friendly as his wife.

They offered us martinis. I remembered the effect this drink had had on me during the preparation for the Great Cocktail Night and resolved that I would have no more than three. Judy had made some fish-based canapés, and asked for details of our trip. She wanted to know whether we had been to New York before, what season it was in Australia (not a challenging question) and whether we planned to do any shopping and see any museums. Rosie handled all of these questions.

‘Isaac’s off to Chicago in the morning,’ said Judy. ‘Tell them what you’ll be doing there.’

‘Just a conference,’ said Isaac. He and I did not need to do a great deal of talking to ensure the conversation continued.

He did ask me one thing before we moved to the dining room. ‘What do you do, Austin?’

‘Austin runs a hardware store,’ said Rosie. ‘A very successful one.’

Judy served a delicious meal based on farmed salmon, which she assured Rosie was sustainable. I had eaten very little of the poor-quality aeroplane food, and enjoyed Judy’s meal immensely. Isaac opened some Pinot Gris from Oregon and was generous in refilling my glass. We talked about New York and the differences between Australian and American politics.

‘Well,’ said Judy, ‘I’m so glad you could come. It makes up a little for missing the reunion. Isaac was so sorry not to be there.’

‘Not really,’ said Isaac. ‘Revisiting the past is not something to do lightly.’ He ate the last piece of fish from his plate and looked at Rosie. ‘You look a lot like your mother. She would have been a bit younger than you when I last saw her.’

Judy said, ‘We got married the day after the graduation and moved here. Isaac had the biggest hangover at the wedding. He’d been a bad boy.’ She smiled.

‘I think that’s enough telling tales, Judy,’ said Isaac. ‘It was all a long time ago.’

He stared at Rosie. Rosie stared at him.

Judy picked up Rosie’s plate and mine, one in each hand. I decided that this was the moment to act, with everyone distracted. I stood and picked up Isaac’s plate in one hand and then Judy’s. Isaac was too busy playing the staring game with Rosie to object. I took the plates to the kitchen, swabbing Isaac’s fork on the way.

‘I imagine Austin and Rosie are exhausted,’ said Judy when we returned to the table.

‘You said you’re a hardware man, Austin?’ Isaac stood up. ‘Can you spare five minutes to look at a tap for me? It’s probably a job for a plumber, but maybe it’s just a washer.’

‘He means faucet,’ said Judy, presumably forgetting we came from the same country as Isaac.

Isaac and I went down the stairs to the basement. I was confident I could help with the tap problem. My school holidays had been spent providing advice of exactly this kind. But as we reached the bottom of the stairs, the lights went out. I wasn’t sure what had happened. A power failure?

‘You okay, Don?’ said Isaac, sounding concerned.

‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘What happened is that you answered to Don, Austin.’

We stood there in the dark. I doubted that there were social conventions for dealing with interrogation by a psychiatrist in a dark cellar.