by Lottie Lucas
He grins. “Don’t say that you’ve missed me?”
“Don’t be ludicrous.”
Except I have. I’ve become so used to having him here, both in the museum and in my life. It’s just not the same without his presence.
“Come on, don’t sulk,” he says. “Look, I’ve brought you something.”
He holds out a little mint green box and I accept it from him cautiously. It’s small, fitting neatly in the palm of my hand. It’s neither particularly light nor particularly heavy. I’m wondering if it would be impolite to shake it, but one look at his face tells me to just get on and open it, so I do.
“Oh,” I breathe. Of everything in the whole universe I would have expected to receive from him, this would have been the last thing.
“It’s a sunstone,” he says.
“You bought me a crystal?” I still can’t believe it. I lift it carefully out of the box, holding it up to the light. It’s a flat, smooth disc of coral-coloured stone, flecked with iridescent fragments which glint in the sunshine.
“I know you like them.”
“You went into a crystal shop?”
I’m trying very hard to imagine it, but I’m struggling.
“I went into a fossil shop,” he corrects me resolutely. “It happened to have some crystals in it.”
I smile to myself. If it makes him feel better, then I’ll let him have it.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I absolutely love it.”
“It’s meant to embody joy and positivity.” I notice that he looks away from me, like he always does when there’s any hint of emotion involved. “It … I thought it would suit you.”
I don’t know what to say, so instead I do the only thing I can think of. I hug him.
For half a moment I’m afraid that he’s going to back away, or go rigid, like he did last time. But then I feel his arms reach around me.
“It’s all nonsense, of course,” he begins gruffly. “There’s no such thing as …”
“Don’t ruin it,” I command. When will he learn that it’s better sometimes to say nothing?
“Good advice.” He pulls away so he can look at me. “Actually, I do have a confession to make. While I’ve got you on side.”
Immediately, I’m wary. “What?”
“It wasn’t just intended as an olive branch. It’s also a bribe.” His lips twist in a rueful approximation of a smile. “There’s a favour I need to ask of you.”
Chapter 17
Adam’s office is much as I’d expected. It’s a narrow room, the walls an uninspiring sandy colour, the carpet scuffed and worn. At the far end, a tiny window looks out over a small courtyard. It’s a slightly prettier view than the one from my own office in the museum, but only just. The window is ajar; I suspect it’s permanently that way. The room’s vastly overheated, as all university buildings are. I remember going for meetings with my own university lecturers in rooms just like this one. Apparently, nothing’s changed.
Adam seems to have made the best of it, though. The walls are lined with bookshelves, all teetering with hefty-looking tomes. There’s a highly polished brass lamp and the obligatory globe—the mainstay of any self-respecting study. A large oak desk takes up most of the space, and provides just about the only surprising feature of the room: it’s littered with coffee cups and screwed up pieces of paper.
“Sorry about those.” He obviously notices me looking because he begins to sweep them hastily into the wastepaper basket next to his desk. “I’m normally quite tidy.”
As if I’m one to judge. I peer into an open cabinet, filled with curious artefacts. Bits of stone, mainly. I pick one up; it looks like a piece of scrollwork which has been chipped off something.
“Ah, that.” Adam looks up from where he’s arranging some journals into a stack. “It came from the dig in Tuscany that I told you about. They gifted it to me when I left.”
“Really?” That seems very nineteenth century. It brings to mind people hacking tiles off the Alhambra to keep as souvenirs. “They just let you take it?”
He shrugs. “They have so much stuff there, they almost don’t know what to do with it all. They don’t see it the same way we do.”
I recall a trip to Rome several years ago. The crumbling churches, the Colosseum with a raging road around it, the cars passing within a hair’s breadth of the ancient stonework, the thunder of lorries shaking its very foundations. Coming from Britain, where we’re so fiercely protective of our heritage sites, it was quite a shock to the system. I put the stone down and pick up a hammered piece of metal. “And this?”
“That’s part of the breastplate of a high-ranking general. He was buried in it.”
I quickly put it down.
“They had to prise it off his skeleton,” Adam’s saying conversationally. “It had pretty much welded itself on …”
I shudder, feeling a sudden need to wash my hands.
“Do you have anything which isn’t ghoulish?”
“It’s only ghoulish if you choose to look at it that way,” he says a touch defensively. “Personally, I think it’s fascinating.”
“Hmm.” I elect not to give more of an answer than that. Personally, I’ve seen too much of death to ever think of it as fascinating. “Is this what all the conversation is going to be like tonight?”
If it is, let’s just pray there’s an open bar.
“Afraid so. It is the faculty of Classical Studies, after all. Expect to hear a lot about the Romans.”
“And the Greeks, I presume,” I say glumly.
“The Greeks will seem like a welcome relief after you’ve been trapped in conversation with the current head of department, believe me.” Suddenly, he looks sincere. “Thank you, by the way, for doing this. I couldn’t face it alone. I hate all of this stuff.”
“No worries.” To be honest, when he said he needed a favour I was imagining something much worse than an evening spent at a drinks reception in the company of a few academics, even if they are in contention with one another for a promotion. I was anticipating something more along the lines of moving a body, or giving him a false alibi.
All joking aside, I’m relieved that we’re back to our usual bantering mode of communication again. And strangely triumphant too; I kind of wish that Ruby and Eve could hear us now. Then they’d see how ridiculous it is to suggest that our friendship isn’t sustainable.
I mean, look at us. We’re fine. Nothing to see here. Whatever reason there might have been for Adam’s distance of late, it appears to be in the past now. Perhaps I’ll never know what it was really all about, but at the moment I don’t care. I’m just glad to have things back to normal.
Wait … Normal? Since when did Adam become part of my normal? It’s an alarming thought.
“Do I look all right, by the way?” I twirl on the spot, arms outstretched. “I didn’t know what the dress code is for this sort of thing.”
In the end I went for my midnight blue velvet dress, with the wrap front and angel sleeves. Digging around in the bottom of my wardrobe, I rediscovered a pair of vintage-style T-bar shoes overlaid with silvery lace. I bought them for a wedding two years ago and had forgotten all about them. I wound my hair up into a topknot, letting some wavy tendrils dance around my face, and applied a slick of cherry lip gloss. I would have liked to have painted my nails too, but there wasn’t any time left, so I decanted everything haphazardly into my silver clutch bag. God knows what I’ve got in there. Probably three tampons, an old cereal bar and no house keys, knowing my luck. Let’s hope Freddie’s at home to let me in later.
“You look lovely,” Adam says, staring resolutely at a spot on the wall. I hide a smile.
“And you, er …” I cough delicately. “You’re going to wear that, are you?”
He gives me a dry look which tells me I wasn’t as subtle as I’d hoped.
“As it happens, no, I was planning to change my jacket.” He reaches into a slim cupboard wedged into the corner of the room. “I keep
a supply in here for this sort of thing.”
I feel I ought to look away, which of course is ridiculous. He’s only changing his jacket, not his trousers. I feign interest in the globe on the desk, spinning it around until everything blurs into a big blue mass.
“There. Will I do?”
I look up, and my breath catches. He’s wearing a navy blue blazer, tailored so that it fits the lines of his body, emphasising his broad shoulders and contrasting with his crisp white shirt.
He looks … good. Really good.
At my obvious surprise, he raises both brows. “I’m not a complete sartorial ignoramus, you know.”
Apparently not. I bite my lip, surveying the overall effect.
“There’s just one more thing.” I move towards him. “If you’ll let me.”
I reach up and loosen his tie, sliding it off his neck. Then, without stopping to think, I unfasten his top button. My fingers graze the warm hollow of his throat and it seems that we both simultaneously go very still. All of a sudden, the intimacy of it hits me. I feel his pulse jump and snatch my fingers away.
“There.” I scuttle backwards, taking refuge behind the desk. I hope the shadows hide my heated face. Unfortunately, they can’t do much to disguise the squeak in my voice. “All done.”
He takes a long, deep breath.
“Thank you,” he says at last. He sounds almost normal, but I notice there’s a slight shake between the words. There’s a pause, and I almost think he’s about to say something else, but then he just gives the faintest shake of his head, as though he’s changed his mind. Instead, he straightens the cuffs on his jacket and reaches for the door.
“Come along, then. Let’s get this over with.”
***
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Adam smirks as I stagger back towards the safety of the bar. He holds out a glass. “Champagne? Or, rather, slightly warm fizzy wine from the supermarket?”
“Right now, anything will do.” I take a gulp, the bubbles dancing down my throat. “I thought I was never going to get away.”
What I now know about catacombs could fill an entire book. If only that very book hadn’t already been written by the head of the classics department at Alexandra College. Shame. As it stands, I won’t need to rush out and buy a copy; I think I must have had every chapter recited to me in the last twenty minutes.
“He’s obviously taken with you.” Adam lounges back against the bar, which is in fact a rickety row of tables, behind which nervous-looking undergraduates are pouring wine into glasses. I wonder if they’re actually getting paid for this, or if they’ve simply been intimidated into doing it by their lecturers. “And he’s not the only one. You’re quite a hit.”
Quite a hit. With a load of tweed-clad academics. What an accolade. I take another healthy swig of my champagne.
“In all seriousness, though,” he murmurs, and I get a thrill down my spine when I realise that he’s moved much closer. “Thank you for this. I knew I could count on you.”
He makes me sound like a faithful hound. For some reason, that makes me feel faintly depressed.
To be fair, I can see why Adam didn’t want to do this on his own. Oh, it’s all very pleasant on the surface; the Great Hall, with its vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows, the slightly dusty canapés, the rumble of erudite conversation. So far, everyone’s behaving themselves.
But there are definite undercurrents of hostility. Pointed glares here from over rims of glasses, sharp comments there from behind sleeves, jibes pinging around beneath a thin shroud of false jollity. Sly allusions to past failures. I even overheard someone accusing one of the others of involving themselves in an affair with a student. In a veiled way, naturally, but the implication was there. And they said it in front of the Dean as well. Who knew the world of academia could be so cut-throat?
Everyone obviously knows that Adam’s a frontrunner; in fact, most of the glares have been aimed in his direction. My heart goes out to him; Jeremy might be a pain, but he’s a picnic compared to this lot. The least I can do for Adam is take some of the attention off him tonight.
And I’ve done a pretty good job of it, if I do say so myself. I’ve listened attentively to the subject of various papers, sympathised over the lack of available grant money and deflected any negative comments before they made it to Adam’s ears. I am, frankly, exhausted, and beginning to remember why I stuffed these shoes right to the back of the wardrobe in the first place. My toes are squashed together like sardines.
“The way you sold it to me, I was expecting a punch-up by now.” I attempt to wiggle my toes, only to be rewarded by red-hot pain shooting through my foot. I wince. “I’m a bit disappointed, truth be told.”
He smiles. “That can still be arranged. Would you like me to start one?”
“Sure.” I play along, pretending to scan the room. “Who shall we pick?”
“Professor Fitzharris has always been something of a pompous twerp,” Adam remarks mildly.
I nearly choke on my wine. “Sounds like this isn’t the first time you’ve thought about it.”
“It isn’t. Plus, I saw him look you up and down when you were talking to him. That cemented it.”
He almost sounds protective. I feel strangely warm, which I attribute to the wine I’ve just downed. I’m losing track of how many glasses I’ve had. Too many, in all likelihood.
At that moment the heavy wooden door opens and a man walks in. By my side, I feel Adam go still.
“What’s the matter?” I whisper, nudging him with my elbow.
“I was hoping he wouldn’t come tonight. I thought he was still in Athens.”
I watch as the man makes a beeline towards us, scooping up a glass of champagne on the way.
“Adam.” He nods a greeting, although there’s little warmth in it.
“Professor,” Adam returns stonily.
My head’s bobbing between the two of them in confusion. What’s going on here? They’re staring one another down like prizefighters at a weigh-in. The older man notices me, and a mocking smile touches his mouth.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend?”
“Clara Swift.” I step forward quickly, holding out my hand. Adam seems to have temporarily lost the power of speech. “I work at the Montague Museum.”
“I know it well. It used to be one of my favourite haunts, although I haven’t been there of late.” He sidles a glance at Adam. “Perhaps I ought to start coming back. What do you say, Adam?”
Adam’s knuckles have gone white around the stem of his glass. “I think we’re causing a scene,” he says tightly.
Indeed, the volume of chatter in the room has died down, I notice now. Everyone’s making a concentrated effort to pretend to be absorbed in their own conversations, but I can tell that their attention is really directed towards our little group.
“Always so uptight,” the older man tuts. “It’s just a joke, dear boy. Can’t you make him loosen up a bit?” he asks me with a wink. “It would do him no end of good.”
“I like him as he is,” I say lightly, but with deliberate meaning behind my words. I’m starting to dislike this man; what’s he got against Adam? And why isn’t Adam standing up for himself? I’ve never known him stay silent before. “And we’re just friends.”
“Ah.” Our unwelcome interloper runs a hand through his black hair. It’s tinged with grey at the temples but, other than that, it’s hard to guess at his age. “That makes more sense.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t think the insinuation was a positive one. I’m about to make a retort when Adam finally speaks.
“Leave Clara out of this. She has nothing to do with our petty squabbles.”
The man drains his glass. “Of course, it’s always work with you, isn’t it?” He gives me a look as if to say, No wonder you’re not getting anywhere.
“I think we should go,” Adam says quietly to me. “Before I say something I’ll r
egret.”
I take one look at his face and immediately concur. I’ve never seen him look so furious, not even with me. At least then he could vent his anger; now, it’s tightly leashed, etched into his face in stark lines.
“Back to your book, is it?” The man leers, grabbing another glass of champagne. “Yes, I’ve heard about that. Pulling out all the stops, aren’t you? Ingratiating yourself very nicely with the powers that be.”
“I am not going to enter into conversation with you,” Adam says shortly, taking my arm. “We’re leaving. The stage is all yours. Enjoy it.”
“Adam,” I gasp as he drags me away. I’m painfully aware of about fifty pairs of eyes burning into our backs. “What’s going on? Who was that?”
“That,” he says grimly, still looking straight ahead. “Was my father.”
Chapter 18
One look at Adam’s face after we left told me that he needed a drink. A proper drink, preferably in multiple hues and with a swizzle stick in it. If I were to choose a motto, it might well be, When life knocks you for six, have a cocktail.
Or even six cocktails.
Actually, scratch that. I’ve been there before. Six cocktails is not a good idea, believe me.
I’ve brought us to my favourite bar. It has pink suede seating, a drinks menu which stretches to over seven pages and a wraparound terrace from which you can see pretty much the whole of Cambridge. On the horizon, the sky is melting into a rainbow of sorbet-coloured stripes, and a crescent moon peeps out from behind a crenellated spire. On a night like this, the city looks more otherworldly than ever, like a lost kingdom suspended in the half-light of an enchantment.
I’m not sure Adam’s even noticed the view. In fact, I’m not certain that he’s ever been to a cocktail bar before either. He looked so baffled by the menu that in the end I ordered for him.
He watches warily now as the waiter places a tall, slender glass in front of him.
“What did you say this was called again?”
It’s about the first full sentence he’s uttered since we left the college.