by Jessica Ashe
“Let’s just hope it was him, because otherwise you punched an innocent man.”
“There’s nothing innocent about Peter. I should have punched him before when he threatened you, so this was just delayed gratification on my part.”
A silence falls between us as we run out of things to say. Charles is looking down at me with a longing look in his eyes. He wants to kiss me. He wants to take me in his arms kiss me and make everything better. I want him to do exactly that. His lips on mine would make me forget everything, but he can’t kiss me forever. At some point he’d have to let go, and my problems will still be here.
“You need to leave,” I say, firmly but quietly.
“I want to stay.”
“I know, but you can’t. I just… I just need some time apart right now.”
Charles nods, but he stays standing just a foot from me. “Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” He turns and heads to the door, when something suddenly pops into my head. “Wait a second.” He looks around excitedly, probably hoping I’m going to ask him to stay. “You said you can’t access your account on the college computers.”
“No,” he replies. “I guess I’m as dumb as everyone says I am.”
“But you sent me an email from college asking for my address. How did you do that if you can’t sign on?”
“Professor Fenwick let me use his account. That guy is seriously slack when it comes to computer safety. His password is ‘password1234!.’ I’m amazed the system even lets him have that.”
“Maybe the college has some basic accounts that visitors can use. I imagine the account was heavily restricted, and you wouldn’t be able to do much more than use the internet.”
“I suppose. But I don’t think the account was for visitors. The username was nfenwick.”
“Huh.”
Charles stands patiently by the door, but when I don’t say anything, he finally sighs and walks out without saying a word. I can’t let him back into my life until I’m strong enough to support myself. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I can’t let myself be reliant on him for everything. It’s for the best—for both of us. Charles doesn’t want a broken woman any more than I want to be one.
My first inclination is to lay on the sofa, close my eyes, and think about how fucked up everything is. That’s what I did most of yesterday, and it seems fitting for today, too. No, today I’m in a different mood. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself; I want to accomplish something.
I’m convinced Peter set me up, so I want revenge. At this point, I don’t have anything to lose, so why not hatch a devilish plan to get him back? I have nothing else to do. I log onto the college servers and look through all the help documentation trying to find a way to access the desktops of the computers in the newspaper office. I’m sure it’s possible, but my account seems to be limited to information that can be accessed via a browser.
I log off and run my fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp to relieve the frustration. I stare at the login screen and notice my username: rswarner. All the college usernames follow the same structure; first initial, middle initial, last name. If the username is already taken, then there is a number at the end. Charles had said Professor Fenwick’s username was “nfenwick.” That doesn’t fit. How did he get such a unique username?
When it comes to privacy, I don’t even like looking over people’s shoulders when they’re using a computer, so what I do next takes me by surprise. I log into Professor Fenwick’s account with the username and password Charles gave me.
I quickly gain access to the server, but immediately something feels wrong. By default, the homepage usually comes up as the college’s website, however on this browser I only see a blank screen. I start to type something in the search bar, and immediately see recent search history appear below me. That’s weird; the college server doesn’t usually save any history. It won’t even let me set up bookmarks, much to my annoyance when I have to retype the same addresses again and again.
I open up the history and take a look at recent results. Professor Fenwick doesn’t use computers any more than he has to, but even so the history is scarce. In fact, the last website accessed is a GMail account. I click the link and it takes me straight to the inbox. Again, that’s not right. There’s no way the computer should be saving login details like that.
Of all the emails, one jumps out at me immediately. It’s an email from me to Charles—the poem.
Fuck. Anyone who logs in to this account can see my email.
I curse Professor Fenwick for his complete ineptitude when it comes to computers, but then have second thoughts. The lack of privacy settings on this account don’t signify a lack of effort—quite the opposite. Someone had to change all the default settings and to do that they would need administrator access.
Professor Fenwick’s nowhere near smart enough for that. Or is he? He’d always professed his lack of expertise, but what was it he said the other day? Something about accessing the newspaper software through a VPN. Even I don’t know how to use a VPN, and I’m amazed Professor Fenwick’s even heard of one.
Professor Fenwick has access to the software, but he long ago passed off responsibility to another student. No real surprise there. Organizing the layout of all the articles isn’t necessarily that difficult, but it is time-consuming and fiddly. Not to mention, it often needs doing at the last-minute. It’s hardly the type of task you leave to the responsibility of a busy professor.
I don’t even know who deals with the newspaper layout. I send my articles to an editor, and then the editor sends them to this other student when they’re ready.
I clasp my hands together and grip tightly as if that will help make a solution appear in front of me. Surprisingly, it actually does. The college website has a list of all students involved in the newspaper. I know everyone on the list except one girl—she must be the one in charge of formatting.
Before I have time to slow down and come to my senses, I bash out a quick email and ask her who gave her my poem to publish. She replies quickly, starting with a paragraph about how sorry she is for what happened. She sounds genuine, but I skip over that and get straight to the second paragraph.
I haven’t been in charge of formatting the newspaper for a few weeks. Professor Fenwick said he figured out how to do it himself. He said he enjoys it, and likes to feel involved. I did try to insist on keeping the work because I need to pad out my résumé. He said I could keep pretending I’m involved. I know that’s pretty unethical, but who am I to argue with a professor?
No one argues with professors. People like me treat professors like gods, words of gospel coming out of their mouths each lecture. If I need help understanding something, I go to my professor and expect to get the answers.
They’re beyond questioning.
No one ever suspects the professor.
I’m just minutes from Professor Fenwick’s office when I start having doubts. Everything made so much sense at home, but now I realize I’m missing one fairly big piece of evidence. Motive.
Professor Fenwick is definitely faking his inability to use computers. On my walk to campus, I use my phone to find a few old journal articles of his where he clearly demonstrates an understanding of cybersecurity. Sure, the articles are probably out of date, but there’s no way he could go from understanding complex data protection issues to barely being able to turn on his computer in the space of five years.
None of that explains why he would do this to me. Time to find out.
I stand in his doorway for a few seconds before knocking. I’m just staring at him editing an article and trying to imagine him as the person who destroyed my life.
“Rebecca, come in.” Last time we spoke he’d been disappointed in me, but now he looks pleased to see me. He always does. Professor Fenwick has never once turned me away from his office when I need to speak to him.
“I know it was you.” Okay, apparently I’m not going to beat around the bush. Might as well roll
with it now. “You printed my article on the front page of the paper.”
Professor Fenwick frowns and leans back in his chair. He chews gently on his lip; has he always done that? I’ve never noticed it before.
“I understand you must be upset right now, Rebecca, but you can’t come in here making those accusations. You know full well I have little to do with the newspaper on a day-to-day basis. I just approve the budget.”
“I looked at the software we use for formatting the paper. You forgot to wipe the metadata—your digital fingerprints are all over it.”
I haven’t looked at the software. I don’t even know how to get access to it, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to look at the metadata. Before doing a Google search on the way to campus, I didn’t even know what metadata was.
Professor Fenwick stares at me intently for what feels like a minute, although it’s probably nearer ten seconds. I’m sure he’s about to call my bluff. For all I know he did wipe the metadata, or maybe the software doesn’t even collect any.
“I did it for your benefit,” he confesses. Wow, I didn’t expect it to be that easy. “This little thing you have with Charles was proving a distraction. You need to be focused on your studies and work more than ever, not gallivanting around with some brainless footballer.”
I don’t know what to say. I came here angry and confused, searching for answers, but not expecting to get any.
“You did it so I wouldn’t be distracted?” I ask incredulously. “I’ve never been more distracted than I am now.”
“That will pass. Trust me, in a year when you have a successful career, you’ll be glad I did this.”
“I’m not going to have a career,” I snap. “No newspaper is going to hire me now. It looks like I used the front page of a college newspaper to send a dirty poem to my boyfriend. Even I wouldn’t hire me after that.”
“That’s where I come in. I have more contacts than you realize and I can convince them that this was all a horrible misunderstanding. You were never going to get those jobs at national organizations, but I can get you a good local one.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Why did you have to print that poem? You could have helped me get a job without humiliating me in the process.”
“And then what? Charles will sign for a professional team and move God knows where to play for them. He’ll probably ditch you and break your heart, but even if the two of you stick together, you’ll have to move wherever he goes. You deserve more than being a housewife.”
“I’d rather be a housewife and be with Charles than be a journalist without him.”
Professor Fenwick shakes his head in disappointment. “See, this is exactly what I’ve been getting at. You’ve worked so hard all your life, and now you’re prepared to throw that away for some guy who doesn’t deserve you.”
Professor Fenwick’s not talking to me like a professor should talk to a student. In truth, he hasn’t done that for quite some time and I should’ve picked up on it. I let our relationship become too informal, and now Professor Fenwick thinks he can make decisions for me. Decisions that affect my future.
“You don’t get to dictate the rest of my life.”
I haven’t planned for this, and now I don’t know how this conversation ends. Can I tell anyone what happened? No one would believe me. The entire thing sounds preposterous. Even I’m not convinced, and I’m standing just a few yards from Professor Fenwick as he confesses everything to me.
I turn and head towards the exit. I’ve had enough.
“Wait,” Professor Fenwick yells. “I didn’t use my own account when I formatted the newspaper. You couldn’t have seen my metadata.”
I turn back to face him and allow myself a satisfied smile. I’m still screwed, but it’s important to enjoy the small victories.
“I lied,” I say smugly. “I pretended to know a lot about computers when really I’m useless. Pretty much the opposite of what you’ve been doing these last few years.”
I expect Professor Fenwick to get angry, but instead he just smiles. “You see? You’re far too smart for someone like Charles. The two of you are a complete mismatch. You need to be with someone as intellectual as you are, otherwise you’ll get bored.”
“Charles isn’t stupid. He left school at a young age, but I can assure you he picks things up quickly.”
“Can you really imagine yourself talking to Charles over dinner in ten years’ time. You’re so much better than him it’s ridiculous. You should be with a guy who has a brain equal to yours.”
Well then, there’s the motive. Professor Fenwick is obsessed with me. He wants me for himself, and that’s why he tried to sabotage my relationship with Charles and my entire career. He thinks I’ll pick him because we are both equals when it comes to academia.
He disgusts me. To think, he had the nerve to say I shouldn’t be involved with a guy I’m tutoring. He’s a hypocrite and a lot worse.
“I don’t care about Charles’ brain,” I reply. I know I should just walk out the door, but when I leave here I want there to be no doubt in Professor Fenwick’s mind where he stands. “All that matters is that I love him. Do you understand that? You’re a clever man, but you seem to have great difficulty understanding emotional concepts.”
Professor Fenwick exhales loudly through his nose as he balls his hands into fists. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I’m about to leave when I hear the door slam shut behind me.
“I love you too, darling.” I turn around and see Charles standing by the door smiling.
“How long have you been listening?” I ask.
“Long enough to have figured out what’s going on here. Like you said, I pick things up quickly.”
Charles turns to face Professor Fenwick who backs his chair up against the wall. “You need to both leave, now.”
“How old are you, professor?” Charles asks.
“I’m forty-five, not that it’s any of your business.”
I can tell Charles is surprised by the response. The gray hair around the temples, together with the elbow patches, make the professor look at least ten years older.
“Hmm, I think forty-five’s okay,” Charles says.
“Okay for what?” I ask.
“For this.” Charles walks towards the professor, leans over his desk and picks him up by the scruff of his shirt. Professor Fenwick is barely on his feet when Charles swings a heavy fist into his face, sending Professor Fenwick flying back down into his chair.
“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” I say, barely able to suppress a laugh.
“I really don’t care. Let’s get out of here.” I take Charles’ arm and we stroll out of the office as if nothing happened. Everything’s changed, but nothing’s changed. My future is still with Charles and that’s the important thing. I can handle whatever else life decides to throw at me. I always have.
Chapter 14
Rebecca - One year later
“Rain is part of the England experience.”
“Do you think we could experience it from indoors?” I ask. “Gemma looks like she might be getting cold.”
Gemma’s just fine, but I’m freezing my tits off. I lived in Washington long enough that I should be used to rain, but it's not usually this cold. Or if it is, I’m not usually walking around outside to experience it. Call me boring, but if it’s raining outdoors, I’m usually indoors.
We’re looking for somewhere to eat lunch, but it’s a bank holiday and many of the places in Charles’ neighborhood are closed. Charles has brought me to his hometown on the outskirts of London for a couple of weeks. The area is quiet and there’s not a lot going on, but we’re only using it as a home base. From here, we plan to make plenty of trips into London and ‘up north’ as Charles describes it.
Charles finally figured out that I’m a bit of an Anglophile. I gave the game away by being able to pinpoint places like York and Newcastle on a map. Outside of London, I seem to know England better than he does
thanks to far too much time spent watching The Great British Bake-Off. I used to test myself by trying to match their accents to the region, and then noting where it is on the map. A little sad, I know, but it’s come in use a lot recently. It’s great for embarrassing Charles, like when he confused a Yorkshire accent with a Birmingham accent and I had to correct him.
Charles stops and opens the door to a pub on the high street. “Here we go. This was my local pub growing up.”
That’s a new term I’ve learned. High street: the name often given to a street in England that goes directly through the town center. These streets are often busy, and have lots of chain restaurants and similar shops.
I immediately realize why Charles has been unimpressed with every British pub we’ve been to in the U.S. It’s not just the food and the drink on the menu that makes a true British pub; it’s the atmosphere. This pub is a bit dark and dingy. The building is easily one hundred years old, with lots of low, uneven ceilings, and a maze like structure that means the inside is a lot bigger than it looks. It’s the sort of place no sensible human being would ever design today, but it’s all the better for it.
There’s also a staleness in the air. You can’t smoke indoors anymore, but the building won’t ever be able to escape the decades of history from before the ban. When I close my eyes, I can picture a man sitting at the bar smoking on his pipe while drinking a warm pint of ale. You can’t recreate that, and I love it.
“I’ve been promising you proper British fish and chips for a year,” Charles says, “and this isn’t a bad place to start. I know it’s not a proper chippy, but my first ever fish and chips came from here.”
Looking at the old guy behind the bar, there is a decent chance he was the one who served them to Charles all those years ago.
“What do you want, darling?” Charles asks.