The Cinderella Project (A Comedy of Love, #1) Read online

  “Your faculty sponsor is Reginald Jordan, Dean of the Department and you’ve had a total of four research assistants over the course of your work, though it has been just over a year since you last had one. Thus, you’ve been working completely on your own at various part-time jobs for nearly a thousand man hours.” She paused for a moment in thought.

  “Oh and your favorite color is gray-blue.”

  I stared at her for several moments, dumbstruck.

  Finally, I managed to speak. “I don’t recall having published my autobiography yet. Would you care to write it for me? I’m not sure whether to feel flattered or invaded, to be honest. I’m pretty sure none of that is on the Internet either….”

  Her smile widened. “Well? Does that at least give you a hint that I might know what I’m doing here? No need to play catch up?”

  I nodded slightly, still awed that that much information was available on me without my knowledge. I had to wonder if she knew my social security number and credit card information as well. This was just weird. It still didn’t change the fact that she was a big risk I didn’t want.

  “You look too professional for this project,” I blurted thoughtlessly. What had I just said? Was that even an excuse for dismissing someone who had obviously done their homework? I groaned inwardly. She didn’t say a word; she just took down her hair and shook it out. I noticed that it flowed to several inches below her shoulders and looked not unlike a mass of liquid fire.

  “There. How’s that?” she said coyly. “I could undo a few of the top buttons on my blouse, too, if that would work. But something tells me that would violate the dress code, among other things.” She winked at me playfully.

  I stammered something, stunned at her forwardness, but she just laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Doctor Cairn. I’m teasing you. Anyway, I won’t get in your way and I’ll be as professional as this job demands. After all, respect is earned. Besides, you have to admit that you need the help now more than ever, what, with the big day closing in on you.”

  What had she just said? How could she know about that? But then, she somehow knew my favorite color, so why not that I was about to get married? I felt my face flush and my tongue lock up.

  “Your… dissertation defense?” she said, eyeing me quizzically. “It’s coming closer. What… did you think I meant? I really think you could benefit from having someone around to help, even if it’s just filing and organizing your notes, don’t you?”

  “Oh, um…, never mind. I’m still dealing with the effects of a late night and an early morning is all.”

  “So… do we still have a deal?” she asked, tilting her head just a little. Just enough to make her eyes glimmer in a nice way. I glanced away.

  I admired her confidence, her easy manner and her real spirit. I made it a point not to admire anything else. There was no denying that she was considerably better versed on what I was doing than all my other assistants had been combined—even after some of them were done working for me. I also had to admit that I had been rather swamped, of late, between school and work and the wedding. Granted, Ella had been doing the lion’s share of the wedding planning (perhaps a little too much) but it’s not like it wasn’t on my mind at all. I was falling behind on sleep and my personal organizational levels were at an all time low; they weren’t looking to improve any time soon. Maybe… maybe it would be good to get a bit of help, especially since she didn’t seem to be worried about money. Maybe that would give me more time to spend with Ella. I could just assign Moiré to work when I wasn’t there—or at least when I’m not there alone—and I could neatly avoid undesirable situations that might compromise my promise to Ella. I would simply have to keep my personal life completely separate from my work life and ensure the potential for problems was avoided from the get-go. Perhaps this might not be as bad an idea as I had originally thought.

  Somewhere, deep inside of me, I had a feeling that I really just wanted to keep Moiré around. Luckily, that feeling was deep enough that I was able to chalk it up to a standard “male hormone response,” and ignore it.

  “Well,” I said at last, “it might just be that you could help me out with one or two little things. I still think you’d get a better, more comprehensive experience with someone else, but this would only set you back this one semester and you’re what year in school?”

  “Sophomore.”

  “Right. Plenty of time to still get in a proper run through a real project.”

  “So you’re still going to hire me?”

  I waffled for another instant or two and then stuck out my hand. “Consider us partners,” I said with a wan smile. “Welcome aboard.”

  She seized my hand firmly and gave me a grave nod. Then she let a hint of a smile peek through. Her playfulness was almost infectious. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “It means that my trip to University H.R. wasn’t wasted this morning.”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve already been to Human Resources?”

  She raised an eyebrow in return. “You told me last night that you’d hire me. I just took care of the paperwork for you. A trip to H.R. was a walk in the park.”

  I was impressed and grateful that she’d eliminated the boring stuff. Since a research assistant was an actual job—no matter how little the pay—the university had a procedure in place to deal with it. Actually, the university had procedures in place to handle using the toilet after hours and sneezing more than three times in a row. Okay, so I’m exaggerating. Slightly.

  I thanked her for saving me the trouble I’d had with previous assistants and then asked her to put her hair back up before we re-entered the lab. I was not about to chance anyone wondering whether something untoward had gone on out in the hall. Taboo or not, that’d get talked about; it might even get back to Ella. Wouldn’t that make for hours of fun?

  We walked into the lab and I took a moment to collect her basic personal information. It was on file already, but I liked to keep my own records. Memorizing her cell number took seconds, but I didn’t bother to look at her address. When would I ever need it?

  With the personal info stuff out of the way, I pulled up the old documents that I had used to instruct past research assistants. She already knew enough about what we were actually doing that I ended up skipping most of my spiel about daily routines and went straight to what I liked to call the “Researcher’s Code.”

  “The Researcher’s Code?” she asked.

  I grinned. “It’s just my little way of making this seem all that much more professional. I figure if I laid down some ground rules for my assistants and myself then I might avoid problems. I decided to codify this behavior and give it a name. Hence, ‘The Researcher’s Code.’”

  “Okay,” she said agreeably. “What are the rules in this code?”

  “Actually,” I said, “they’re more like… guidelines. But it’s real simple. Hands are kept to oneself when not testing a subject. When testing a subject, consent must be obtained and all potential touching explained and agreed to before testing begins.”

  “Right. Those are a given.”

  “Yes. But you might be surprised how many people don’t get those concepts, even after they’ve been explained. Anyway, the last one: in order to ensure maximum objectivity in our work, personal lives get left at the door inasmuch as practical. By that I mean ‘dating lives’ and such. I’ve found that it’s far too easy to map one’s own life onto a situation—we all do it unconsciously anyway—and in order to help preserve the kind of legitimacy that doctoral work needs, I’d like to generally keep relationship-based discussions off the table. It’s nothing personal and it’s not that I just don’t care. But the Department has hinted that my work toes a line they’re not comfortable with and if we let our own personal feelings seep in….”

  Moiré bobbed her head in agreement. “I understand. I won’t ask you about your love conquests and I won’t volunteer information on just how well I kiss.”

  I blanched, looking around imm
ediately. Thankfully, no one seemed to have heard her comment. “Um… and can I tack on one more little guideline, please?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please try to keep comments and behaviors that might suggest that there’s something other than a professional relationship between us to zero, especially in the lab.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Right,” she said curtly. “My mistake.”

  “That’s alright. Just wanted to make sure that’s clear. We just really need to be careful due to the nature of what we’re doing here. Way too much room for misunderstanding, accusations, et cetera.”

  “Got it. My apologies.”

  “Honest mistake. Let’s begin.” She smiled. I ignored it.

  I pulled out two, medium-sized boxes, and set them on the table, quickly snatching the handful of paperbacks that spilled over the sides. I pulled out a third box that was more neatly sorted, filled to capacity with CDs, DVDs and several old-style VHS and cassette tapes.

  Moiré lifted a VHS and a cassette tape out of the box and smiled impishly at it. “You have these,” she said, casting a mildly accusing look my way.

  “Magnetic tape is a perfectly valid recording medium,” I answered with mock defensiveness. “They’ve been around longer than CDs and DVDs and they could record when LPs and more modern discs could not. They’re lightweight, reusable and cheaper than the new stuff. Especially when you get them at second hand stores.”

  She winked at me and I felt my heart flutter. “I’m teasing you, Nick. I grew up with tapes. Heck, even eight-tracks. My parents were teens in the ’60s, you know. My dad used to blast Neil Diamond, and The Bee Gees, and Elvis and The Beatles all the time. I heard them all, all the time. I even used to record songs off the radio with cassettes, so—don’t worry—I’ll keep your little secret.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feigning a wound to my dignity. “So what secret of yours am I going to keep?”

  She tsked at me. “Never ask a woman her secrets, Doctor Cairn. If she tells you one, you’ll know. If she doesn’t, then you’re never meant to know in the first place.”

  I nodded and smiled, already beginning to feel more at ease with her. “Well,” I said, taking on a more business-like air, “we’ve a whole ton of stuff left to do. I’ve got most of the main body of my dissertation done, but I guess I could use an extra pair of eyes, both to offer new insight and to help with pre-editing efforts. I’m sure I can still add some to it, even if I don’t know what it might be. Along with that, I’d like to get your comments on the reading materials and some of the films. I also have a laundry list of other experiments I need to conduct.” I pulled up the list on my computer.

  “Most of it involves simply observing couples in actual dating situations—but you knew that already. The real fun comes when we get to plug them into… The Chair.” I pointed to it, the sensor wires dangling hungrily over the headrest.

  “The Chair,” she said flatly. “Dare I ask?”

  “What?” I said, pretending shock. “You don’t already know about… The Chair?”

  “That bit of trivia somehow escaped me,” she said wryly. “So again—dare I ask?”

  “Ask away,” I said with a sly grin.

  She walked over to The Chair and gave it a once over. “Well, obviously you’ve got a blood pressure cuff and some sensor patches. I’m guessing… heart rate, respiratory rate and… higher brain functions?”

  “Very good.” I was impressed.

  “So this is where you conduct evil experiments on your victims?” she asked, eyes amused.

  “Indeed.”

  “What are those experiments like?”

  “I thought you already knew.”

  She grinned, fox-like. “I’ve never seen you perform one of your tests. I only know the basics of the methodology.”

  “Ah.” I looked at my watch. “You’ll get to see first-hand in twenty-four minutes, if they show up on time. Sometimes the couples are late.”

  “I see. And until then?”

  “Well, I’d love to shoot the breeze, but Jane Austen is screaming for me to pick her up again. Normally I’d oblige the woman, but seeing as you’re now my minion slave, I’ll let you field that one. Catch.” I tossed her a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice.

  “The power of doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance.”

  “Mister Darcy, chapter ten. Impressive.” I was beginning to like having a research assistant again.

  She was nearly one-hundred pages in by the time the couple showed up. Moiré graciously put the book down and saw them in, engaging in pleasant small talk while I wrapped up my notes and readied The Chair for use. When it was prepared, I invited the lovebirds over.

  “Okay, you two, I’m going to need you to come down off that cloud for just a few minutes, okay?” They nodded without looking at me.

  “Let’s see, we have… Todd and Julie, right?” Another wordless nod. “I guess we can safely say you two have some feelings for each other, so we’ll skip the secondary battery of questions. Now, who would like to go first?” Julie halfway raised her hand and I had Moiré escort Todd to one of the seats just outside the main lab room. When Moiré returned, I told her to take notes—she’d be running the test on Todd.

  I grabbed my microcassette recorder and pushed the “record” button. “Subject is a white female, nineteen years of age, currently involved in the early stages of a romantic relationship,” I said as I read through the responses Todd and Julie had put on the questionnaire I’d given them when they signed up. “Commencing first phase of test number nine-hundred-fifty-two.”

  I looked up at Moiré. “Hey, could you hand me that plastic tray over there?”

  She grabbed a gray tray filled with sundry items and held it up. “This one?”

  “Yeah. Just set it right here.” She complied. I extracted a tongue depressor and unwrapped it.

  “You’re not going to stick that thing in my mouth, are you?” Julie asked, recoiling.

  “Does your boyfriend ever French kiss you?”

  “Well… yeah.”

  “Then the answer is, well… yeah. First, though, I’m going to test other responses. For that, we’re going to use The Hand. Do you have any objections?” I pulled a fake hand out of the tray. Julie looked squeamish. She chirped a quiet “no” and glanced sharply at the door.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be back in here in just a few minutes.” That seemed to calm her slightly.

  I asked Moiré to get out the testing list. The three of us then reviewed the areas that would be checked for a response: the jaw, the neck, the tongue and lips, the eyes, ears, hands and feet, the navel, the back and the thighs. I made sure Julie knew this was all quite clinical as I hooked up the various sensors and told her to close her eyes.

  “First,” I said to Moiré and Julie, “we want to record just the basic neurological responses to pressure in these areas.” I then ran the false hand along some of the spots listed on the sheet and the tongue depressor along the ones more appropriate for it. I also had a pair of wax lips that I used on Julie’s mouth and jaw. Julie squirmed at times, but I had plenty of practice at acting professional; having Moiré in the room seemed to ease Julie’s mind. When the tongue depressor was done, I handed Julie The Hand and asked Julie to hold it as nearly the same as she would hold Todd’s hand. She cooperated. When the tests were done, I pointed out the various readouts to Moiré and gave a brief explanation of them.

  “Now, part two. Same tests in response to a person.” I pulled out several pictures of various men—some quite generic, some more celebrated and some downright ugly.

  “Which one of these men would you feel most neutral around,” I asked, showing Julie the pictures, one at a time, going back to previous ones when she wanted to reconsider. She finally selected one and I clipped the picture to a small clipboard that hung over The Chair and repeated the tests, asking Julie to imag
ine that the man whose picture she had selected was performing those actions. Again, I showed Moiré the results, explained any differences and made my notes.

  “Okay, phase three. Todd,” I called toward the door, “you can come in now.” Todd practically leapt through the door. Julie’s entire being lit up instantly and I knew this test would give me some excellent results. We explained the procedure to Todd and went through the whole thing one final time. Moiré was actually quite surprised at the notable differences in the readings. I just smiled smugly.

  “Well, Todd, it’s your turn.” Julie was taken out of the room and I had Moiré conduct the test. A few minutes later, Julie was invited back in and when we finally got them to stop making out after the lip and tongue tests, I offered them the choice of the fifty-dollar reward or a gift card good for dinner and a show. As expected, they took the gift card and left hand-in-hand.

  “Rewards, huh,” Moiré said, gesturing at the remaining gift cards in my hand as she watched the couple disappear into the hall.

  “You’ve got to have bait if you want to catch fish,” I replied.

  “True, true.”

  “What’s funny is that the couples almost inevitably choose the gift cards, even though the fifty bucks is worth more and can be spent in more places. Those gift cards? I found that I could get them at a bulk rate—sixteen bucks a pop—when I bought over a hundred at a time. The guy who took my order just about fainted when I told him I wanted a thousand of them.”

  “You dream big, don’t you,” she said with a smile. I ignored the rise in my pulse. “Where’d you get that kind of money?”

  I shrugged. “Grants, mostly. I used some of my own cash, too, and my parents were kind enough to pitch in. But I’ve asked them not to give me financial aid for the most part. Besides, the Psychology Department was supposed to give me a lot more than they have, but… eh. In any case, I had a lot more money when I started out than I do now.”