The Rosie Project
Page 73
Claudia said, quietly, ‘Rosie, it wasn’t Gene’s –’
Gene put a hand on Claudia’s shoulder and she stopped.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘Who asked him to change? Who said that he’d be perfect for her if he was different?’
Rosie was now looking very upset. All of my friends (except Dave the Baseball Fan) were fighting. This was terrible. I wanted to roll the story back to New York and make better decisions. But it was impossible. Nothing would change the fault in my brain that made me unacceptable.
Gene hadn’t stopped. ‘Do you have any idea what he did for you? Take a look in his office sometime.’ He was presumably referring to my schedule and the large number of Rosie Project activities.
Rosie walked out of the restaurant.
Gene turned to Claudia. ‘Sorry I interrupted you.’
‘Someone had to say it,’ said Claudia. She looked at Rosie, who was already some distance down the street. ‘I think I coached the wrong person.’
Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. The new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a rubbish bin. The tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. There was rain in the air and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.
34
We had not finished the wine at the restaurant. I decided to compensate for the resulting alcohol deficit and poured a tumbler of tequila. I turned on the television screen and computer and fast-forwarded Casablanca for one last try. I watched as Humphrey Bogart’s character used beans as a metaphor for the relative unimportance in the wider world of his relationship with Ingrid Bergman’s character, and chose logic and decency ahead of his selfish emotional desires. The quandary and resulting decision made for an engrossing film. But this was not what people cried about. They were in love and could never be together. I repeated this statement to myself, trying to force an emotional reaction. I couldn’t. I didn’t care. I had enough problems of my own.
The doorbell buzzed, and I immediately thought Rosie, but when I pushed the CCTV button, it was Claudia’s face that appeared.
‘Don, are you okay?’ she said. ‘Can we come up?’
‘It’s too late.’
Claudia sounded panicked. ‘What have you done? Don?’
‘It’s 10.31,’ I said. ‘Too late for visitors.’
‘Are you okay?’ said Claudia, again.
‘I’m fine. The experience has been highly useful. New social skills. And final resolution of the Wife Problem. Clear evidence that I’m incompatible with women.’
Gene’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Don. Can we come up for a drink?’
‘Alcohol would be a bad idea.’ I still had a half-glass of tequila in my hand. I was telling a polite lie to avoid social contact. I turned off the intercom.
The message light on my home phone was flashing. It was my parents and brother wishing me a happy birthday. I had already spoken to my mother two days earlier when she made her regular Sunday evening call. These past three weeks, I had been attempting to provide some news in return, but had not mentioned Rosie. They were utilising the speaker-phone function, and collectively sang the birthday song – or at least my mother did, strongly encouraging my other two relatives to participate.
‘Ring back if you’re home before 10.30,’ my mother said. It was 10.38, but I decided not to be pedantic.
‘It’s 10.39,’ said my mother. ‘I’m surprised you rang back.’ Clearly she had expected me to be pedantic, which was reasonable given my history, but she sounded pleased.
‘Hey,’ said my brother. ‘Gary Parkinson’s sister saw you on Facebook. Who’s the redhead?’
‘Just a girl I was dating.’
‘Pull the other leg,’ said my brother.
The words had sounded strange to me too, but I had not been joking.
‘I’m not seeing her any more.’
‘I thought you might say that.’ He laughed.
My mother interrupted. ‘Stop it, Trevor. Donald, you didn’t tell us you were seeing someone. You know you’re always welcome –’
‘Mum, he was having a lend of you,’ said my brother.
‘I said,’ said my mother, ‘that any time you want to bring anyone to meet us, whoever she or he –’
‘Leave him alone, both of you,’ said my father.
There was a pause, and some conversation in the background. Then my brother said, ‘Sorry, mate. I was just having a go. I know you think I’m some sort of redneck, but I’m okay with who you are. I’d hate you to get to this age and think I still had a problem with it.’
So, to add to a momentous day, I corrected a misconception that my family had held for at least fifteen years and came out to them as straight.
The conversations with Gene, Phil and my family had been surprisingly therapeutic. I did not need to use the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale to know that I was feeling sad, but I was back from the edge of the pit. I would need to do some disciplined thinking in the near future to be certain of remaining safe, but for the moment I did not need to shut down the emotional part of my brain entirely. I wanted a little time to observe how I felt about recent events.
Gene put a hand on Claudia’s shoulder and she stopped.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘Who asked him to change? Who said that he’d be perfect for her if he was different?’
Rosie was now looking very upset. All of my friends (except Dave the Baseball Fan) were fighting. This was terrible. I wanted to roll the story back to New York and make better decisions. But it was impossible. Nothing would change the fault in my brain that made me unacceptable.
Gene hadn’t stopped. ‘Do you have any idea what he did for you? Take a look in his office sometime.’ He was presumably referring to my schedule and the large number of Rosie Project activities.
Rosie walked out of the restaurant.
Gene turned to Claudia. ‘Sorry I interrupted you.’
‘Someone had to say it,’ said Claudia. She looked at Rosie, who was already some distance down the street. ‘I think I coached the wrong person.’
Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. The new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a rubbish bin. The tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. There was rain in the air and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.
34
We had not finished the wine at the restaurant. I decided to compensate for the resulting alcohol deficit and poured a tumbler of tequila. I turned on the television screen and computer and fast-forwarded Casablanca for one last try. I watched as Humphrey Bogart’s character used beans as a metaphor for the relative unimportance in the wider world of his relationship with Ingrid Bergman’s character, and chose logic and decency ahead of his selfish emotional desires. The quandary and resulting decision made for an engrossing film. But this was not what people cried about. They were in love and could never be together. I repeated this statement to myself, trying to force an emotional reaction. I couldn’t. I didn’t care. I had enough problems of my own.
The doorbell buzzed, and I immediately thought Rosie, but when I pushed the CCTV button, it was Claudia’s face that appeared.
‘Don, are you okay?’ she said. ‘Can we come up?’
‘It’s too late.’
Claudia sounded panicked. ‘What have you done? Don?’
‘It’s 10.31,’ I said. ‘Too late for visitors.’
‘Are you okay?’ said Claudia, again.
‘I’m fine. The experience has been highly useful. New social skills. And final resolution of the Wife Problem. Clear evidence that I’m incompatible with women.’
Gene’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Don. Can we come up for a drink?’
‘Alcohol would be a bad idea.’ I still had a half-glass of tequila in my hand. I was telling a polite lie to avoid social contact. I turned off the intercom.
The message light on my home phone was flashing. It was my parents and brother wishing me a happy birthday. I had already spoken to my mother two days earlier when she made her regular Sunday evening call. These past three weeks, I had been attempting to provide some news in return, but had not mentioned Rosie. They were utilising the speaker-phone function, and collectively sang the birthday song – or at least my mother did, strongly encouraging my other two relatives to participate.
‘Ring back if you’re home before 10.30,’ my mother said. It was 10.38, but I decided not to be pedantic.
‘It’s 10.39,’ said my mother. ‘I’m surprised you rang back.’ Clearly she had expected me to be pedantic, which was reasonable given my history, but she sounded pleased.
‘Hey,’ said my brother. ‘Gary Parkinson’s sister saw you on Facebook. Who’s the redhead?’
‘Just a girl I was dating.’
‘Pull the other leg,’ said my brother.
The words had sounded strange to me too, but I had not been joking.
‘I’m not seeing her any more.’
‘I thought you might say that.’ He laughed.
My mother interrupted. ‘Stop it, Trevor. Donald, you didn’t tell us you were seeing someone. You know you’re always welcome –’
‘Mum, he was having a lend of you,’ said my brother.
‘I said,’ said my mother, ‘that any time you want to bring anyone to meet us, whoever she or he –’
‘Leave him alone, both of you,’ said my father.
There was a pause, and some conversation in the background. Then my brother said, ‘Sorry, mate. I was just having a go. I know you think I’m some sort of redneck, but I’m okay with who you are. I’d hate you to get to this age and think I still had a problem with it.’
So, to add to a momentous day, I corrected a misconception that my family had held for at least fifteen years and came out to them as straight.
The conversations with Gene, Phil and my family had been surprisingly therapeutic. I did not need to use the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale to know that I was feeling sad, but I was back from the edge of the pit. I would need to do some disciplined thinking in the near future to be certain of remaining safe, but for the moment I did not need to shut down the emotional part of my brain entirely. I wanted a little time to observe how I felt about recent events.
