The Englishman (55 page)

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” He stares at me, alarmed.

“Oh, Tim. Come on, walkies.”

Tenure review makes defensive second-guessers of us all. And sots, if we are at all that way inclined. When I stand up to take my coat off the hook, I smell alcohol on Tim’s breath, but I stifled every comment I was tempted to make in recent weeks, so I stifle this one, too. I steer him eastward on my cycle path and then left into the forest.

“You cycle along here, in the dark, alone? Are you mad?” For the moment he is distracted from his plight.

“Do you think it’s too dangerous?”

“There are several frat houses along the edge of campus, and I wouldn’t like to imagine you involved in the scenes of debauchery that take place here on drunken summer nights.”

“Oh, you can’t scandalize me with a frat party. I have Sodom directly behind my cottage.” I tell him about the pickers’ camp, and this cheers him up no end.

“You mean they’ve built a camp site, all amenities provided, so that these kids can pick fruit during the day and have weed-filled orgies during the night? That’s not very God-fearing!”

“I know, but apparently they don’t care what a bunch of kids get up to in the woods, as long as they are legal and, well, legal. The pickers have almost all gone for the winter, so there’re only a few Poles left to help on the farm.”

“Been presented with any more condoms lately?” he asks, coughing discreetly. “What was all that about, anyway?”

I tell him about Logan, and that amuses him even more than the pickers’ camp.

“And Giles knew about this?”

“Yes, I…he advised me on how to deal with Logan.”

Tim gazes straight ahead at the path. “See, I told you he’s a nice guy.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Then why don’t you kiss him already!”

I almost trip over my own feet. “
What?”

Tim is embarrassed, but he is even more annoyed than he is embarrassed. “What about Giles?” he asks ruthlessly.

Panic. “What
about
Giles?”

“I want you to keep Giles here in Ardrossan! Don’t you get it? Why do you think I’ve been throwing the two of you together?”

All I can do is shake my head in disbelief.

“I—I don’t even—know where to—
throwing us together?”

“Of course.”

“What do you mean,
of course?”

Tim digs his hands into his coat pockets.

“I’m worried that now he’s divorced he’ll go back to England!”

“Tim, are you—do you love Giles?”

“Of course I love Giles! But I’m not
in love
with him, if that’s what you mean, you silly girl. But I don’t want to work in this place without him!”

That makes two of us.

“It’s a cunning plan, Tim, but like all such plans, completely bonkers. Apart from the tiny detail that I’d be risking my reputation and my chances of renewal if I started having affairs with tenured colleagues!”

“Don’t be stupid.” Tim kicks a stone out of his way. “Nobody would care. A bit of gossip, a few snide remarks—but aren’t you getting those anyway? It’s not like you’re writing your dissertation with him or anything.”

“It’s. Not. That. Simple!” I am so bowled over by his nonchalance that I stop in the middle of the path to shout at him.

Tim frowns at my vehemence, then he grins.

“So you have thought about it.”

“What? No! I’m just—look who’s talking, anyway!
You’re
hiding in a closet sealed off like a panic room, but you’re telling
me
an affair with Giles wouldn’t hurt my tenure prospects? Hypocrite!”

“That’s different.”

“I’ll say! Will you come out when you have tenure?”

I expect a rebuff for this diversion, but he pushes his fists into his coat jackets and turns to walk back on the path.

“Maybe. C’mon, I’m getting cold. Martin…is holding a shotgun to my chest.”

“Tired of playing hide-and-seek, is he?”

“He wants us to move in together officially, or he’ll throw me out. Out of his apartment and out of his life.”

“I don’t blame him. Well, how much do you like Martin, on a scale from one to ten?”

Tim throws me a disgusted glance, then he sighs.

“It’s not that. I hate all that labeling.”

“Bullshit. Everyone is labeled everywhere all the time. You don’t have the guts to try to be happy, that’s all.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me, Dr. Freud, how happy are
you
on a scale from one to ten?”

I acknowledge this hit with a shrug and a nod, but I cannot answer him. Instead, I slip my arm into his and lean against him as we walk.

“A hot cup of tea would make me happy now.”

We have just sat down in the Eatery when Sam Ruffin and Terry Nyman appear and indicate by surreptitious thumbs-up that the department committee has approved Tim’s application for tenure. Now the chair, the Dean, and the Provost have to do the same.

“Mental note,” I murmur into my mug. “Must mail order for his-and-his bath towels. When’s the house-warming party, Timothy, darling?”

Chapter 33

T
HE
F
ALL
S
EMESTER
C
ONCLUDES
W
ITH
T
WO
P
ARTIES
, but I am not much looking forward to either of them. The first is Bernie’s and Elvira’s house-warming. I know, because she told me, that one item on Elvira’s agenda for the evening is to introduce me to as many single men as she can manage. It’s nice of her to do that, and I make an effort to play my part. The long-sleeved black dress that covers my knees and collarbones is what is known in some circles as “sexy
tznius
.”
Tznius
is modest attire according to Jewish orthodox custom. The sexy part is that it is close-fitting and has tiny mother-of-pearl buttons all down the back. It works, in a severe sort of way, but I don’t do it justice. I know I’m an ungrateful wretch, but I simply cannot muster the spirit to flirt, let alone be really interested, in any man who isn’t Giles Cleveland, and I feel appropriately guilty when I make my excuses and flee without having encouraged anyone to even ask me for my phone number.

“You’re choosy,” Bernie remarks, a little reproachfully, when he sees me to my taxi.

“I’m in the wrong place. I’m sorry, Bernie.”

The second party is the annual Ardrossan Christmas fête. The original tradition, which required guests to turn out in Victorian costume, has been relaxed to allow all sorts of period, vintage or fancy attire, but I am warned that Not Making an Effort is frowned upon. So once again I am sitting in the back of a cab, all dolled up, this time in a dark burgundy taffeta sheath dress with lace detailing, knee-length, a little Givenchy, something Audrey Hepburn might have worn in the early sixties. And yes, I have long, burgundy gloves to go with it, and tonight I will wear them. What nobody knows except me and the little devil sitting on my left shoulder is that the sheer black pantyhose I seem to be wearing are actually a pair of thigh-high stockings with very fancy lace tops. I have never worn them, and tonight they will keep the gloves company.

The façades of all buildings between Rossan House and the Observatory have been decorated with festive garlands of light bulbs; enormous Christmas trees are ablaze by the two main entrances, and an area has been fenced off in the yard for a huge log that will be lit on fire when the President, from his stage up on the portal of the Observatory, has welcomed us to the party. Incongruous but mouthwatering smells are wafted on the mild winter breeze, of gingerbread and mulled wine, hot baked goods and, less appetizing to a vegetarian, frying meat. It’s a splendid sight; smiling people admire each other in their elaborate costumes, and in the firelight, the neo-gothic buildings look more like a fairy-tale film set than ever. It is a pity that I have no prince to guide me through the crowd.

I take my coat and a bag of books up to my office and on the way there have the dubious pleasure of receiving a wolf-whistle from one of the security guards posted on each floor. They are not taking any chances this time.

“Baby, you look ab-so-lute-ly fabulous!”

Being enveloped by Tim’s enthusiasm in his cobalt blue suit and tie with a dark blue shirt underneath is like being hugged by the Cookie Monster; it’s a great comfort, but one gets a little breathless after a while.

“Get yourself a drink,” he urges me. “You’re behind by two cups of punch!”

“Yes, I think I need some liquid fortification. This is overwhelming!”

“Yeah, you can say what you like about the old place, but it does look pretty. Pity there’s no snow. Two years ago we had snow before Christmas, and a lot of it, so someone organized a sleigh drawn by four horses. What a sight! Enough to bring tears to the eyes of all the alumni. Unfortunately it all got out of hand when a couple of drunken undergrads dressed up the horses as reindeers and one of them bolted and knocked over half the madrigal choir. One of the horses, I mean, not one of the students. Come!”

“Tim. Tim!” I grab his arm and force him to look at me. “I’m not bein’ ’orrible, darlin’, but you reek of gin. And you can’t. Not on campus, not even today. Especially not today. Consider who you might end up talking to.”

I can see that his first impulse is to tear away from me, but he manages to control himself.

“Shit!” He inhales deeply and runs his hand through his short curls. “It’s this confounded waiting! I can’t bear it anymore!”

“Yes, you can. Almost done now.”

“No, it’s not almost done, damn it! Three more hoops, and I can’t even—there’s nothing I can do, except help cover up a case of sexual assault!”

“I know. Come on, we’ll buy you a baked apple. That will take the smell away, and then you can have some horrible sausage.”

When Tim has had his baked mouthwash and we have provided ourselves with a German sausage for Tim and punch and a big pretzel for me, I ask conversationally, “Where’s Martin?”

“Don’t start, Anna. I may meet him later on. There’s no—”

“Hey, you two!” Erin and Yvonne slowly work their way toward us as if they were wading through a strong current. “Seen any graffiti?” Yvonne murmurs when she is close enough.

“Did you see the guards everywhere?” Tim exclaims. “Totally pointless! On a night like this, either no one will see you or everyone will see you!”

“You could have said that about Homecoming, too, and Family Weekend.” Erin takes my cup and tries the punch. “Mmm, this is nice. Yvonne, do you want some?”

I have done my best to push Selena and her graffiti habit to the very back of my conscience, and except for five minutes on Thursday—when I considered writing her an email with a cryptic message like
Three strikes and you’re out!—
I succeeded. That is my deal with myself: three strikes and I’ll report her.

And then what?

The dome of the Observatory looms ominously above the glittering décor and the flames dancing in the yard. How
could
he? How could Hornberger seduce a girl who he knew was emotionally unstable? Worse, how could he get her pregnant? But then he may not know that Selena is pregnant. I could well believe that she has kept her condition secret from him. Her vandalism and the graffiti, not to mention her self-destructive behavior, are probably a kind of safety valve to let off steam. The problem is that as her pregnancy progresses and as the noose around Hornberger’s neck tightens, the pressure on Selena rises. I can’t imagine what she is going to do next. What
can
she do, really? I must talk to someone about her. I must talk to
her
; it is as simple and as uncomfortable as that.

And there is another reason for the weights pulling at the nerves in my stomach. It is two weeks since I saw Giles. Haven’t even caught sight of him from afar, or heard his voice round a corner in the hallway. Maybe he is doing both of us a favor by avoiding me, but I long for him with an intensity that is made up in equal parts of hopelessness, desire and shame. I know I am doing the right thing by not giving in to this. I just wish that doing the right thing did not feel as if I had amputated a limb.

“Oh, there’re Eugenia and Vern—and they look awesome!”

Eugenia and her husband have come as a fashionable couple from a twenties jazz club, and they do look absolutely gorgeous. After we have all complimented each other on our get-ups, Eugenia grabs Tim’s wrist.

“But we should toast you for having survived the first round! Plain sailing, Tim, in case no one told you yet. Impressive work! Here’s to three more slam dunks!”

And for once Tim keeps quiet and just smiles and blushes with pleasure.