The Rosie Project
Page 71
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 maître 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 maître 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 maître 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.
‘Are you okay, Don?’
‘I asked you here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.’
I studied Rosie’s expression carefully. I diagnosed stunned.
‘Oh my God,’ said Rosie, confirming the diagnosis. I followed up while she was still receptive.
‘It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’
I could see that Rosie could not place the line from The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused.
‘Don, what are you … what have you done to yourself?’
‘I’ve made some changes.’
‘Big changes.’
‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’
Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care.
‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required.’
I heard someone clapping. It was a slim woman of about sixty sitting with another woman of approximately the same age.
Then he looked at me. ‘Sir?’
‘Good evening.’ I took the flowers from Rosie and gave them to the maître 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 maître 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 maître 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.
‘Are you okay, Don?’
‘I asked you here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.’
I studied Rosie’s expression carefully. I diagnosed stunned.
‘Oh my God,’ said Rosie, confirming the diagnosis. I followed up while she was still receptive.
‘It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’
I could see that Rosie could not place the line from The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused.
‘Don, what are you … what have you done to yourself?’
‘I’ve made some changes.’
‘Big changes.’
‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’
Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care.
‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required.’
I heard someone clapping. It was a slim woman of about sixty sitting with another woman of approximately the same age.
