by Ann Turner
We’d fly to Athens – Stephen’s first visit – where I’d spend two days taking him around my special places before we’d head to Crete, for a night, for me to catch up with friends. Then we would move on to Italy for a week to relax like Jackie Kennedy and the sixties jetset by the clear waters of Positano, where I had a date with destiny: to conquer a painful memory of an awful, snaking road hanging high above the ocean – a road my mother had been too afraid to drive when, with my younger brother John, we went on holiday trying to escape the horror of Dad’s drowning. I was a teenager at the time, fifteen and miserable. I had always intended to return, drawn to succeed where my mother failed – in some small way it would pay homage to my father, who had always encouraged me to never be beaten by anything.
From the Amalfi coast we would ferry over to Capri and spend three days at Stephen’s conference; then back through Naples where we’d catch the train to Florence for a couple of nights in a city full of happy memories we had created over several visits. Finally, we’d arrive in Venice where I’d speak on the gold of Macedon and the jewellery of the Minoans and Etruscans at a prestigious cultural archaeology conference.
Our duties complete, we would fly to Paris and spend eight days in Stephen’s favourite city, one we knew well and never tired of visiting.
And then we’d come home, having reignited our love in the most romantic places on earth. I felt queasy as I thought again of the possibility of Stephen having an affair. Perhaps I should confront him when we were overseas, far away from her? Although if it was Priscilla, she’d sent an email to the Faculty stating she’d be in Paris doing research on semester break and our time there overlapped. I hoped it was only coincidence – she was a French historian after all. And I still couldn’t believe Stephen was seeing someone else. I knew that I could have an overactive imagination.
In the brochure I came to the pages on the Veneto region and the Serenissima. There was the Grand Canal: I could still remember emerging exhausted from the railway station on a hot summer’s day when the kids were young, for our family to be met by a shimmering expanse of pale green water filled with frenetic activity, beneath a golden haze. Large vaporetto churning the tourist masses to their accommodations, sleek water-taxis plying their trade with gleaming wood and plush upholstery, the only noise a seafaring purr and clunk and splash. We had all fallen madly and exquisitely in love.
Returning in a steady rhythm of years I had manoeuvred my way onto the advisory board of an elegant glass museum on the island of Murano. I knew Latin well and could understand Italian. My spoken skills were less confident, not much better at first than my schoolgirl French, but after a while I became fluent enough to get by. My task was to help verify the age of the ancient exhibits through an analysis of their chemical properties, assisted by state-of-the-art equipment. Over time I made friends with the local glassblowers, whose arms were as thick as trunks from keeping aloft the long pipes through which they exhaled their creations; their appetite for food and wine and company was of Olympic proportions. As often as possible, Stephen would accompany me; we’d try to squeeze in a visit between conferences or research trips, and we’d take the kids when we could. I yearned to see my friends again and to escape the daily dramas of Coastal.
When I finally tore myself from the enchanted images I had the energy to work on my paper. Writing about jewellery and arranging a PowerPoint presentation of luscious photographs absorbed me. Big Boy padded into the study and stretched at my feet.
‘Careful or I’ll squash you.’ He paid no attention.
The last streaks of pink faded from the vast orb of sky outside my window. I kept writing feverishly. It was a welcome distraction from the humiliation and frustration of my first mediation session. Surely what I was doing now was the point of my job, not kowtowing to Priscilla’s mad obsession to slash and burn and crush? I made a mental note to set up a time with her to explain the Athens expenditure. Safer to clear it up than let it fester.
As the night wore on, Big Boy sauntered away and I heard him crunching on his biscuits. An owl hooted forlornly in the distance and two tawny frogmouths swooped from the nearby telegraph wire to catch insects in the glistening air. The ocean throbbed softly, echoing around the hills; there was a low-hanging mist, dulling the sharper sounds and lending an impressionist quality to the landscape, a trickster light, one that could hide a myriad of ill-begotten deeds.
Suddenly a hand grasped my shoulder and I jumped.
‘It’s only me,’ Stephen said. ‘Sorry I’m so late. I presume you ate already?’
‘You’ll give me a heart attack. No, I’ve been working.’ With surprise I noticed it was eleven o’clock. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I got caught up at a seminar. We went for drinks and it turned into dinner. I meant to ring . . . but clearly I wasn’t missed.’
His dark hair was dishevelled and he seemed hot.
‘Who was at the dinner?’ I asked.
‘Just my PhD students.’
I looked at him, trying to decide if that was the truth. His eyes were calm and friendly.
‘Can I tell you about my hideous session with Priscilla?’ I said.
‘Can’t it wait? I’m exhausted and I have a dawn meeting.’ Stephen planted a quick kiss on my cheek. ‘Promise I’ll hear all about it tomorrow night.’ He kissed me again. ‘You look so pretty when you research,’ he said and headed into the bedroom.
I went back to work and tried to fend off my disappointment that Stephen hadn’t phoned. He’d been like that when we’d first met at university. He’d say he’d turn up somewhere and then would completely forget. In the first year of our marriage I’d sat waiting night after night, dinners going cold in the oven, finally forcing mine down. I’d worried he’d been in an accident and I’d never see him again. I could still remember my fury towards him for treating me that way and towards myself for being so weak. Before Stephen, I’d been independent; after marrying him I’d transformed into a useless appendage. Later, I realised some of my feelings were hormonal when I discovered I was pregnant. And with the arrival of James, things had changed – so many nights Stephen was the one who’d get up to settle him or bring him in for a feed. He’d put up with the exhaustion and helped me get as much rest as I could. By the time we had Erin, Stephen was the best father I knew, a complete partner: fun, reliable, my best friend, my confidante.
And now I was mistrusting him, setting myself on a difficult, painful path. I’d never suspected him of being unfaithful before, so why start now? Outside, a kangaroo thumped through the grass on the hill high above. I rose stiffly and went to the bedroom, where Stephen was already asleep. I turned off the light, plunging the room into black ink, and returned to the study, battling a swift injection of fear that I might no longer be the most important woman in his life.
I worked until dawn.
7
The second mediation session was in progress and O’Shannessy was observing proceedings with a distinct lack of interest. I was growing to detest the man, who today had slipped tight leather espadrilles over bare feet and was dressed in fawn trousers and a cream shirt. By the way he was looking at Priscilla when she wasn’t watching, I gathered he was developing a crush.
‘I’ve dropped morning tea to save money, Priscilla,’ I said.
‘Morning tea was disbanded years ago in most departments,’ she snapped back.
‘The Fellows liked it and as you know, they can be very good donors.’ I didn’t mention I was planning to instigate an informal lunch with them instead.
‘See how she has an answer for everything?’ Priscilla turned to O’Shannessy.
‘Hmm,’ he mumbled, ‘go on,’ flicking an approving glance at Priscilla.
‘And your research?’ Priscilla seemed genuinely interested. ‘How’s that coming along?’
‘Fine. Thanks.’
‘How are you finding the time to write?’ Said with a flirtatious lilt of amazement for the benefit of O’Shannessy, who
gave her a little smile and chuckled.
‘How does anyone?’ he asked.
‘It’s harder since we have to fit in these sessions, actually,’ I replied.
‘Does that make you feel angry?’
‘What if it did? It doesn’t interfere with how I run the School.’
‘Lisa Clements tells me your mood’s been rather dark of late and that you’ve snapped at several people.’
‘Then Lisa’s wrong.’
‘How so?’ Priscilla’s head tipped to one side like a budgerigar, her blue eyes genuinely concerned.
‘It’s been busy with Melinda away, and the admin staff are having to adjust. Perhaps that’s what Lisa’s referring to?’
Priscilla shrugged. ‘Put it this way, if you are having problems, here’s the place to air them. In a supportive and sympathetic environment.’
I had to wipe the smirk off my face.
‘I saw that. Immature.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Priscilla.’
‘That’s better. Let’s really talk. Until we do, these sessions will just go on and on.’
‘Is that why every Head is still in mediation?’
‘Have you spoken to them? You know that’s forbidden.’
‘No.’ Although goodness knows I’d tried. They were all terrified into obedience.
‘So, let’s get back to your research. You’re writing a paper on the gold of Macedon?’
‘I’m focusing on the Late Classical and Early Hellenistic periods.’
‘And why gold? Is it wealth that interests you?’
‘It’s the uses of gold and the meaning in all facets of society I’m exploring. The period of Alexander the Great when Macedonian soldiers brought back spoils from the East.’
‘Gold jewellery fascinates you?’
‘It does – as a signifier of power and an enduring status symbol. I’m also looking at the gendered responses to jewellery and extending my analysis to the Minoans and Etruscans.’
Priscilla glanced down at my bracelet, gold with inset rubies. ‘Did you get that on one of your research trips?’
‘Stephen gave it to me.’ I felt a surge of warmth as I remembered how he’d bought it off the Internet for my birthday.
O’Shannessy sat forward.
‘I’m guessing it’s Hellenic,’ said Priscilla, gently lifting my wrist to take a better look.
‘It’s a reproduction from the fifth century BC. A classic Cretan design.’
‘Do you collect jewellery? It seems to me from what you wear around the place that you have quite an extensive array. Is it one of those areas where your passion for research spills out into the real world?’
‘Most of it has been given to me.’
‘Really?’ Priscilla leaned forward casually but her eyes scrutinised me. ‘That could make an interesting journal article,’ she said, sitting back and crossing her legs. ‘The effects of research on scholars and those around them.’
The thought of Priscilla with Stephen hit me with a thud. Has he given you jewellery?
O’Shannessy scribbled on his large notepad. I tried surreptitiously to see what it said but his writing was illegible, I suspected intentionally.
‘We’ll take up from here next time, shall we,’ he said. ‘Good work both of you, today.’
I didn’t see how, but I rose and shook his hand. ‘Thanks.’
• • •
I drove away fast. The session had been definitely odd. Why was Priscilla quizzing me about my research and jewellery? Could it somehow relate to the Athens account, which still no one had raised? When I had asked Alison Wishart if she’d mentioned it she was noncommittal and had walked away. I hadn’t found the courage to ask again, and I held on to the hope that it would just blow over. In the scheme of things it was an insignificant matter.
I turned the car into a nearby cove, glad to be away from Coastal, and walked down a path ragged with sharp-edged marram grass to a tiny yellow wedge of beach, where I sat watching the shimmering, glass-calm sea as the sun pounded in from the horizon. In silhouette I could see a new pontoon had been anchored a little way out. Rumour had it that money had changed hands with local counsellors to allow it to be floated there. A figure, lean and sleek, suddenly rose from where it had been lying on the boards. As it turned languorously, I saw that it was a woman in a white bikini. She dived into the sea and swam to shore with strong, confident strokes, emerging to shake salty droplets as she ran up the beach to a towel.
‘Hello.’
Startled, I realised she was talking to me. To my horror she approached.
‘Not swimming?’
I shook my head. As she looked down I tried to guess her age. Early thirties, perhaps. Dark hair was slicked about a glistening face. Her eyes were the colour of honey, generous lips carmine, nose slightly aquiline. Even in the harsh light I could see that she was unnaturally pretty, not typically so but with a symmetry and strength that flowed. She would photograph well. The classical quality to her chiselled jawline would have sat comfortably in a Minoan palace. She would have been beautiful in any century, any millennium.
‘The water’s wonderfully cool,’ she said. ‘You hot?’
‘Stinking hot.’
‘Then why not go in? Strip off. There’s no one else around.’
I laughed loudly, splintering the air.
‘I take that as a no?’
She bent and held out a tanned arm towards me. ‘Sally Chesser.’ We shook hands, hers cool from the water. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘I’ve read your books. Archaeology is a passion of mine.’ With a touch as light as gossamer she brushed against my arm, an informal, warm gesture. ‘You come often but you never swim.’ She casually registered my surprise. ‘I’ve seen you several times,’ she said. ‘I like to sunbake in the sand hills.’ She cast a glance to the dunes behind us. ‘With the snakes.’ She chuckled, full and hearty as her eyes danced. ‘You on lunch break?’
I nodded.
‘I’ve been to a couple of your lectures. On the jewellery of the Minoans.’ She paused. ‘They were quite good.’
I rose. ‘Time’s getting on.’ They’d been excellent lectures; I didn’t appreciate her faint praise.
‘You still at Coastal?’
‘Yes,’ I replied blandly.
‘Nice to meet you, Rebecca Wilding!’ she called as I strode away. I waved without looking back. This beach had been my secret place, the escape that replenished my soul between interminable meetings.
Not as secret as I’d thought.
• • •
The next week the summer rain came on suddenly. It was pelting down like cats and dogs, as my mother would have said. The air smelled of ozone, steam radiating from the tarmac in white puffs as I raced across the car park. I hadn’t brought an umbrella.
‘God, you look like you’ve been swimming,’ cried Justine, who was filling in for Melinda. She gave a toothy grin as I charged for the refuge of my office. ‘You’re dripping! I’ll have to get a mop!’ She grabbed a small gym towel from her drawer. ‘Here you go.’
I took it gratefully and went to my desk.
Justine followed on my heels. ‘The Dean’s been here looking for you.’
I glanced at my watch. It had just gone past eight a.m.
‘I know,’ said Justine. ‘I asked if it was urgent but she wouldn’t answer.’
‘I’ll call her.’ I handed back the towel, panic rising. It was highly irregular that Priscilla would come here. Trying to appear casual I shut the door, which Justine opened again immediately.
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?’
Priscilla picked up on the first ring. ‘Oh good, it’s you. Come straight over.’
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ I blurted as soon as I entered her office.
Priscilla looked up at me, seeming genuinely upset. ‘Rebecca, Alison Wishart has mentioned the Athens account, if that’s what you were about to say.’
/> My heart sank.
‘Sit down.’ Priscilla sighed, her body somehow diminished, shorter, thinner, and achingly tired. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. Where was the triumph, the ah-ha moment that she’d finally got me?
I perched on the edge of a leather chair. Priscilla pulled hers close and lowered her voice, even though there was nobody around.
‘Let me hear everything, please.’
‘I signed off on something I shouldn’t have, but it’s okay,’ I said. ‘No one got hurt. No one did anything wrong.’
Priscilla’s eyes sharpened. ‘I said please tell me everything.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m sure Alison’s brought you up to speed. It was an accident, it won’t happen again. And I’m truly sorry. I guess you were right, I’m not that good with figures.’
‘Don’t waste my time. It’s better if you come clean now, Rebecca.’
Too late it dawned on me that something was seriously amiss. ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking . . .’ My voice tapered off. Priscilla’s expression was one I’d never seen on her before.
‘Rebecca, we’ve found huge irregularities. Signed off by you.’
‘I have no idea . . .’
‘There’s a forensic accountant coming in.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘I’m telling you this off the record, so please don’t mention it to anyone. You’re being investigated for alleged serious misconduct.’
I started to shake, unable to control my buzzing hands. ‘But there must be some mistake?’
‘I’ve gone over the accounts myself in great detail. I couldn’t believe it either. I know we often don’t see eye to eye but I’ve never thought of you as an embezzler.’
‘Embezzler! Oh, Priscilla.’
‘I genuinely hope for your sake – and your family’s – that you can explain the situation. Professor Margaret DiStasio will run the investigation. Do you know her? She’s in Medicine.’
‘I’ve heard of her, of course. Her research into mental health.’
‘She’s a very fair person. I requested her myself.’
Was I imagining it or was Priscilla being sympathetic?