The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(73)

I tried to phone Rosie as the taxi approached her apartment building, but there was no answer. She was not outside when we arrived, and most of the bell buttons did not have names beside them. There was a risk that she had chosen not to accept my invitation.

It was cold and I was shaking. I waited a full ten minutes, then called again. There was still no answer and I was about to instruct the driver to leave when she came running out. I reminded myself that it was I who had changed, not Rosie – I should have expected her to be late. She was wearing the black dress that had stunned me on the night of the Jacket Incident. I gave her the roses. I read her expression as surprised.

Then she looked at me.

‘You look different … really different … again,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

‘I decided to reform myself.’ I liked the sound of the word: ‘re-form’. We got in the taxi, Rosie still holding the roses, and travelled the short distance to the restaurant in silence. I was looking for information about her attitude towards me, and thought it best to let her speak first. In fact she didn’t say anything until she noticed that the taxi was stopping outside Le Gavroche – the scene of the Jacket Incident.

‘Don, is this a joke?’

I paid the driver, exited the taxi and opened Rosie’s door. She stepped out but was reluctant to proceed, clutching the roses to her chest with both hands. I put one hand behind her and guided her towards the door, where the ma?tre d’ whom we had encountered on our previous visit was standing in his uniform. Jacket Man.

He recognised Rosie instantly, as evidenced by his greeting. ‘Rosie.’

Then he looked at me. ‘Sir?’

‘Good evening.’ I took the flowers from Rosie and gave them to the ma?tre d’. ‘We have a reservation in the name of Tillman. Would you be kind enough to look after these?’ It was a standard formula but very confidence-boosting. Everyone seemed very comfortable now that we were behaving in a predictable manner. The ma?tre d’ checked the reservation list. I took the opportunity to smooth over any remaining difficulties and made a small prepared joke.

‘My apologies for the misunderstanding last time. There shouldn’t be any difficulties tonight. Unless they overchill the white Burgundy.’ I smiled.

A male waiter appeared, the ma?tre d’ introduced me, briefly complimenting me on my jacket, and we were led into the dining room and to our table. It was all very straightforward.

I ordered a bottle of chablis. Rosie still seemed to be adjusting.

The sommelier appeared with the wine. He was looking around the room, as if for support. I diagnosed nervousness.

‘It’s at thirteen degrees but if sir would like it less chilled … or more chilled …’

‘That will be fine, thank you.’

He poured me a taste and I swirled, sniffed and nodded approval according to the standard protocol. Meanwhile, the waiter who had led us to the table reappeared. He was about forty, BMI approximately twenty-two, quite tall.

‘Professor Tillman?’ he said. ‘My name’s Nick and I’m the head waiter. If there’s anything you need, or anything that’s a problem, just ask for me.’

‘Much appreciated, Nick.’

Waiters introducing themselves by name was more in the American tradition. Either this restaurant deliberately chose to do so as a point of difference, or we were being given more personal treatment. I guessed the latter: I was probably marked as a dangerous person. Good. I would need all the support I could get tonight.

Nick handed us menus.

‘I’m happy to leave it to the chef,’ I said. ‘But no meat, and seafood only if it’s sustainable.’

Nick smiled. ‘I’ll speak to the chef and see what he can do.’

‘I realise it’s a little tricky, but my friend lives by some quite strict rules,’ I said.

Rosie gave me a very strange look. My statement was intended to make a small point, and I think it succeeded. She tried her chablis and buttered a bread roll. I remained silent.

Finally she spoke.

‘All right, Gregory Peck. What are we doing first? The My Fair Lady story or the big revelation?’

This was good. Rosie was prepared to discuss things directly. In fact, directness had always been one of Rosie’s positive attributes, though on this occasion she had not identified the most important topic.

‘I’m in your hands,’ I said. Standard polite method for avoiding a choice and empowering the other person.

‘Don, stop it. You know who my father is, right? It’s Table-Napkin Man, isn’t it?’

‘Possibly,’ I said, truthfully. Despite the positive outcome of the meeting with the Dean, I did not have my lab key back. ‘That isn’t what I want to share.’

‘All right then. Here’s the plan. You share your thing; tell me who my father is; tell me what you’ve done to yourself; we both go home.’

I couldn’t put a name to her tone of speech and expression, but it was clearly negative. She took another sip of her wine.

‘Sorry.’ She looked a little apologetic. ‘Go. The sharing thing.’

I had grave doubts about the likely efficacy of my next move, but there was no contingency plan. I had sourced my speech from When Harry Met Sally. It resonated best with me and with the situation, and had the additional advantage of the link to our happy time in New York. I hoped Rosie’s brain would make that connection, ideally subconsciously. I drank the remainder of my wine. Rosie’s eyes followed my glass, then she looked up at me.