Free The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion Page A

same day?
    I ate dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant. By the time I had worked my way through the banquet and returned to the bar, it was 9:27 p.m. There was a security official at the door, and I prepared myself for a repeat of the previous night. He examined me carefully, then asked, “Do you know what sort of place this is?”
    I am quite familiar with bars, perhaps even more familiar than most people. When I travel to conferences, I generally find a pleasant bar near my hotel and eat and drink there every evening. I replied in the affirmative and entered.
    I wondered if I had come to the right location. The most obvious characteristic of Rosie was that she was female, and the patrons at the Marquess of Queensbury were without exception male. Many were wearing unusual costumes, and I took a few minutes to examine the range. Two men noted me looking at them and one smiled broadly and nodded. I smiled back. It seemed to be a friendly place.
    But I was there to find Rosie. I walked to the bar. The two men followed and sat on either side of me. The clean-shaven one was wearing a cut-off T-shirt and clearly spent time at the gym. Steroids could also have been involved. The one with the mustache wore a leather costume and a black cap.
    “I haven’t seen you here before,” said Black Cap.
    I gave him the simple explanation. “I haven’t been here before.”
    “Can I buy you a drink?”
    “You’re offering to buy my drink?” It was an unusual proposition from a stranger, and I guessed that I would be expected to reciprocate in some way.
    “I think that’s what I said,” said Black Cap. “What can we tempt you with?”
    I told him that the flavor didn’t matter, as long as it contained alcohol. As in most social situations, I was nervous.
    Then Rosie appeared from the other side of the bar, dressed conventionally for her role in a collared black shirt. I was hugely relieved. I had come to the correct place and she was on duty. Black Cap waved to her. He ordered three Budweisers. Then Rosie saw me.
    “Don.”
    “Greetings.”
    Rosie looked at us and asked, “Are you guys together?”
    “Give us a few minutes,” said Steroid Man.
    Rosie said, “I think Don’s here to see me.”
    “Correct.”
    “Well, pardon us interrupting your social life with drinks orders,” Black Cap said to Rosie.
    “You could use DNA,” I said.
    Rosie clearly didn’t follow, owing to lack of context. “What?”
    “To identify your father. DNA is the obvious approach.”
    “Sure,” said Rosie. “Obvious. ‘Please send me your DNA so I can see if you’re my father.’ Forget it, I was just mouthing off.”
    “You could collect it.” I wasn’t sure how Rosie would respond to the next part of my suggestion. “Surreptitiously.”
    Rosie went silent. She was at least considering the idea. Or perhaps wondering whether to report me. Her response supported the first possibility. “And who’s going to analyze it?”
    “I’m a geneticist.”
    “You’re saying if I got a sample, you could analyze it for me?”
    “Trivial,” I said. “How many samples do we need to test?”
    “Probably only one. I’ve got a pretty good idea. He’s a family friend.”
    Steroid Man coughed loudly, and Rosie fetched two beers from the refrigerator. Black Cap put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, but Rosie pushed it back and waved them away.
    I tried the cough trick myself. Rosie took a moment to interpret the message this time, but then got me a beer.
    “What do you need?” she asked. “To test the DNA?”
    I explained that normally we would use scrapings from the inner cheek, but that it would be impractical to obtain these without the subject’s knowledge. “Blood is excellent, but skin scrapings, mucus, urine—”
    “Pass,” said Rosie.
    “—fecal material, semen—”
    “It keeps getting better,” said Rosie. “I can screw a sixty-year-old family friend in the hope that he turns out to be my father.”
    I was shocked.