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But I now seemed to have an opportunity for what Gene would call ‘no-strings-attached sex’. The required conditions were in place: Rosie and I had clearly agreed that neither of us had an interest in a romantic relationship, then Rosie had indicated that she wanted to have sex with me. Did I want to have sex with Rosie? There seemed no logical reason not to, leaving me free to obey the dictates of my primitive desires. The answer was an extremely clear yes. Having made this completely rational decision, I could think of nothing else.

On Sunday morning, Gene met me outside his house. I had brought Bianca’s contact details and checked her nationality – Panamanian. Gene was very pleased about the latter.

Gene wanted full details of my encounter with Rosie, but I had decided it was a waste of effort to explain it twice: I would tell him and Claudia together. As I had no other subject to discuss and Gene had difficulty in running and speaking concurrently, we spent the next forty-seven minutes in silence.

When we returned to Gene’s house, Claudia and Eugenie were having breakfast.

I sat down and said, ‘I require some advice.’

‘Can it wait?’ said Claudia. ‘We have to take Eugenie to horseriding and then we’re meeting people for brunch.’

‘No. I may have made a social error. I broke one of Gene’s rules.’

Gene said, ‘Don, I think the Panamanian bird has flown. Put that one down to experience.’

‘The rule applies to Rosie, not Bianca. Never pass up a chance to have sex with a woman under thirty.’

‘Gene told you that?’ said Claudia.

Carl had entered the room and I prepared to defend myself against his ritual attack, but he stopped to look at his father.

‘I thought I should consult with you because you’re a psychologist and with Gene because of his extensive practical experience,’ I said.

Gene looked at Claudia, then at Carl.

‘In my misspent youth,’ he said. ‘Not my teens.’ He turned back to me. ‘I think this can wait till lunch tomorrow.’

‘What about Claudia?’ I asked.

Claudia got up from the table. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing Gene doesn’t know.’

This was encouraging, especially coming from his wife.

‘You said what?’ said Gene. We were having lunch in the University Club as scheduled.

‘I said that I hadn’t noticed her appearance. I didn’t want her to think I saw her as a sexual object.’

‘Jesus,’ said Gene. ‘The one time you think before you speak is the one time you shouldn’t have.’

‘I should have said she was beautiful?’ I was incredulous.

‘Got it in one,’ said Gene, incorrectly, as the problem was that I hadn’t got it right the first time. ‘That’ll explain the cake.’

I must have looked blank. For obvious reasons.

‘She’s been eating chocolate cake. At her desk. For breakfast.’

This seemed to me to be an unhealthy choice, consistent with smoking, but not an indicator of distress. But Gene assured me that it was to make herself feel better.

Having supplied Gene with the necessary background information, I presented my problem.

‘You’re saying she’s not The One,’ said Gene. ‘Not a life partner.’

‘Totally unsuitable. But she’s extremely attractive. If I’m going to have uncommitted sex with anyone, she’s the perfect candidate. She has no emotional attachment to me either.’

‘So why the stress?’ said Gene. ‘You have had sex before?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘My doctor is strongly in favour.’

‘Frontiers of medical science,’ said Gene.

He was probably making a joke. I think the value of regular sex has been known for some time.

I explained further. ‘It’s just that adding a second person makes it more complicated.’

‘Naturally,’ said Gene. ‘I should have thought of that. Why not get a book?’

The information was available on the internet, but a few minutes of examining the search results on ‘sexual positions’ convinced me that the book option would provide a more relevant tutorial with less extraneous information.

I had no difficulty finding a suitable book and, back in my office, selected a random position. It was called the Reverse Cowboy Position (Variant 2). I tried it – simple. But, as I had pointed out to Gene, the problem was the involvement of the second person. I got the skeleton from the closet and arranged it on top of me, following the diagram in the book.

There is a rule at the university that no one opens a door without knocking first. Gene violates it in my case but we are good friends. I do not consider the Dean my friend. It was an embarrassing moment, especially as the Dean was accompanied by another person, but entirely her fault. It was fortunate that I had kept my clothes on.

‘Don,’ she said, ‘if you can leave off repairing that skeleton for a moment, I’d like you to meet Dr Peter Enticott from the Medical Research Council. I mentioned your work in cirrhosis and he was keen to meet you. To consider a funding package.’ She emphasised the last two words as though I was so unconnected with university politics that I might forget that funding was the centre of her world. She was right to do so.

I recognised Peter instantly. He was the former father candidate who worked at Deakin University, and who had prompted the cup-stealing incident. He also recognised me.

‘Don and I have met,’ he said. ‘His partner is considering applying for the MD programme. And we met recently at a social occasion.’ He winked at me. ‘I don’t think you’re paying your academic staff enough.’

We had an excellent discussion about my work with alcoholic mice. Peter seemed highly interested and I had to reassure him repeatedly that I had designed the research so there was no need for external grants. The Dean was making hand signals and contorting her face, and I guessed that she wanted me to misrepresent my study as requiring funding, so that she could divert the money to some project that would not be funded on its merits. I chose to feign a lack of comprehension, but this had the effect of increasing the intensity of the Dean’s signalling. It was only afterwards that I realised that I should not have left the sexual positions book open on the floor.

I decided that ten positions would be sufficient initially. More could be learned if the initial encounter was successful. It did not take long – less time than learning the cha-cha. In terms of reward for effort, it seemed strongly preferable to dancing and I was greatly looking forward to it.

I went to visit Rosie in her workplace. The PhD students’ area was a windowless space with desks along the walls. I counted eight students, including Rosie and Stefan, whose desk was beside Rosie’s.

Stefan gave me an odd smile. I was still suspicious of him.

‘You’re all over Facebook, Don.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘You’ll have to update your relationship status.’

On his screen was a spectacular photo of Rosie and me dancing, similar to the one that the photographer had given me and which now sat by my computer at home. I was spinning Rosie, and her facial expression indicated extreme happiness. I had not technically been ‘tagged’ as I was not registered on Facebook (social networking not being an interest of mine) but our names had been added to the photo: A/Prof Don Tillman of Genetics and Rosie Jarman, PhD Candidate, Psychology.

‘Don’t talk to me about it,’ said Rosie.

‘You don’t like the photo?’ This seemed a bad sign.

‘It’s Phil. I don’t want him seeing this.’

Stefan said, ‘You think your father spends his life looking at Facebook?’

‘Wait till he calls,’ said Rosie. ‘ “How much does he earn?” “Are you screwing him?” “What can he bench press?” ’

‘Hardly unusual questions for a father to ask about a man who’s dating his daughter,’ said Stefan.

‘I’m not dating Don. We shared a taxi. That’s all. Right, Don?’

‘Correct.’

Rosie turned back to Stefan. ‘So you can stick your little theory where it fits. Permanently.’

‘I need to talk to you in private,’ I said to Rosie.

She looked at me very directly. ‘I don’t think there’s anything we need to say in private.’

This seemed odd. But presumably she and Stefan shared information in the same way that Gene and I did. He had accompanied her to the ball.

‘I was reconsidering your offer of sex,’ I said.

Stefan put his hand over his mouth. There was quite a long silence – I would estimate six seconds.

Then Rosie said, ‘Don, it was a joke. A joke.’

I could make no sense of this. I could understand that she might have changed her mind. Perhaps the problem around the sexual objectification response had been fatal. But a joke? Surely I could not be so insensitive to social cues to have missed the fact that she was joking. Yes, I could be. I had failed to detect jokes in the past. Frequently. A joke. I had been obsessing about a joke.

‘Oh. When should we meet about the other project?’

Rosie looked down at her desk. ‘There is no other project.’

19

For a week, I did my best to return to my regular schedule, using the time freed up by Eva’s cleaning and the cancellation of the Father Project to catch up on the karate and aikido training that I had been missing.

Sensei, fifth dan, a man who says very little, especially to the black belts, pulled me aside as I was working the punching bag in the dojo.

‘Something has made you very angry,’ he said. That was all.

He knew me well enough to know that once an emotion was identified I would not let it defeat me. But he was right to speak to me, because I had not realised that I was angry.

I was briefly angry with Rosie because she unexpectedly refused me something I wanted. But then I became angry with myself over the social incompetence that had doubtless caused Rosie embarrassment.

I made several attempts to contact Rosie and got her answering service. Finally I left a message: ‘What if you get leukaemia and don’t know where to source a bone-marrow transplant? Your biological father would be an excellent candidate with a strong motivation to assist. Failure to complete the project could result in death. There are only eleven candidates remaining.’

She did not return my call.

‘These things happen,’ said Claudia over the third coffee meeting in four weeks. ‘You get involved with a woman, it doesn’t work out …’

So that was it. I had, in my own way, become ‘involved’ with Rosie.

‘What should I do?’

‘It’s not easy,’ said Claudia, ‘but anyone will give you the same advice. Move on. Something else will turn up.’

Claudia’s logic, built on sound theoretical foundations and drawing on substantial professional experience, was obviously superior to my own irrational feelings. But as I reflected on it, I realised that her advice, and indeed the discipline of psychology itself, embodied the results of research on normal humans. I am well aware that I have some unusual characteristics. Was it possible that Claudia’s advice was not appropriate for me?

I decided on a compromise course of action. I would continue the Wife Project. If (and only if) there was further time available, I would use it for the Father Project, proceeding alone. If I could present Rosie with the solution, perhaps we could become friends again.

Based on the Bianca Disaster I revised the questionnaire, adding more stringent criteria. I included questions on dancing, racquet sports and bridge to eliminate candidates who would require me to gain competence in useless activities, and increased the difficulty of the mathematics, physics and genetics problems. Option (c) moderately would be the only acceptable answer to the alcohol question. I organised for the responses to go directly to Gene, who was obviously engaging in the well-established research practice of making secondary use of the data. He could advise me if anyone met my criteria. Exactly.

In the absence of Wife Project candidates, I thought hard about the best way to get DNA samples for the Father Project.

The answer came to me as I was boning a quail. The candidates were doctors who would presumably be willing to contribute to genetics research. I just needed a plausible excuse to ask for their DNA. Thanks to the preparation I had done for the Asperger’s lecture, I had one.

I pulled out my list of eleven names. Two were confirmed dead, leaving nine, seven of whom were living overseas, which explained their absence at the reunion. But two had local phone numbers. One was the head of the Medical Research Institute at my own university. I rang it first.

‘Professor Lefebvre’s office,’ said a woman’s voice.

‘It’s Professor Tillman from the Department of Genetics. I’d like to invite Professor Lefebvre to participate in a research project.’

‘Professor Lefebvre is on sabbatical in the US. He’ll be back in two weeks.’

‘Excellent. The project is Presence of Genetic Markers for Autism in High-Achieving Individuals. I require him to complete a questionnaire and provide a DNA sample.’

Two days later, I had succeeded in locating all nine living candidates and posted them questionnaires, created from the Asperger’s research papers, and cheek scrapers. The questionnaires were irrelevant, but were needed to make the research appear legitimate. My covering letter made clear my credentials as a professor of genetics at a prestigious university. In the meantime, I needed to find relatives of the two dead doctors.

I found an obituary for Dr Gerhard von Deyn, a victim of a heart attack, on the internet. It mentioned his daughter, a medical student at the time of his death. I had no trouble tracking down Dr Brigitte von Deyn and she was happy to participate in the survey. Simple.

Geoffrey Case was a much more difficult challenge. He had died a year after graduating. I had long ago noted his basic details from the reunion website. He had not married and had no (known) children.

Meanwhile the DNA samples trickled back. Two doctors, both in New York, declined to participate. Why would medical practitioners not participate in an important study? Did they have something to hide? Such as an illegitimate daughter in the same city that the request came from? It occurred to me that, if they suspected my motives, they could send a friend’s DNA. At least refusal was better than cheating.

Seven candidates, including Dr von Deyn, Jr, returned samples. None of them was Rosie’s father or half-sister. Professor Simon Lefebvre returned from his sabbatical and wanted to meet me in person.

‘I’m here to collect a package from Professor Lefebvre,’ I said to the receptionist at the city hospital where he was based, hoping to avoid an actual meeting and interrogation. I was unsuccessful. She buzzed the phone, announced my name, and Professor Lefebvre appeared. He was, I assumed, approximately fifty-four years old. I had met many fifty-four-year-olds in the past thirteen weeks. He was carrying a large envelope, presumably containing the questionnaire, which was destined for the recycling bin, and his DNA.

As he reached me, I tried to take the envelope, but he extended his other hand to shake mine. It was awkward, but the net result was that we shook hands and he retained the envelope.