I cycled to the university on Saturday morning with an unidentifiable, and therefore disconcerting, emotion. ings were settling back into their normal pattern. e day’s testing would mark the end of the Father Project. At worst, Rosie might find a person that we had overlooked—another tutor or caterer or perhaps someone who had left the party early—but a single additional test would not take long. And I would have no reason to see Rosie again.

We met at the lab. ere were three samples to test: the swab from Isaac Esler’s fork, a urine sample on toilet paper from Freyberg’s floor, and Gene’s table napkin. I had still not told Rosie about the handkerchief from Margaret Case but was anxious to get a result on Gene’s sample. ere was a strong possibility that Gene was Rosie’s father. I tried not to think about it, but it was consistent with Gene’s reaction to the photo, his identification of Rosie’s mother, and his history of casual sex.

“What’s the napkin?” asked Rosie. I was expecting this question.

“Retest. One of the earlier samples was contaminated.”

My improving ability at deception was not enough to fool Rosie. “Bullshit. Who is it? It’s Case, isn’t it? You got a sample for Geoffrey Case.”

It would have been easy to say yes, but identifying the sample as Case’s would create great confusion if it tested positive. A web of lies.

“I’ll tell you if it’s the one,” I said.

“Tell me now,” said Rosie. “It is the one.” “How can you know?”

“I just know.”

“You have zero evidence. Isaac Esler’s story makes him an excellent candidate. He was committed to getting married to someone else right after the party. He admits to being drunk. He was evasive at dinner. He’s standing next to your mother in the photo.”

is was something we had not discussed before. It was such an obvious thing to have checked. Gene had once given me an exercise to do at conferences: “If you want to know who’s sleeping with who, just look at who they sit with at breakfast.” Whoever Rosie’s mother had been with that night would likely be standing next to her. Unless of course he was required to take the photo.

“My intuition versus your logic. Wanna bet?”

It would have been unfair to take the bet. I had the advantage of the knowledge from the basement encounter. Realistically, I considered Isaac Esler, Gene, and Geoffrey Case to be equally likely. I had mulled over Esler’s reference to “people involved” and concluded that it was ambiguous. He might have been protecting his friend, but he could equally have been hiding behind him. ough if Esler was not himself the father, he could simply have told me to test his sample. Perhaps his plan was to confuse me, in which case it had succeeded, but only temporarily. Esler’s deceptive behavior had caused me to review an earlier decision. If we reached a point where we had eliminated all other candidates, including Esler, I would test the sample I had collected from Margaret Case.

“Anyway it’s definitely not Freyberg,” said Rosie, interrupting my thinking.

“Why not?” Freyberg was the least likely but certainly not impossible. “Green eyes. I should have thought of it at the time.”

She interpreted my expression correctly: disbelief.

“Come on, you’re the geneticist. He’s got green eyes, so he can’t be my father. I checked it on the Internet.”

Amazing. She retains a professor of genetics, an alien of extraordinary abilities, to help find her father, she travels for a week, spending almost every minute of the waking day with him, yet when she wants the answer to a question on genetics, she goes to the Internet.

“ose models are simplifications.”

“Don, my mother had blue eyes. I have brown eyes. My real father had to have brown eyes, right?”

“Wrong,” I said. “Highly likely but not certain. e genetics of eye color are extremely complex. Green is possible. Also blue.”

“A medical student—a doctor—would know that, wouldn’t she?”

Rosie was obviously referring to her mother. I thought it was probably not the right time to give Rosie a detailed account of the deficiencies in medical education.

I just said, “Highly unlikely. Gene used to teach genetics to medical students. at’s a typical Gene simplification.”

“Fuck Gene,” said Rosie. “I am so over Gene. Just test the napkin. It’s the one.” But she sounded less sure.

“What are you going to do when you find out?”

is question should have been asked earlier. Failure to raise it was another result of lack of planning, but now that I could picture Gene as the father, Rosie’s future actions became more relevant to me.

“Funny you should ask,” said Rosie. “I said it was about closure. But I think, subconsciously, I had this fantasy that my real father would come riding in and . . . deal with Phil.”

“For failing to keep the Disneyland promise? It would surely be difficult to devise a suitable punishment after so much time.”

“I said it was a fantasy,” she said. “I saw him as some sort of hero. But now I know it’s one of three people, and I’ve met two of them. Isaac Esler: ‘We must not revisit the past lightly.’ Max Freyberg: ‘I consider myself a restorer of self-esteem.’ Assholes, both of them. Just weak guys who ran away.”

e lack of logic here was astounding. At most, one of them had deserted her.

“Geoffrey Case . . .” I began, thinking Rosie’s characterization would not apply to him, but if Rosie knew about the manner of his death, she might interpret it as a means of escaping his responsibilities.

“I know, I know. But if it turns out to be someone else, some middle-aged guy who’s pretending to be something he isn’t, then time’s up, douche bag.”

“You’re planning to expose him?” I asked, horrified. Suddenly it struck me that I could be involved in causing great pain to someone, very possibly my best friend. To his whole family! Rosie’s mother had not wanted Rosie to know. Perhaps this was why. By default, Rosie’s mother knew more about human behavior than I did.

“Correct.”

“But you’ll be inflicting pain. For no compensatory gain.” “I’ll feel better.”

“Incorrect,” I said. “Research shows that revenge adds to the distress of

the victim—”

“at’s my choice.”

ere was the possibility that Rosie’s father was Geoffrey Case, in which case all three samples would test negative, and it would be too late for Rosie to wreak her revenge. I did not want to rely on that possibility.

I turned off the machine.

“Stop,” said Rosie. “I have a right to know.” “Not if it causes suffering.”

“What about me?” she said. “Don’t you care about me?” She was becoming emotional. I felt very calm. Reason was in control again. My thoughts were straight.

“I care about you enormously. So I can’t contribute to your doing something immoral.”

“Don, if you don’t do the test, I’m never going to speak to you again.

Ever.”

is information was painful to process but rationally entirely predictable.

“I’d assumed that was inevitable,” I said. “e project will be complete, and you’ve indicated no further interest in the sexual aspect.”

“So it’s my fault?” said Rosie. “Of course it’s my fault. I’m not a fucking nonsmoking teetotal chef with a PhD. I’m not organized.”

“I’ve deleted the nondrinking requirement.” I realized that she was

referring to the Wife Project. But what was she saying? at she was evaluating herself according to the criteria of the Wife Project? Which meant—

“You considered me as a partner?”

“Sure,” she said. “Except for the fact that you have no idea of social behavior, your life’s ruled by a whiteboard, and you’re incapable of feeling love—you’re perfect.”

She walked out, slamming the door behind her.

I turned the machine on. Without Rosie in the room, I could safely test the samples and then decide what to do with them. en I heard the door

open again. I turned around, expecting to see Rosie. Instead it was the Dean.

“Working on your secret project, Professor Tillman?”

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 humor, 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.”

e 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.”

e 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. is 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.”

“is 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 socioeconomic 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 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.

e 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. e 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.”

ere 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.”

is 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. e day Rosie walked into my office and I hacked into Le Gavroche’s reservation system so I could go on a date with her.

“All this because of a woman?” said Gene.

“Apparently. It’s totally irrational.” I felt embarrassed. It was one thing to make a social error, another to admit that rationality had deserted me.

“It’s only irrational if you believe in your questionnaire.” “e EPDS is highly—”

“I’m talking about your ‘Do you eat kidneys?’ questionnaire. I’d say genetics one, questionnaire nil.”

“You consider the situation with Rosie to be the result of genetic compatibility?”

“You have such a way with words,” Gene said. “If you want to be a bit more romantic about it, I’d say you were in love.”

is was an extraordinary statement. It also made absolute sense. I had assumed that romantic love would always be outside my realm of experience. But it perfectly accounted for my current situation. I wanted to be sure.

“is is your professional opinion? As an expert on human attraction?”

Gene nodded.

“Excellent.” Gene’s insight had transformed my mental state. “Not sure how that helps,” said Gene.

“Rosie identified three faults. Fault number one was the inability to feel love. ere are only two left to rectify.”

“And they would be?”

“Social protocols and adherence to schedules. Trivial.”