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Gene spoke over the chatter. ‘I think my colleague Professor Tillman has given us a signal that we should discuss the finances, critical as they are to our ongoing work, at another time.’ He looked towards the Dean and her companions. ‘Thank you again for your interest in my work – and of course that of my colleagues in the Department of Psychology.’ There was applause. It seemed that my intervention had been timely.

The Dean and her corporate friends swept past me. She said, just to me, ‘Sorry to hold up your meeting, Professor Tillman. I’m sure we can find the money elsewhere.’ This was good to hear, but now, annoyingly, there was a throng around Gene. A woman with red hair and several metal objects in her ears was talking to him. She was speaking quite loudly.

‘I can’t believe you used a public lecture to push your own agenda.’

‘Lucky you came then. You’ve changed one of your beliefs. That’d be a first.’

It was obvious that there was some animosity on the woman’s part even though Gene was smiling.

‘Even if you were right, which you’re not, what about the social impact?’

I was amazed by Gene’s next reply, not by its intent, which I am familiar with, but by its subtle shift in topic. Gene has social skills at a level that I will never have.

‘This is sounding like a café discussion. Why don’t we pick it up over coffee sometime?’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got research to do. You know, evidence.’

I moved to push in but a tall blonde woman was ahead of me, and I did not want to risk body contact. She spoke with a Norwegian accent.

‘Professor Barrow?’ she said, meaning Gene. ‘With respect, I think you are oversimplifying the feminist position.’

‘If we’re going to talk philosophy, we should do it in a coffee shop,’ Gene replied. ‘I’ll catch you at Barista’s in five.’

The woman nodded and walked towards the door.

Finally, we had time to talk.

‘What’s her accent?’ Gene asked me. ‘Swedish?’

‘Norwegian,’ I said. ‘I thought you had a Norwegian already.’

I told him that we had a discussion scheduled, but Gene was now focused on having coffee with the woman. Most male animals are programmed to give higher priority to sex than to assisting an unrelated individual, and Gene had the additional motivation of his research project. Arguing would be hopeless.

‘Book the next slot in my diary,’ he said.

The Beautiful Helena had presumably departed for the day, and I was again able to access Gene’s diary. I amended my own schedule to accommodate the appointment. From now on, the Wife Project would have maximum priority.

I waited until exactly 7.30 a.m. the next day before knocking on Gene and Claudia’s door. It had been necessary to shift my jog to the market for dinner purchases back to 5.45 a.m., which in turn had meant going to bed earlier the previous night, with a flow-on effect to a number of scheduled tasks.

I heard sounds of surprise through the door before their daughter Eugenie opened it. Eugenie was, as always, pleased to see me, and requested that I hoist her onto my shoulders and jump all the way to the kitchen. It was great fun. It occurred to me that I might be able to include Eugenie and her half-brother Carl as my friends, making a total of four.

Gene and Claudia were eating breakfast, and told me that they had not been expecting me. I advised Gene to put his diary online – he could remain up to date and I would avoid unpleasant encounters with The Beautiful Helena. He was not enthusiastic.

I had missed breakfast, so I took a tub of yoghurt from the refrigerator. Sweetened! No wonder Gene is overweight. Claudia is not yet overweight, but I had noticed some increase. I pointed out the problem, and identified the yoghurt as the possible culprit.

Claudia asked whether I had enjoyed the Asperger’s lecture. She was under the impression that Gene had delivered the lecture and I had merely attended. I corrected her mistake and told her I had found the subject fascinating.

‘Did the symptoms remind you of anyone?’ she asked.

They certainly did. They were an almost perfect description of Laszlo Hevesi in the Physics Department. I was about to relate the famous story of Laszlo and the pyjamas when Gene’s son Carl, who is sixteen, arrived in his school uniform. He walked towards the refrigerator, as if to open it, then suddenly spun around and threw a full-blooded punch at my head. I caught the punch and pushed him gently but firmly to the floor, so he could see that I was achieving the result with leverage rather than strength. This is a game we always play, but he had not noticed the yoghurt, which was now on our clothes.

‘Stay still,’ said Claudia. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

A cloth was not going to clean my shirt properly. Laundering a shirt requires a machine, detergent, fabric softener and considerable time.

‘I’ll borrow one of Gene’s,’ I said, and headed to their bedroom.

When I returned, wearing an uncomfortably large white shirt, with a decorative frill in the front, I tried to introduce the Wife Project, but Claudia was engaged in child-related activities. This was becoming frustrating. I booked dinner for Saturday night and asked them not to schedule any other conversation topics.

The delay was actually opportune, as it enabled me to undertake some research on questionnaire design, draw up a list of desirable attributes, and produce a draft proforma survey. All this, of course, had to be arranged around my teaching and research commitments and an appointment with the Dean.

On Friday morning we had yet another unpleasant interaction as a result of me reporting an honours-year student for academic dishonesty. I had already caught Kevin Yu cheating once. Then, marking his most recent assignment, I had recognised a sentence from another student’s work of three years earlier.

Some investigation established that the past student was now Kevin’s private tutor, and had written at least part of his essay for him. This had all happened some weeks ago. I had reported the matter and expected the disciplinary process to take its course. Apparently it was more complicated than this.

‘The situation with Kevin is a little awkward,’ said the Dean. We were in her corporate-style office and she was wearing her corporate-style costume of matching dark-blue skirt and jacket, which, according to Gene, is intended to make her appear more powerful. She is a short, slim person, aged approximately fifty, and it is possible that the costume makes her appear bigger, but I cannot see the relevance of physical dominance in an academic environment.

‘This is Kevin’s third offence, and university policy requires that he be expelled,’ she said.

The facts seemed to be clear and the necessary action straightforward. I tried to identify the awkwardness that the Dean referred to. ‘Is the evidence insufficient? Is he making a legal challenge?’

‘No, that’s all perfectly clear. But the first offence was very naive. He cut and pasted from the internet, and was picked up by the plagiarism software. He was in his first year and his English wasn’t very good. And there are cultural differences.’

I had not known about this first offence.

‘The second time, you reported him because he’d borrowed from an obscure paper that you were somehow familiar with.’

‘Correct.’

‘Don, none of the other lecturers are as … vigilant … as you.’

It was unusual for the Dean to compliment me on my wide reading and dedication.

‘These kids pay a lot of money to study here. We rely on their fees. We don’t want them stealing blatantly from the internet. But we have to recognise that they need assistance, and … Kevin has only a semester to go. We can’t send him home after three and a half years without a qualification. It’s not a good look.’

‘What if he was a medical student? What if you went to the hospital and the doctor who operated on you had cheated in their exams?’

‘Kevin’s not a medical student. And he didn’t cheat on his exams, he just got some help with an assignment.’

It seemed that the Dean had been flattering me only in order to procure unethical behaviour. But the solution to her dilemma was obvious. If she did not want to break the rules, then she should change the rules. I pointed this out.

I am not good at interpreting expressions, and was not familiar with the one that appeared on the Dean’s face. ‘We can’t be seen to allow cheating.’

‘Even though we do?’

The meeting left me confused and angry. There were serious matters at stake. What if our research was not accepted because we had a reputation for low academic standards? People could die while cures for diseases were delayed. What if a genetics laboratory hired a person whose qualification had been achieved through cheating, and that person made major errors? The Dean seemed more concerned with perceptions than with these crucial matters.

I reflected on what it would be like to spend my life living with the Dean. It was a truly terrible thought. The underlying problem was the preoccupation with image. My questionnaire would be ruthless in filtering out women who were concerned with appearance.

4

Gene opened the door with a glass of red wine in his hand. I parked my bicycle in their hallway, took off my backpack and retrieved the Wife Project folder, pulling out Gene’s copy of the draft. I had pruned it to sixteen double-sided pages.

‘Relax, Don, plenty of time,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have a civilised dinner, and then we’ll do the questionnaire. If you’re going to be dating, you need dinner practice.’

He was, of course, right. Claudia is an excellent cook and Gene has a vast collection of wines, organised by region, vintage and producer. We went to his ‘cellar’, which is not actually below ground, where he showed me his recent purchases and we selected a second bottle. We ate with Carl and Eugenie, and I was able to avoid small talk by playing a memory game with Eugenie. She noticed my folder marked ‘Wife Project’, which I put on the table as soon as I finished dessert.

‘Are you getting married, Don?’ she asked.

‘Correct.’

‘Who to?’

I was about to explain, but Claudia sent Eugenie and Carl to their rooms – a good decision, as they did not have the expertise to contribute.

I handed questionnaires to Claudia and Gene. Gene poured port for all of us. I explained that I had followed best practice in questionnaire design, including multiple-choice questions, Likert scales, cross-validation, dummy questions and surrogates. Claudia asked for an example of the last of these.

‘Question 35: Do you eat kidneys? Correct answer is (c) occasionally. Testing for food problems. If you ask directly about food preferences, they say “I eat anything” and then you discover they’re vegetarian.’

I am aware that there are many arguments in favour of vegetarianism. However, as I eat meat I considered it would be more convenient if my partner did so also. At this early stage, it seemed logical to specify the ideal solution and review the questionnaire later if necessary.

Claudia and Gene were reading.

Claudia said, ‘For an appointment, I’m guessing (b) a little early.’

This was patently incorrect, demonstrating that even Claudia, who was a good friend, would be unsuitable as a partner.

‘The correct answer is (c) on time,’ I said. ‘Habitual earliness is cumulatively a major waste of time.’

‘I’d allow a little early,’ said Claudia. ‘She might be trying hard. That’s not a bad thing.’

An interesting point. I made a note to consider it, but pointed out that (d) a little late and (e) very late were definitely unacceptable.

‘I think if a woman describes herself as a brilliant cook she’s a bit up herself,’ said Claudia. ‘Just ask her if she enjoys cooking. Mention that you do too.’

This was exactly the sort of input I was looking for – subtle nuances of language that I am not conscious of. It struck me that if the respondent was someone like me she would not notice the difference, but it was unreasonable to require that my potential partner share my lack of subtlety.

‘No jewellery, no make-up?’ said Claudia, correctly predicting the answers to two questions that had been prompted by my recent interaction with the Dean.

‘Jewellery isn’t always about appearance,’ she said. ‘If you have to have a question, drop the jewellery one and keep the make-up. But just ask if she wears it daily.’

‘Height, weight and body mass index.’ Gene was skimming ahead. ‘Can’t you do the calculation yourself?’

‘That’s the purpose of the question,’ I said. ‘Checking they can do basic arithmetic. I don’t want a partner who’s mathematically illiterate.’

‘I thought you might have wanted to get an idea of what they look like,’ said Gene.

‘There’s a question on fitness,’ I said.

‘I was thinking about sex,’ said Gene.

‘Just for a change,’ said Claudia, an odd statement as Gene talks constantly about sex. But he had made a good point.

‘I’ll add a question on HIV and herpes.’

‘Stop,’ said Claudia. ‘You’re being way too picky.’

I began to explain that an incurable sexually transmitted disease was a severe negative but Claudia interrupted.

‘About everything.’

It was an understandable response. But my strategy was to minimise the chance of making a type-one error – wasting time on an unsuitable choice. Inevitably, that increased the risk of a type-two error – rejecting a suitable person. But this was an acceptable risk as I was dealing with a very large population.

Gene’s turn: ‘Non-smoking, fair enough. But what’s the right answer on drinking?’

‘Zero.’

‘Hang on. You drink.’ He pointed to my port glass, which he had topped up a few moments earlier. ‘You drink quite a bit.’

I explained that I was expecting some improvement for myself from the project.

We continued in this manner and I received some excellent feedback. I did feel that the questionnaire was now less discriminating, but was still confident it would eliminate most if not all of the women who had given me problems in the past. Apricot Ice-cream Woman would have failed at least five questions.

My plan was to advertise on traditional dating sites, but to provide a link to the questionnaire in addition to posting the usual insufficiently discriminating information about height, profession and whether I enjoyed long walks on the beach.

Gene and Claudia suggested that I also undertake some face-to-face dating to practise my social skills. I could see the value of validating the questionnaires in the field, so, while I waited for online responses to arrive, I printed some questionnaires and returned to the dating process that I thought I had abandoned forever.

I began by registering with Table for Eight, run by a commercial matchmaking organisation. After an undoubtedly unsound preliminary matching process, based on manifestly inadequate data, four men and four women, including me, were provided with details of a city restaurant at which a booking had been made. I packed four questionnaires and arrived precisely at 8.00 p.m. Only one woman was there! The other three were late. It was a stunning validation of the advantages of field work. These women may well have answered (b) a little early or (c) on time, but their actual behaviour demonstrated otherwise. I decided to temporarily allow (d) a little late, on the basis that a single occasion might not be representative of their overall performance. I could hear Claudia saying, ‘Don, everyone’s late occasionally.’