The Bursar's Wife (9 page)

The pub was as big as a warehouse, and similarly themed. What’s more it was packed with young people decked out in their Friday-night pulling gear and drinking alcopops and lager straight from the bottle. It was the sort of place that needed large bouncers outside the doors weekend nights. I felt like the headmaster at the school disco and now wished I’d worn the Hugo Boss. It was even too young a crowd for Nina, but to be fair she could get away with it in this light.

I was unable to make out whether the evening had gone well or not, or whether it would continue beyond the pub.

“So what sort of films do you like then, if not ones with Julia Roberts in?” Nina was asking.

“Erm… Well, I like crime films, particularly 1970s Italian crime films. There’s just been a week of them at the Arts Cinema.”

“The Arts Cinema?”

“Yeah, just down the road.”

“Oh yes, I’ve seen it, but never seen a film advertised there I’d want to see. I go to the multiplex at the Grafton Centre.” The Grafton Centre is a monstrous temple to money spending that I never set foot in except to follow income support cheats buying sports gear they had no intention of doing sports in. I sometimes wondered where real sports people bought their gear.

We sipped our drinks and I looked around, hoping for some sort of punch-up to distract us, but it was still a little early for that. Then the doors opened and Lucy Booker came in with a group of six; one other girl, the rest blokes. They were dressed in some finery, gowns and tuxedos, and drew some comments and looks from the people in the pub; although this was not an exclusively townie pub, having gownies in here advertising the fact that they were gownies was unusual for a Saturday night, if not a little foolish. Nina followed my gaze.

“Looks like they’re on their way to a ball.”

“It’s not the season,” I said.

The group found a table ten feet away and at three o’clock to ours and a couple of the lads went to the bar and ordered drinks, ignoring the looks and largely good-hearted comments. From the way Lucy was slouched in her chair she had obviously been drinking. She was ignoring a grinning doughy boy who was talking into her ear and smirking. Her hair was done up at the back again. Nina was saying something to me.

“Sorry?” I said. She leant forward and her black hair fell in front of her face.

“I was just wondering whether you want to come back to mine for a drink; it’s a bit noisy in here.” She was flashing me a smile I hadn’t seen before. Blimey, did this mean that I’d pulled? I watched the bow-tied boys take small glasses of colourless drinks to their table. I watched Lucy grimace when trying hers, then drink it down in one to cheers from the boys. The other girl leant over and said something to Lucy but she ignored her.

“Well?” Nina was asking, a little exasperation creeping into her voice. She was probably used to men jumping up when she asked them home – understandably given how attractive she was – and she couldn’t quite understand why I wasn’t.
I
couldn’t understand why I wasn’t, except I was intrigued by what Lucy Booker was up to. I watched her down someone else’s drink. The boys applauded; the other girl was pleading with Lucy and pulling at her arm but she wasn’t listening. One of the boys pushed the other girl away from Lucy, and said something harsh. She said something harsh back and stood up.

“Shall we have one more here first?” I said to Nina, who up till now had been leaning forward over the table, looking at me from under her thickly mascaraed eyelashes, her long fingers encircling her lager bottle. Now, she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms and her legs. She was wearing pointy boots under her jeans.

“I’m sorry. Am I moving too fast for you?” Great, now she thought I thought she was easy. I looked towards the freshers’ table and saw that the other girl that had been with Lucy wasn’t there. I glanced to the pub doors and saw her disappearing between the bouncers. I turned back to Nina.

“No, no, that’s not it. I’d like nothing better than to go to your place, really. I guess I’m just not used to women taking the initiative.” This was bollocks of course; it was Olivia that had introduced herself to me at a party. It was she that had taken me home, taken me into her bedroom. Nina uncrossed her arms.

“OK, I tell you what. Let’s have another drink then you can ask me home.” I saw Lucy’s group pass behind Nina, heading for the door. Lucy was being helped by a couple of the boys. They winked at each other behind Lucy’s back.

“Let’s go for a walk instead,” I said, grabbing my jacket. Lucy was being escorted through the doors. Nina followed my gaze.

“You’ve been watching her since they came in. Is she more your type then, George?” She said it in a jokey way but with a little edge to convey her distaste at being ignored. She stood up. So did I.

“No, it’s not like that,” I said.

“I don’t want to know, George. I’m going to get another drink.” She walked off to the bar and I hesitated only for a second before heading for the doors. When I looked back she was laughing with a young guy who had a tattoo on the back of his neck, as if I’d already left. I’d always regarded tattoos as a substitute for character.

* * *

Outside I saw Lucy and the tuxedoed lads turning a corner onto Park Terrace off Regent Street, behind the hotel where I’d watched Quintin Boyd lunching with his BlackBerry. My Golf was parked down Park Terrace anyway. When I got to the corner though, I saw no sign of them. I walked quickly down the road and then heard giggling on my left. An office car park behind a closed a barrier. It was almost empty. I caught a movement in the dark behind one of the cars. A girl’s voice started to say something and was muffled. I walked quickly towards the car, making my footsteps loud on the tarmac.

“Bloody hell, someone’s coming,” a well-spoken voice said. I could see four tuxedoed lads round Lucy, who was half leaning, half sagging on the boot of the car, the straps of her gown pulled down from her shoulders, her face a mess of mascara and tears. One of the fuckers had her in an awkward embrace and was trying to kiss her on the mouth. Another, when he saw me come into view, started tugging at the back of the guy’s jacket. A third was holding up his mobile phone, filming the whole thing. The fourth, a tall Aryan type with a cigarette and a sneer, just looked at me in annoyance.

“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, in my clearest and loudest voice. The necker pulled away from Lucy who sank down against the car. He staggered to the rear wheel and threw up onto his shiny shoes.

The confident-looking Aryan said, “Who do you think you are? She wants this, you proletariat fuck.” The boy with the phone sniggered, turning it onto me.

When I heard that supercilious, you’ve-stepped-out-of-place tone I decided to leap. There I was, baring my teeth, flaring my nostrils, clenching my fists and widening my eyes. I snarled and spat. They scarpered pronto, but not before I’d swiped the phone. They left their heaving friend to fend for himself. I left the little shit to it, grinding the mobile phone into the tarmac with my heel.

“Lucy, are you alright?” I took her arm and helped her to her feet. She was bony and lightweight, hardly rowing material.

She said something incomprehensible and I was blasted with the smell of gin – an odd drink for a teenager, I thought.

“Lucy, I know your mother, I’m going to take you home.”

“Lots of men know my mother.” She giggled and put a hand to her mouth. Vomit boy, obviously confused, came back for a look but a well-aimed kick to the shin sent him yelping. I turned back to Lucy.

“My car is nearby. I’ll drive you to Morley College.”

“Morley,” she parroted, but the mention of it made her straighten up a bit.

“Here, take my arm.”

* * *

Luckily, or perhaps not (I really didn’t know), Lucy seemed oblivious about what had been about to happen to her in that car park. She sat in the passenger seat and was relaxed enough, but that was most likely the alcohol. I drove towards the Backs and Lucy stirred. I glanced at her to see she was looking round the car. She seemed to be peering at my jacket.

“None of Mummy’s friends wear corduroy. Do you work for one of her pet charities?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

“That explains the scary you in the car park. Mummy’s friends couldn’t do that. They’re more into mental bullying, not terribly useful when stopping a gang-bang.” She released a high-pitched giggle. So she was aware of what was about to be done to her.

“What happened back there?” I asked.

She looked out of the window as we turned west out of the city. “What happened was I got plastered and decided it would be a good idea to lose my virginity to Toby. That was the plan, anyway. I didn’t mean to lose it to all of them at once.” She gave another giggle and turned towards me, pulling at her seat belt so she could get closer and putting a hand on my arm. I got a fresh blast of gin. “You’re a nice man, friendly. You can have my virginity. I’ll give it to you as a gift for saving me, Mr nice strong man.” Then she flopped back in her seat and mumbled, “I’m sorry, how terribly rude of me. What’s your name?”

I smiled. “George. George Kocharyan.” She didn’t respond and when I checked, her head was lolling against the door window and she was completely out of it.

I
’
D NOT BEEN TO MORLEY COLLEGE FOR NEARLY TWENTY
years, not since George Senior retired early and I drove him and my mother to receive his brass carriage clock from senior management. He’d not been back after that last day, avoiding going into Cambridge during term for fear of running into some of the students. He hated the students, or at least a group of them he called “the tossers”. I never really got to the bottom of why he hated this particular group or why he retired early but whenever he wanted to admonish me for some perceived pretentiousness he would warn me against becoming a Cambridge tosser. “Don’t ever think you’re better than anyone else, Kevork. That’s how it all starts.” I was never sure what ‘it’ referred to but he always expressed himself in such extremes. Kevork – the Armenian for George – was what he always called me, even though ‘George’ is on my birth certificate. Olivia used to call me Kevork during her rare moments of peaking passion, which always left me feeling she would prefer to be making love to someone else. Ultimately, of course, I’d been right.

Lucy stirred as I turned off the Huntingdon Road and the headlights sought out the entrance to Morley College on the tree-lined road. She muttered something and tried to curl up on the seat. The Golf crunched over the gravel and I cruised into the college car park and tried to orientate myself. Some modern halls of residence had been built overlooking the car park, student accommodation designed by an architect with no sense of humour and a love of concrete. Lights were on in some of the rooms. The fellows and senior staff had accommodation in the original 1800s buildings, which were secluded by carefully managed trees and football-field sized lawns. Although my father had hated it here, this place had kept us fed and under a roof and also, to give the college its due, paid some of my father’s care costs thanks to a generous pension scheme.

I found the lane that lead to the bursar’s residence, driving through a gate and up the drive before stopping behind Sylvia’s Mini, which itself was parked behind an older Saab. Lights were on downstairs in the large, ivy-covered house. It was nearly 11:30.

Lucy still being asleep I got out and put my hand on the bonnets of the cars. The Mini’s was warm, the Saab’s cold. I walked up the stone steps to the covered porch. My presence triggered a carriage light to come on. I stood in front of the big glossy door, readying my finger over the polished brass bell, thinking of something to say if Elliot Booker opened up. I heard voices inside, a man’s sonorous voice raised in anger, the unhappy sound of a pleading woman. I checked the surroundings. It was pitch black outside my circle of light and Lucy’s face was flat against the car window, drool from the corner of her mouth trickling onto the glass. I pressed my ear against the front door.

It was a solid oak door made two hundred years ago so I couldn’t hear clearly. The deep male voice was saying something which included the words, “How long?” He repeated this several times and all I could hear was the plaintive voice of a woman responding. He screamed at her reply. Then I heard him say, “Does she know?” Then the woman: “No, no, no. Lucy can’t know.” Then something else – it could have been, “Did it happen after a film?” or it could have been, “Did it happen on a whim?” It didn’t make sense. I pressed my ear harder but couldn’t make it out. Her plaintive voice again, contrite and whiny. Then he was saying, “Why now?” and, “I don’t bloody believe it. That fucking man.” Her tone was apologetic and beseeching. It was too much to listen to. I checked the car and Lucy moved her head on the glass, smearing saliva onto her cheek. I pressed the doorbell.

It went quiet inside as the two-tone chime faded. I waited and heard a door close. There were steps and a cough and I stood back from the door as it opened. A tall dark-suited man, very thin, with a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, frameless glasses and sunken cheeks stood in an enormous hall lit by a chandelier too big to get through my front door. One hand was on the door knob; the other clutched a folded letter he’d obviously just been reading. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket when he saw me, but not before I’d caught a glimpse of a logo on it: a spiral staircase.

“Mr Booker?” I thought I could see something of Lucy in him, maybe the disproportionately big nose, the mousy hair.

“Elliot Booker, yes. Can I help you?” he asked, in a tone suggesting quite the opposite. He peered at me as if he’d seen me before in unpleasant circumstances. I gestured to my car.

“I’ve brought your daughter home, she’s been enjoying herself a little too much.” He peered at the car and Sylvia Booker came into view behind him, frowning at me with a worried look. She’d cleaned up her face but she’d obviously been crying; you can’t get rid of red puffy eyes that easily.

“What is it, Elliot?” she asked, fidgeting with a set of pearls round her neck – worry beads for the rich.