The Unsuitability Principle

Chapter 1: The Index

The problem with love, Malcolm Frey had concluded, was that people kept approaching it like amateurs.

He sat at his kitchen table in his Northcote terrace at 6:47 a.m. on a Saturday, which was thirteen minutes ahead of schedule but acceptable within his morning variance allowance. His laptop was open. His coffee was precisely 62 degrees Celsius — he'd checked with a probe thermometer, because he was a food scientist and that was what food scientists did. On the screen, forty pages of carefully formatted questions glowed in the blue light of early morning.

The Partner Suitability Index. Version 4.2.

It had taken Malcolm seven months to develop, three months to beta-test on willing colleagues, and approximately four minutes to explain to his best friend Stuart Fitch before Stuart had put his head on the pub table and groaned like a man receiving terrible medical news.

"You've quantified love," Stuart had said, his voice muffled by the sticky wood. "You've actually quantified love."

"I've quantified compatibility," Malcolm had corrected. "Love is a downstream outcome of sufficient compatibility across key domains."

"I want to die."

"That's a bit dramatic."

"You have a section on nose-blowing frequency, Malcolm."

"Nasal habits are an underexplored vector of relationship dissatisfaction."

Stuart had not been convinced. But Stuart was a graphic designer who'd met his wife Phoebe at a music festival when she'd accidentally thrown a cup of cider on his shoes, which was hardly a replicable methodology.

Malcolm scrolled through the Index now, making minor adjustments. Section 7: Dietary Preferences had recently been expanded to include a sub-question about the acceptable radius for restaurant selection. Section 12: Sleep Architecture now distinguished between "light sleeper, acknowledges it" and "light sleeper, in denial." Section 19: Conflict Resolution Style had a new matrix that cross-referenced communication preferences with stress responses.

Three hundred and fourteen variables in total. Each weighted, scored, and aggregated into a single composite number between 0 and 100.

He'd arrived at this system through rigorous empirical observation — specifically, the observation that every relationship he'd ever attempted had collapsed before the fourth date.

There was Gemma in university, who'd seemed perfect until she'd revealed she ate cereal for dinner five nights a week and saw nothing wrong with this. There was Priya from the lab, who'd been brilliant and funny but kept her thermostat at 26 degrees, which was objectively insane. There was Tom, a brief but illuminating experiment, who'd wanted to talk about feelings at 11 p.m. on weeknights when Malcolm was trying to maintain his sleep cycle.

Thirteen years. Twenty-seven first dates. Nine second dates. Three third dates. Zero fourth dates.

The data was clear: Malcolm was doing something wrong. Or, more precisely, he was selecting wrong. The Index would fix that.

His phone buzzed. A text from Stuart.

*Brunch today? Phoebe's making her thing with the eggs.*

Malcolm checked his schedule. He had blocked out 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. for Index refinement, but Phoebe's baked eggs were genuinely excellent — she used a North African spice blend that achieved a remarkable depth of flavor for a home cook.

*What time?*

*10:30. Bring that sourdough you made.*

*It's not sourdough. It's a controlled-fermentation wheat loaf with a 72-hour cold proof.*

*Bring the bread, Malcolm.*

He wrapped the loaf in a clean tea towel, placed it in a paper bag, and drove to Stuart and Phoebe's place in Brunswick, arriving at 10:28. Two minutes early. Acceptable.

Stuart answered the door in a T-shirt that said "FONTS MATTER" and had what appeared to be yogurt in his beard. Behind him, their eighteen-month-old daughter Clementine was methodically removing books from a shelf and placing them in a saucepan.

"She's cooking literature," Stuart said, following Malcolm's gaze. "We're very proud."

"Is that hygienic?"

"She's a toddler, mate. Nothing is hygienic. Come in."

Phoebe was in the kitchen, her dark hair piled on top of her head, stirring something that smelled extraordinary. She kissed Malcolm on the cheek and accepted the bread with genuine enthusiasm.

"How's the love spreadsheet?" she asked, because Phoebe had no filter and thought this was charming rather than socially inconvenient.

"It's not a spreadsheet. It's a multi-variable compatibility assessment tool."

"Right. Getting many hits?"

"I have three candidates in the pipeline who scored above seventy."

Stuart, who had followed them into the kitchen, made a noise that sounded like a balloon deflating. "Pipeline. He said pipeline. Like they're job applicants."

"The metaphor is apt," Malcolm said. "A romantic partner is essentially a co-hire for the position of life companion. You'd want to screen for that."

"You'd want to feel something for that," Phoebe said gently.

"Feelings are unreliable indicators. I'm looking for structural compatibility."

Stuart and Phoebe exchanged a look — the kind of look that married couples perfected, a whole conversation compressed into a single glance. Malcolm noticed it. He always noticed it. He had a variable for it in the Index, actually: Section 22, Question 4 — "Comfort with nonverbal communication between established couples in social settings."

Brunch was excellent. Clementine threw a piece of toast at Malcolm's head and he caught it reflexively, which she found hilarious. Stuart talked about a branding project for a new craft brewery. Phoebe described a nightmare parent at the school where she taught. Malcolm ate methodically and contributed data points when relevant.

It was while he was helping wash up that Stuart cornered him by the sink.

"So I did something," Stuart said.

"That's vague and ominous."

"I signed you up for something."

"Stuart."

"It's a street food festival. Next weekend. On Smith Street. I put your name down for a vendor stall."

Malcolm turned off the tap. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you've been making incredible food in your kitchen for fifteen years and the only people who ever eat it are me, Phoebe, and your mum. Because you need to get out of your house and interact with humans who aren't on a spreadsheet. Because I already paid the stall fee and it's non-refundable."

"I don't have a food business. I don't have a food handling certificate. I don't have —"

"You literally have a food handling certificate. You're a food scientist. It's on your wall."

This was technically true.

"I don't have a menu," Malcolm tried.

"You have fourteen notebooks full of recipes. I've seen them. They're indexed and cross-referenced. You have a recipe for a better version of tomato sauce that took you three years to develop."

"Two and a half years. And it's not just tomato sauce, it's a —"

"Mate." Stuart put his wet hands on Malcolm's shoulders, leaving damp patches on his shirt. "Go to the festival. Sell some food. Talk to people who aren't data points. Please. For me. For Phoebe. For Clementine, who threw toast at you, which in toddler language means she loves you and is worried about your emotional development."

Malcolm stared at him. "You're emotionally manipulating me."

"Absolutely. Is it working?"

Malcolm sighed. "What kind of stall fee are we talking about?"

Stuart grinned the grin of a man who knew he'd already won.

---

The following Saturday, Malcolm stood behind a folding table on Smith Street, Collingwood, surrounded by the organized chaos of the Smoke & Spice Street Food Festival. He had prepared three items: his perfected tomato sauce served on hand-cut pasta, a smoked mushroom bao, and a lemon posset with a ginger tuile. Each dish had been tested, timed, and portioned with scientific precision. His station was immaculate. His ingredients were labeled. His serving utensils were arranged by function.

Around him, the other vendors operated in a state of cheerful anarchy that made his left eye twitch.

The stall to his right was run by a bearded man named Doug who made everything with bacon, including, improbably, dessert. The stall to his left was empty — its occupant was late, which Malcolm found both predictable and personally offensive.

The festival opened at eleven. By 11:20, Malcolm had served fourteen portions of pasta and received comments ranging from "This is incredible" to "Mate, this is actually incredible" to "Why aren't you running a restaurant?" He was quietly pleased. The data was encouraging.

At 11:35, a battered white truck with hand-painted flames on the side and the words "LUU'S FURY" in red letters screeched into the empty spot beside him, mounted the curb, and came to a stop at an angle that suggested its driver had a casual relationship with spatial awareness.

The driver's door flew open and a woman jumped out. She was small — five foot three at most — with black hair cut in a sharp bob, a tattoo of a chili pepper on her forearm, and an expression that suggested she was perpetually in the middle of an argument she was winning.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" she called to no one in particular, already hauling open the truck's service window. "Broke down on Hoddle Street. Had to kick the engine. Literally kick it. With my foot. It worked. Don't ask."

She began setting up with a speed and disorganization that was physically painful for Malcolm to watch. Unlabeled containers flew onto the counter. A speaker appeared and began blasting Vietnamese pop music at a volume that could strip paint. A hand-lettered menu board was propped against the truck at a jaunty angle, listing items like "Fury Pho," "The Banh Mi of Your Dreams," and "Chili Caramel Ribs (not for cowards)."

Malcolm stared. "Excuse me," he said. "Your truck is parked at approximately fifteen degrees off perpendicular to the curb."

She looked at him. Then she looked at the truck. Then she looked back at him. "Is it?"

"Yes. It's encroaching on my allocated space by roughly forty centimeters."

"Forty centimeters," she repeated, as if tasting the words. "You measured?"

"I estimated. I can measure if you'd like."

A grin broke across her face — wide, slightly crooked, and entirely uncontained. "You're fun. I'm Annie. Annie Luu. What are you selling?"

"Hand-cut pasta with a —"

"Oh my God, is that your tomato sauce? Can I try it?"

Before he could respond, she had reached across to his station, dipped a spoon into his sauce, and tasted it. Her eyes went wide.

"Holy shit," she said. "That's... what is that? There's something in there. Miso?"

"White miso. A very small amount. It enhances the umami without —"

"Without making it taste like miso. Yeah. That's genius. That's actual genius." She pointed the spoon at him. "What's your name?"

"Malcolm. Malcolm Frey."

"Malcolm Frey, you are wasted on a folding table. What do you do when you're not making people weep with pasta?"

"I'm a food scientist. I work for a flavoring company."

"A food scientist." She said it the way someone might say "a unicorn." "Malcolm. I need to talk to you about something. But first I need to set up because I'm forty minutes late and I haven't turned on my burners. Don't go anywhere."

She vanished into the truck. The Vietnamese pop music got louder. Something began to sizzle aggressively.

Malcolm stood very still, holding a ladle, feeling as though a small, chili-scented hurricane had just passed through his life.

Doug the bacon man leaned over. "That's Annie Luu," he said. "She's a legend. Completely mental, but a legend."

"What does she want to talk to me about?"

Doug shrugged. "With Annie, could be anything. Could be a sauce. Could be a revolution. You never know."

Malcolm did not find this reassuring.