The Rosie Project
Page 25

Peter seemed obsessed with the resemblance between Rosie and her mother, which was irrelevant for our purposes. Three times he interrupted Rosie to remind her of their physical similarity, and I wondered if this might indicate some particular bond between him and Rosie’s mother – and hence be a predictor of paternity. I looked, as I had done in Eamonn Hughes’s living room, for any physical similarities between Rosie and her potential father, but could see nothing obvious.
‘That all sounds very positive, Rosie,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t have anything to do with the selection process – at least officially.’ His wording appeared to imply the possibility of unofficial, and hence unethical, assistance. Was this a sign of nepotism and thus a clue that he was Rosie’s father?
‘Your academic background is fine, but you’ll have to do the GAMSAT.’ Peter turned to me. ‘The standard admission test for the MD programme.’
‘I did it last year,’ said Rosie. ‘I got seventy-four.’
Peter looked hugely impressed. ‘You can walk into Harvard with that score. But we take other factors into account here, so, if you do decide to apply, make sure you let me know.’
I hoped he never went for a drink at the Marquess of Queensbury.
A waiter brought the bill. As he went to take Peter’s cup, I automatically put my hand on it to stop him. The waiter looked at me extremely unpleasantly and snatched it away. I watched as he took it to a cart and added it to a tray of crockery.
Peter looked at his phone. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘But now that you’ve made contact, stay in touch.’
As Peter left, I could see the waiter looking towards the cart.
‘You need to distract him,’ I said.
‘Just get the cup,’ said Rosie.
I walked towards the cart. The waiter was watching me but, just as I reached the tray, he snapped his head in Rosie’s direction and began walking quickly towards her. I grabbed the cup.
We met at the car, which was parked some distance away. The walk gave me time to process the fact that I had, under pressure to achieve a goal, been guilty of theft. Should I send a cheque to the café? What was a cup worth? Cups were broken all the time, but by random events. If everyone stole cups, the café would probably become financially non-viable.
‘Did you get the cup?’
I held it up.
‘Is it the right one?’ she said.
I am not good at non-verbal communication, but I believe I managed to convey the fact that while I might be a petty thief I do not make errors of observation.
‘Did you pay the bill?’ I asked.
‘That’s how I distracted him.’
‘By paying the bill?’
‘No, you pay at the counter. I just took off.’
‘We have to go back.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ said Rosie, as we climbed into the Porsche and sped off.
What was happening to me?
12
We drove towards the university and the lab. The Father Project would soon be over. The weather was warm, though there were dark clouds on the horizon, and Rosie lowered the convertible roof. I was mulling over the theft.
‘You still obsessing about the bill, Don?’ Rosie shouted over the wind noise. ‘You’re hilarious. We’re stealing DNA, and you’re worried about a cup of coffee.’
‘It’s not illegal to take DNA samples,’ I shouted back. This was true, although in the UK we would have been in violation of the Human Tissue Act of 2004. ‘We should go back.’
‘Highly inefficient use of time,’ said Rosie in a strange voice, as we pulled up at traffic lights and were briefly able to communicate properly. She laughed and I realised she had been imitating me. Her statement was correct, but there was a moral question involved, and acting morally should override other issues.
‘Relax,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful day, we’re going to find out who my father is and I’ll put a cheque in the mail for the coffee. Promise.’ She looked at me. ‘Do you know how to relax? How to just have fun?’
It was too complex a question to answer over the wind noise as we pulled away from the lights. And the pursuit of fun does not lead to overall contentment. Studies have shown this consistently.
‘You missed the exit,’ I said.
‘Correct,’ she replied, in the joke voice. ‘We’re going to the beach.’ She spoke right over the top of my protests. ‘Can’t hear you, can’t hear you.’
Then she put on some music – very loud rock music. Now she really couldn’t hear me. I was being kidnapped! We drove for ninety-four minutes. I could not see the speedometer, and was not accustomed to travelling in an open vehicle, but I estimated that we were consistently exceeding the speed limit.
Discordant sound, wind, risk of death – I tried to assume the mental state that I used at the dentist.
Finally, we stopped in a beachside car park. It was almost empty on a weekday afternoon.
Rosie looked at me. ‘Smile. We’re going for a walk, then we’re going to the lab, and then I’m going to take you home. And you’ll never see me again.’
‘Can’t we just go home now?’ I said, and realised that I sounded like a child. I reminded myself that I was an adult male, ten years older and more experienced than the person with me, and that there must be a purpose for what she was doing. I asked what it was.
‘I’m about to find out who my dad is. I need to clear my head. So can we walk for half an hour or so, and can you just pretend to be a regular human being and listen to me?’