The Rosie Project
Page 11
Gene could probably tell that I was not excited by the prospect. He cleverly addressed the problem by proposing an even less acceptable alternative.
‘There’s always the faculty ball.’
‘Restaurant.’
Gene smiled as if to compensate for my lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s easy. “How about we do dinner tonight?” Say it after me.’
‘How about we do dinner tonight?’ I repeated.
‘See, that wasn’t so hard. Make only positive comments about their appearance. Pay for the meal. Do not mention sex.’ Gene walked to the door, then turned back. ‘What about the paper ones?’
I gave him my questionnaires from Table for Eight, the singles party and, at his insistence, even the partially completed ones from the speed dating. Now it was out of my hands.
6
Approximately two hours after Gene left my office with the completed Wife Project questionnaires, there was a knock on the door. I was weighing student essays, an activity that is not forbidden, but I suspect only because nobody is aware that I am doing it. It was part of a project to reduce the effort of assessment, by looking for easily measured parameters such as the inclusion of a table of contents, or a typed versus handwritten cover sheet, factors which might provide as good an indication of quality as the tedious process of reading the entire assignment.
I slipped the scales under my desk as the door opened and looked up to see a woman I did not recognise standing in the doorway. I estimated her age as thirty and her body mass index at twenty.
‘Professor Tillman?’
As my name is on the door, this was not a particularly astute question.
‘Correct.’
‘Professor Barrow suggested I see you.’
I was amazed at Gene’s efficiency, and looked at the woman more carefully as she approached my desk. There were no obvious signs of unsuitability. I did not detect any make-up. Her body shape and skin tone were consistent with health and fitness. She wore glasses with heavy frames that revived bad memories of Apricot Ice-cream Woman, a long black t-shirt that was torn in several places, and a black belt with metal chains. It was lucky that the jewellery question had been deleted because she was wearing big metal earrings and an interesting pendant round her neck.
Although I am usually oblivious to dress, hers seemed incompatible with my expectation of a highly qualified academic or professional and with the summer weather. I could only guess that she was self-employed or on holiday and, freed from workplace rules, had chosen her clothes randomly. I could relate to this.
There had been quite a long gap since either of us had spoken and I realised it must be my turn. I looked up from the pendant and remembered Gene’s instructions.
‘How about we do dinner tonight?’
She seemed surprised at my question then replied, ‘Yeah, right. How about we do dinner? How about Le Gavroche and you’re paying?’
‘Excellent. I’ll make a reservation for 8.00 p.m.’
‘You’re kidding.’
It was an odd response. Why would I make a confusing joke with someone I barely knew?
‘No. Is 8.00 p.m. tonight acceptable?’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re offering to buy me dinner at Le Gavroche tonight?’
Coming on top of the question about my name, I was beginning to think that this woman was what Gene would call ‘not the sharpest tool in the shed’. I considered backing out, or at least employing some delaying tactic until I could check her questionnaire, but could not think of any socially acceptable way to do this, so I just confirmed that she had interpreted my offer correctly. She turned and left and I realised that I did not even know her name.
I called Gene immediately. There seemed to be some confusion on his part at first, followed by mirth. Perhaps he had not expected me to handle the candidate so effectively.
‘Her name’s Rosie,’ he said. ‘And that’s all I’m telling you. Have fun. And remember what I said about sex.’
Gene’s failure to provide me with more details was unfortunate, because a problem arose. Le Gavroche did not have a table available at the agreed time. I tried to locate Rosie’s profile on my computer, and for once the photos were useful. The woman who had come to my office did not look like any candidate whose name began with ‘R’. She must have been one of the paper responses. Gene had left and his phone was off.
I was forced to take action that was not strictly illegal, but doubtless immoral. I justified it on the basis that it would be more immoral to fail to meet my commitment to Rosie. Le Gavroche’s online reservation system had a facility for VIPs and I made a reservation under the name of the Dean after logging on using relatively unsophisticated hacking software.
I arrived at 7.59 p.m. The restaurant was located in a major hotel. I chained my bike in the foyer, as it was raining heavily outside. Fortunately it was not cold and my Gore-Tex jacket had done an excellent job of protecting me. My t-shirt was not even damp underneath.
A man in uniform approached me. He pointed towards the bike, but I spoke before he had a chance to complain.
‘My name is Professor Lawrence and I interacted with your reservation system at 5.11 p.m.’
It appeared that the official did not know the Dean, or assumed that I was another Professor Lawrence, because he just checked a clipboard and nodded. I was impressed with the efficiency, though it was now 8.01 p.m. and Rosie was not there. Perhaps she was (b) a little early and already seated.
But then a problem arose.
‘There’s always the faculty ball.’
‘Restaurant.’
Gene smiled as if to compensate for my lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s easy. “How about we do dinner tonight?” Say it after me.’
‘How about we do dinner tonight?’ I repeated.
‘See, that wasn’t so hard. Make only positive comments about their appearance. Pay for the meal. Do not mention sex.’ Gene walked to the door, then turned back. ‘What about the paper ones?’
I gave him my questionnaires from Table for Eight, the singles party and, at his insistence, even the partially completed ones from the speed dating. Now it was out of my hands.
6
Approximately two hours after Gene left my office with the completed Wife Project questionnaires, there was a knock on the door. I was weighing student essays, an activity that is not forbidden, but I suspect only because nobody is aware that I am doing it. It was part of a project to reduce the effort of assessment, by looking for easily measured parameters such as the inclusion of a table of contents, or a typed versus handwritten cover sheet, factors which might provide as good an indication of quality as the tedious process of reading the entire assignment.
I slipped the scales under my desk as the door opened and looked up to see a woman I did not recognise standing in the doorway. I estimated her age as thirty and her body mass index at twenty.
‘Professor Tillman?’
As my name is on the door, this was not a particularly astute question.
‘Correct.’
‘Professor Barrow suggested I see you.’
I was amazed at Gene’s efficiency, and looked at the woman more carefully as she approached my desk. There were no obvious signs of unsuitability. I did not detect any make-up. Her body shape and skin tone were consistent with health and fitness. She wore glasses with heavy frames that revived bad memories of Apricot Ice-cream Woman, a long black t-shirt that was torn in several places, and a black belt with metal chains. It was lucky that the jewellery question had been deleted because she was wearing big metal earrings and an interesting pendant round her neck.
Although I am usually oblivious to dress, hers seemed incompatible with my expectation of a highly qualified academic or professional and with the summer weather. I could only guess that she was self-employed or on holiday and, freed from workplace rules, had chosen her clothes randomly. I could relate to this.
There had been quite a long gap since either of us had spoken and I realised it must be my turn. I looked up from the pendant and remembered Gene’s instructions.
‘How about we do dinner tonight?’
She seemed surprised at my question then replied, ‘Yeah, right. How about we do dinner? How about Le Gavroche and you’re paying?’
‘Excellent. I’ll make a reservation for 8.00 p.m.’
‘You’re kidding.’
It was an odd response. Why would I make a confusing joke with someone I barely knew?
‘No. Is 8.00 p.m. tonight acceptable?’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re offering to buy me dinner at Le Gavroche tonight?’
Coming on top of the question about my name, I was beginning to think that this woman was what Gene would call ‘not the sharpest tool in the shed’. I considered backing out, or at least employing some delaying tactic until I could check her questionnaire, but could not think of any socially acceptable way to do this, so I just confirmed that she had interpreted my offer correctly. She turned and left and I realised that I did not even know her name.
I called Gene immediately. There seemed to be some confusion on his part at first, followed by mirth. Perhaps he had not expected me to handle the candidate so effectively.
‘Her name’s Rosie,’ he said. ‘And that’s all I’m telling you. Have fun. And remember what I said about sex.’
Gene’s failure to provide me with more details was unfortunate, because a problem arose. Le Gavroche did not have a table available at the agreed time. I tried to locate Rosie’s profile on my computer, and for once the photos were useful. The woman who had come to my office did not look like any candidate whose name began with ‘R’. She must have been one of the paper responses. Gene had left and his phone was off.
I was forced to take action that was not strictly illegal, but doubtless immoral. I justified it on the basis that it would be more immoral to fail to meet my commitment to Rosie. Le Gavroche’s online reservation system had a facility for VIPs and I made a reservation under the name of the Dean after logging on using relatively unsophisticated hacking software.
I arrived at 7.59 p.m. The restaurant was located in a major hotel. I chained my bike in the foyer, as it was raining heavily outside. Fortunately it was not cold and my Gore-Tex jacket had done an excellent job of protecting me. My t-shirt was not even damp underneath.
A man in uniform approached me. He pointed towards the bike, but I spoke before he had a chance to complain.
‘My name is Professor Lawrence and I interacted with your reservation system at 5.11 p.m.’
It appeared that the official did not know the Dean, or assumed that I was another Professor Lawrence, because he just checked a clipboard and nodded. I was impressed with the efficiency, though it was now 8.01 p.m. and Rosie was not there. Perhaps she was (b) a little early and already seated.
But then a problem arose.
