The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(72)

‘You booked one,’ he said. ‘Sixty-five bucks. Let’s get you some boxing gloves.’

I wondered if he realised that he had called me ‘prof’. Presumably Rosie had been right, and he had seen the dancing picture. I had not bothered to disguise my name. But at least I knew that he knew who I was. Did he know that I knew that he knew who I was? I was getting quite good at social subtleties.

I changed into a singlet and shorts, which smelled freshly laundered, and we put on boxing gloves. I had only done the occasional boxing workout, but I was not afraid of getting hurt. I had good defensive techniques if necessary. I was more interested in talking.

‘Let’s see you hit me,’ said Phil.

I threw some gentle punches which Phil blocked.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Try to hurt me.’

He asked for it.

‘Your stepdaughter is trying to locate her real father because she’s dissatisfied with you.’

Phil dropped his guard. Very poor form. I could have landed a punch unimpeded if we were in a real bout.

‘Stepdaughter?’ he said. ‘That’s what she’s calling herself? That’s why you’re here?’

He threw a hard punch and I had to use a proper block to avoid being hit. He recognised it and tried a hook. I blocked that too and counterpunched. He avoided it nicely.

‘Since it’s unlikely she’ll succeed, we need to fix the problem with you.’

Phil threw a straight hard one at my head. I blocked and stepped away.

‘With me?’ he said. ‘With Phil Jarman? Who built his own business from nothing, who bench-presses a hundred and forty-five kilos, who plenty of women still think is a better deal than some doctor or lawyer? Or egghead?’

He threw a combination and I attacked back. I thought there was a high probability that I could take him down, but I needed to continue the conversation.

‘It’s none of your business but I was on the school council, coached the senior football team –’

‘Obviously these achievements were insufficient,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Rosie requires something in addition to personal excellence.’ In a moment of clarity, I realised what that something might be in my own case. Was all my work in self-improvement in vain? Was I going to end up like Phil, trying to win Rosie’s love but regarded with contempt?

Fighting and contemplation are not compatible. Phil’s punch took me in the solar plexus. I managed to step back and reduce the force, but went down. Phil stood over me, angry.

‘Maybe one day she’ll know everything. Maybe that’ll help, maybe it won’t.’ He shook his head hard, as though he was the one who had taken a punch. ‘Did I ever call myself her stepfather? Ask her that. I’ve got no other children, no wife. I did all the things – I read to her, got up in the night, took her horseriding. After her mother was gone, I couldn’t do a thing right.’

I sat up and shouted. I was angry too. ‘You failed to take her to Disneyland. You lied to her.’

I scissored his legs, bringing him down. He didn’t fall competently, and hit the floor hard. We struggled and I pinned him. His nose was bleeding badly and there was blood all over my singlet.

‘Disneyland!’ said Phil. ‘She was ten!’

‘She told everyone at school. It’s still a major problem.’

He tried to break free, but I managed to hold him, despite the impediment of the boxing gloves.

‘You want to know when I told her I’d take her to Disneyland? One time. Once. You know when? At her mother’s funeral. I was in a wheelchair. I was in rehab for eight months.’

It was a very reasonable explanation. I wished Rosie had provided this background information prior to me holding her stepfather’s head on the floor with blood pouring from his nose. I explained to Phil that at my sister’s funeral I made an irrational promise to donate to a hospice when the money would have been better applied to research. He seemed to understand.

‘I bought her a jewellery box. She’d been on her mother’s case forever to buy it. I thought she’d forgotten about Disneyland when I came out of rehab.’

‘Predicting the impact of actions on other people is difficult.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Phil. ‘Can we get up?’

His nose was still bleeding and was probably broken, so it was a reasonable request. But I was not prepared to let him go yet.

‘Not until we solve the problem.’

It had been a very full day but the most critical task was still ahead. I examined myself in the mirror. The new glasses, vastly lighter, and the revised hair shape made a bigger difference than the clothes.

I put the important envelope in my jacket pocket and the small box in my trouser pocket. As I phoned for a taxi, I looked at my whiteboard. The schedule, now written in erasable marker, was a sea of red writing – my code for the Rosie Project. I told myself that the changes it had produced were worthwhile, even if tonight I failed to achieve the final objective.





33


The taxi arrived and we made an intermediate stop at the flower shop. I had not been inside this shop – or indeed purchased flowers at all – since I’d stopped visiting Daphne. Daphne for Daphne; obviously the appropriate choice for this evening was roses. The vendor recognised me and I informed her of Daphne’s death. After I purchased a dozen long-stemmed red roses, consistent with standard romantic behaviour, she snipped a small quantity of daphne and inserted it in the buttonhole of my jacket. The smell brought back memories of Daphne. I wished she was alive to meet Rosie.