The Rosie Project

32




I went back to my office and changed from my Gregory Peck costume into my new trousers and jacket. Then I made a phone call. The receptionist was not prepared to make an appointment for a personal matter, so I booked a fitness evaluation with Phil Jarman, Rosie’s father in air quotes, for 4.00 p.m.

As I got up to leave, the Dean knocked and walked in. She signalled for me to follow her. This was not part of my plan, but today was an appropriate day to close this phase of my professional life.

We went down in the lift and then across the campus to her office, not speaking. It seemed that our conversation needed to take place in a formal setting. I felt uncomfortable, which was a rational response to the almost-certain prospect of being dismissed from a tenured position at a prestigious university for professional misconduct. But I had expected this and my feelings came from a different source. The scenario triggered a memory from my first week at high school, of being sent to the headmaster’s office as a result of allegedly inappropriate behaviour. The purported misconduct involved a rigorous questioning of our religious education teacher. In retrospect, I understood that she was a well-meaning person, but she used her position of power over an eleven-year-old to cause me considerable distress.

The headmaster was, in fact, reasonably sympathetic, but warned me that I needed to show ‘respect’. But he was too late: as I walked to his office I had made the decision that it was pointless to try to fit in. I would be the class clown for the next six years.

I have thought about this event often. At the time my decision felt like a rational response based on my assessment of the new environment, but in retrospect I understood that I was driven by anger at the power structure that suppressed my arguments.

Now as I walked to the Dean’s office another thought occurred to me. What if my teacher had been a brilliant theologian, equipped with two thousand years of well-articulated Christian thinking? She would have had more compelling arguments than an eleven-year-old. Would I have then been satisfied? I suspect not. As a scientist, with an allegiance to scientific thinking, I would have had a deep-seated feeling that I was being, as Rosie would say, bullshitted. Was that how Faith Healer had felt?

Had the flounder demonstration been an instance of bullying as heinous as the one committed by my religious education teacher, even though I was right?

As we entered the Dean’s office for what I expected to be the last time, I took notice of her full name on the door, and a minor confusion was resolved. Professor Charlotte Lawrence. I had never thought of her as ‘Charlie’, but presumably Simon Lefebvre did.

We entered her office and sat down. ‘I see we’re in our job interview clothes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t see fit to grace us with them during your time here.’

I did not respond.

‘So. No report. No explanation?’

Again, I could not think of anything appropriate to say.

Simon Lefebvre appeared at the door. Obviously this had been planned. The Dean – Charlie – waved him in.

‘You can save time by explaining to Simon and me together.’

Lefebvre was carrying the documents that I had given him.

At that point, the Dean’s personal assistant, Regina, who is not objectified by having the words ‘The Beautiful’ included in her name, entered the room.

‘Sorry to bother you, Professor,’ she said, ambiguously, as we were all professors, for the next few minutes at least, but the context made it clear she was addressing the Dean. ‘I’ve got a problem with your booking at Le Gavroche. They seem to have taken you off the VIP list.’

The Dean’s face registered annoyance but she waved Regina away.

Simon Lefebvre smiled at me. ‘You could’ve just sent me this,’ he said, referring to the documents. ‘No need for the idiot-savant impression. Which I have to concede was beautifully done. As is the proposal. We’ll need to run it by the ethics guys, but it’s exactly what we’re looking for. Genetics and medicine, topic’s current, we’ll both get publicity.’

I attempted to analyse the Dean’s expression. It was beyond my current skill set.

‘So congratulations, Charlie,’ said Simon. ‘You’ve got your joint research project. The Medical Research Institute is prepared to put in four mill, which is more than the budget actually specifies, so you’re set to go.’

I presumed he meant four million dollars.

He pointed to me. ‘Hang on to this one, Charlie. He’s a dark horse. And I need him to be part of the project.’

I got my first real return on my investment in improved social skills. I had worked out what was going on. I did not ask a silly question. I did not put the Dean in a position of untenable embarrassment where she might work against her own interests. I just nodded and walked back to my office.

Phil Jarman had blue eyes. I knew this but it was the first thing I noticed. He was in his mid-fifties, about ten centimetres taller than me, powerfully built and extremely fit-looking. We were standing in front of the reception desk at Jarman’s Gym. On the wall were newspaper cuttings and photos of a younger Phil playing football. If I had been a medical student without advanced martial-arts skills, I would have thought carefully before having sex with this man’s girlfriend. Perhaps this was the simple reason that Phil had never been informed of the identity of Rosie’s father.

‘Get the prof some gear and get his signature on a waiver form.’

The woman behind the counter seemed puzzled.

‘It’s just an assessment.’

‘New procedure starts today,’ said Phil.

‘I don’t require an assessment,’ I began, but Phil seemed to have fixed ideas.

‘You booked one,’ he said. ‘Sixty-five bucks. Let’s get you some boxing gloves.’

I wondered if he realised that he had called me ‘prof’. Presumably Rosie had been right, and he had seen the dancing picture. I had not bothered to disguise my name. But at least I knew that he knew who I was. Did he know that I knew that he knew who I was? I was getting quite good at social subtleties.

I changed into a singlet and shorts, which smelled freshly laundered, and we put on boxing gloves. I had only done the occasional boxing workout, but I was not afraid of getting hurt. I had good defensive techniques if necessary. I was more interested in talking.

‘Let’s see you hit me,’ said Phil.

I threw some gentle punches which Phil blocked.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Try to hurt me.’

He asked for it.

‘Your stepdaughter is trying to locate her real father because she’s dissatisfied with you.’

Phil dropped his guard. Very poor form. I could have landed a punch unimpeded if we were in a real bout.

‘Stepdaughter?’ he said. ‘That’s what she’s calling herself? That’s why you’re here?’

He threw a hard punch and I had to use a proper block to avoid being hit. He recognised it and tried a hook. I blocked that too and counterpunched. He avoided it nicely.

‘Since it’s unlikely she’ll succeed, we need to fix the problem with you.’

Phil threw a straight hard one at my head. I blocked and stepped away.

‘With me?’ he said. ‘With Phil Jarman? Who built his own business from nothing, who bench-presses a hundred and forty-five kilos, who plenty of women still think is a better deal than some doctor or lawyer? Or egghead?’

He threw a combination and I attacked back. I thought there was a high probability that I could take him down, but I needed to continue the conversation.

‘It’s none of your business but I was on the school council, coached the senior football team –’

‘Obviously these achievements were insufficient,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Rosie requires something in addition to personal excellence.’ In a moment of clarity, I realised what that something might be in my own case. Was all my work in self-improvement in vain? Was I going to end up like Phil, trying to win Rosie’s love but regarded with contempt?

Fighting and contemplation are not compatible. Phil’s punch took me in the solar plexus. I managed to step back and reduce the force, but went down. Phil stood over me, angry.

‘Maybe one day she’ll know everything. Maybe that’ll help, maybe it won’t.’ He shook his head hard, as though he was the one who had taken a punch. ‘Did I ever call myself her stepfather? Ask her that. I’ve got no other children, no wife. I did all the things – I read to her, got up in the night, took her horseriding. After her mother was gone, I couldn’t do a thing right.’

I sat up and shouted. I was angry too. ‘You failed to take her to Disneyland. You lied to her.’

I scissored his legs, bringing him down. He didn’t fall competently, and hit the floor hard. We struggled and I pinned him. His nose was bleeding badly and there was blood all over my singlet.

‘Disneyland!’ said Phil. ‘She was ten!’

‘She told everyone at school. It’s still a major problem.’

He tried to break free, but I managed to hold him, despite the impediment of the boxing gloves.

‘You want to know when I told her I’d take her to Disneyland? One time. Once. You know when? At her mother’s funeral. I was in a wheelchair. I was in rehab for eight months.’

It was a very reasonable explanation. I wished Rosie had provided this background information prior to me holding her stepfather’s head on the floor with blood pouring from his nose. I explained to Phil that at my sister’s funeral I made an irrational promise to donate to a hospice when the money would have been better applied to research. He seemed to understand.

‘I bought her a jewellery box. She’d been on her mother’s case forever to buy it. I thought she’d forgotten about Disneyland when I came out of rehab.’

‘Predicting the impact of actions on other people is difficult.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Phil. ‘Can we get up?’

His nose was still bleeding and was probably broken, so it was a reasonable request. But I was not prepared to let him go yet.

‘Not until we solve the problem.’

It had been a very full day but the most critical task was still ahead. I examined myself in the mirror. The new glasses, vastly lighter, and the revised hair shape made a bigger difference than the clothes.

I put the important envelope in my jacket pocket and the small box in my trouser pocket. As I phoned for a taxi, I looked at my whiteboard. The schedule, now written in erasable marker, was a sea of red writing – my code for the Rosie Project. I told myself that the changes it had produced were worthwhile, even if tonight I failed to achieve the final objective.