The Rosie Project
Page 64
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
I was in serious trouble. In all previous encounters with the Dean, I had been following the rules, or the infraction had been too minor to punish. Using the DNA machine for private purposes was a substantial breach of the Genetics Department regulations. How much did she know? She did not normally work on weekends. Her presence was not an accident.
‘Fascinating stuff, according to Simon Lefebvre,’ said the Dean. ‘He comes into my office and asks me about a project in my own faculty. One that apparently requires that we collect his DNA. As you do. I gather there was some sort of joke involved. Pardon my lack of humour, but I was at a slight disadvantage – having never heard of the project. Surely, I thought, I would have seen the proposal when it went to the ethics committee.’
Up to this point, the Dean had seemed cool and rational. Now she raised her voice.
‘I’ve been trying for two years to get the Medical Faculty to fund a joint research project – and you decide not only to behave grossly unethically but to do it to the man who holds the purse strings. I want a written report. If it doesn’t include an ethics approval that I somehow haven’t seen yet, we’ll be advertising an associate professor position.’
The Dean stopped at the door.
‘I’m still holding your complaint about Kevin Yu. You might want to think about that. And I’ll have your lab key, thank you.’
The Father Project was over. Officially.
Gene came into my office the following day as I was completing an EPDS questionnaire.
‘Are you okay?’ he said. This was a timely question.
‘I suspect not. I’ll tell you in approximately fifteen seconds.’ I completed the questionnaire, calculated the result, and passed it to Gene. ‘Sixteen,’ I told him. ‘Second-highest score ever.’
Gene looked at it. ‘Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. Do I have to point out that you haven’t had a baby recently?’
‘I don’t answer the baby-related questions. It was the only depression instrument Claudia had at home when my sister died. I’ve continued using it for consistency.’
‘This is what we call “getting in touch with our feelings”, is it?’ said Gene.
I sensed that the question was rhetorical and did not reply.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I think I can fix this thing for you.’
‘You have news from Rosie?’
‘For Chrissakes, Don,’ said Gene. ‘I have news from the Dean. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but DNA testing without ethics approval – that’s “career over”.’
I knew this. I had decided to phone Amghad, the golf-club boss, and ask him about the cocktail-bar partnership. It seemed like time to do something different. It had been a weekend of rude awakenings. I had arrived home after the interaction with the Dean to find that Eva, my housekeeper, had filled in a copy of the Wife Project questionnaire. On the front, she had written: ‘Don. Nobody is perfect. Eva.’ In my state of heightened vulnerability, I had been extremely affected by this. Eva was a good person whose short skirts were perhaps intended to attract a partner and who would have been embarrassed by her relatively low socio-economic status as she answered questions about postgraduate qualifications and appreciation of expensive food. I reflected on all the women who had completed my questionnaire, hoping that they might find a partner. Hoping that partner might be me, even though they did not know much about me and would probably be disappointed if they did.
I had poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir and gone out to the balcony. The city lights reminded me of the lobster dinner with Rosie that, contrary to the predictions of the questionnaire, had been one of the most enjoyable meals of my life. Claudia had told me I was being too picky but Rosie had demonstrated in New York that my assessment of what would make me happy was totally incorrect. I sipped the wine slowly and watched the view change. A window went dark, a traffic light changed from red to green, an ambulance’s flashing lights bounced off the buildings. And it dawned on me that I had not designed the questionnaire to find a woman I could accept, but to find someone who might accept me.
Regardless of what decisions I might make as a result of my experiences with Rosie, I would not use the questionnaire again. The Wife Project was over.
Gene had more to say. ‘No job, no structure, no schedule. You’ll fall apart.’ He looked at the depression questionnaire again. ‘You’re falling apart already. Listen. I’m going to say that it was a Psych Department project. We’ll make up an ethics application, and you can say you thought it had been approved.’
Gene was obviously doing his best to be helpful. I smiled for his benefit.
‘Does that take a few points off the score?’ he said, waving the EPDS questionnaire.
‘I suspect not.’
There was a silence. Neither of us apparently had anything to say. I expected Gene to leave. But he tried again.
‘Help me here, Don. It’s Rosie, isn’t it?’
‘It makes no sense.’
‘Let me put this simply,’ said Gene. ‘You’re unhappy – so unhappy that you’ve lost perspective on your career, your reputation, your holy schedule.’
This was true.
‘Shit, Don, you broke the rules. Since when do you break rules?’
It was a good question. I respect rules. But in the last ninety-nine days, I had broken many rules, legal, ethical and personal. I knew exactly when it had started. The day Rosie walked into my office and I hacked into Le Gavroche’s reservation system so I could go on a date with her.
‘Fascinating stuff, according to Simon Lefebvre,’ said the Dean. ‘He comes into my office and asks me about a project in my own faculty. One that apparently requires that we collect his DNA. As you do. I gather there was some sort of joke involved. Pardon my lack of humour, but I was at a slight disadvantage – having never heard of the project. Surely, I thought, I would have seen the proposal when it went to the ethics committee.’
Up to this point, the Dean had seemed cool and rational. Now she raised her voice.
‘I’ve been trying for two years to get the Medical Faculty to fund a joint research project – and you decide not only to behave grossly unethically but to do it to the man who holds the purse strings. I want a written report. If it doesn’t include an ethics approval that I somehow haven’t seen yet, we’ll be advertising an associate professor position.’
The Dean stopped at the door.
‘I’m still holding your complaint about Kevin Yu. You might want to think about that. And I’ll have your lab key, thank you.’
The Father Project was over. Officially.
Gene came into my office the following day as I was completing an EPDS questionnaire.
‘Are you okay?’ he said. This was a timely question.
‘I suspect not. I’ll tell you in approximately fifteen seconds.’ I completed the questionnaire, calculated the result, and passed it to Gene. ‘Sixteen,’ I told him. ‘Second-highest score ever.’
Gene looked at it. ‘Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. Do I have to point out that you haven’t had a baby recently?’
‘I don’t answer the baby-related questions. It was the only depression instrument Claudia had at home when my sister died. I’ve continued using it for consistency.’
‘This is what we call “getting in touch with our feelings”, is it?’ said Gene.
I sensed that the question was rhetorical and did not reply.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I think I can fix this thing for you.’
‘You have news from Rosie?’
‘For Chrissakes, Don,’ said Gene. ‘I have news from the Dean. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but DNA testing without ethics approval – that’s “career over”.’
I knew this. I had decided to phone Amghad, the golf-club boss, and ask him about the cocktail-bar partnership. It seemed like time to do something different. It had been a weekend of rude awakenings. I had arrived home after the interaction with the Dean to find that Eva, my housekeeper, had filled in a copy of the Wife Project questionnaire. On the front, she had written: ‘Don. Nobody is perfect. Eva.’ In my state of heightened vulnerability, I had been extremely affected by this. Eva was a good person whose short skirts were perhaps intended to attract a partner and who would have been embarrassed by her relatively low socio-economic status as she answered questions about postgraduate qualifications and appreciation of expensive food. I reflected on all the women who had completed my questionnaire, hoping that they might find a partner. Hoping that partner might be me, even though they did not know much about me and would probably be disappointed if they did.
I had poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir and gone out to the balcony. The city lights reminded me of the lobster dinner with Rosie that, contrary to the predictions of the questionnaire, had been one of the most enjoyable meals of my life. Claudia had told me I was being too picky but Rosie had demonstrated in New York that my assessment of what would make me happy was totally incorrect. I sipped the wine slowly and watched the view change. A window went dark, a traffic light changed from red to green, an ambulance’s flashing lights bounced off the buildings. And it dawned on me that I had not designed the questionnaire to find a woman I could accept, but to find someone who might accept me.
Regardless of what decisions I might make as a result of my experiences with Rosie, I would not use the questionnaire again. The Wife Project was over.
Gene had more to say. ‘No job, no structure, no schedule. You’ll fall apart.’ He looked at the depression questionnaire again. ‘You’re falling apart already. Listen. I’m going to say that it was a Psych Department project. We’ll make up an ethics application, and you can say you thought it had been approved.’
Gene was obviously doing his best to be helpful. I smiled for his benefit.
‘Does that take a few points off the score?’ he said, waving the EPDS questionnaire.
‘I suspect not.’
There was a silence. Neither of us apparently had anything to say. I expected Gene to leave. But he tried again.
‘Help me here, Don. It’s Rosie, isn’t it?’
‘It makes no sense.’
‘Let me put this simply,’ said Gene. ‘You’re unhappy – so unhappy that you’ve lost perspective on your career, your reputation, your holy schedule.’
This was true.
‘Shit, Don, you broke the rules. Since when do you break rules?’
It was a good question. I respect rules. But in the last ninety-nine days, I had broken many rules, legal, ethical and personal. I knew exactly when it had started. The day Rosie walked into my office and I hacked into Le Gavroche’s reservation system so I could go on a date with her.
