A Higher Education

by Harper Bliss

  “But,” I hear myself protesting again. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t even know—”

  “I know more than enough. Or should I say: I remember more than enough.” She taps a finger against her right temple. “I may be getting on a bit but all the grays in here are still intact.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I don’t know what else to say. I look behind me, to check out if the potential bedfellow Professor Ferguson used to lure me in is even real. I only see an empty cocktail glass, alone on the countertop of the bar, on a half-shredded napkin.

  “She could probably tell I had my sights set on someone else.” Professor Ferguson has an amused smile on her face. “I go to a lot of these conferences, Gail. I try to keep things interesting. It’s so easy to get bored. And really, life’s too short to sit around and wonder about the virtues of your actions for too long.”

  “I didn’t know you’d changed subjects, Joanne.” Suddenly, I have no problem calling her by her first name. “Life Lessons with Professor Ferguson.”

  “No need to attach such importance to it. It’s just a bit of fun.” Her smile shifts into more of a sly grin. A satisfied one. No doubt because I’m playing along. Am I, though?

  Just as the bartender brings over our fresh round of drinks, the receptionist storms back into the bar.

  “Here’s an extra key to room 703, Mrs. Garvey. You will find all your luggage there.”

  I take the key from him and stare at it undecidedly for a few seconds. “Thanks.”

  “Please don’t hesitate to call the front desk if you need assistance with anything.”

  “Sure.”

  He nods and speeds off.

  I put the key on the table and reach for my drink. It’s a welcome sight. My nerves feel a little fraught and my shoulders are tense. Somehow, I wouldn’t mind feeling Professor Ferguson’s hand on them again.

  “Here’s to an interesting two days,” Professor Ferguson says. “And, potentially, two even more interesting nights.”

  I clink the rim of my cocktail glass against hers, determined to not have the joy sucked out of my meeting with Professor Ferguson because of recent events. After all, one of my most frequent tween dreams is about to come true. Tonight, I’ll be sharing a bed with Professor Joanne Ferguson.

  “What do you think happened?” I ask. “In the room above mine?”

  “This is a hotel. The options are unlimited.” Professor Ferguson grins.

  “Care to hazard a guess?” No matter where this line of conversation goes next, I’m starting to feel glad I won’t have to stay in the room assigned to me as morbid images pop up in my brain.

  Professor Ferguson shakes her head. “Just let it go, Gail.” She draws her lips into a pout. “And I promise I will be nothing but a lady tonight. Unless you don’t want me to.” She giggles at her own words.

  My brain is trying very hard to digest all this flirty banter. And here I was thinking we’d be discussing economics tonight. What do I want, though? A question so easily answered twenty years ago, even though, back then, my tortured desire for Professor Ferguson was as much based on her unavailability as anything else. It’s so easy—even comforting at times—to pine for someone who can’t possibly ruin your expectations of them, because it’s all just a fantasy anyway.

  “Let’s see how the evening progresses,” I say, not shying away from Professor Ferguson’s glance.

  “I take it you’re a conference virgin in more than one sense of the word then.” It’s as though Professor Ferguson can’t find the off-button for innuendo.

  I huff out some air, stifle a chuckle. “And I take it you’re not.” When I was in college, I hardly ever questioned her sexual orientation. It didn’t matter to the sort of crush I was cultivating. It only mattered in my daydreams, which had nothing to do with reality. I’d come to terms with my own preference long before I even clasped eyes on Professor Ferguson.

  “I’m a scholar. I live to work. To research. To become as much of an expert in my field as I possibly can. I travel a lot, and I’ve never been particularly interested in the ludicrous concept of monogamy, anyway.” She chews on her bottom lip for a fraction of a second. “But what I love most of all, is to make the best of any given situation.”

  If only I had known that twenty years ago. “So, let’s say I wasn’t here. What would you be doing now?”

  “That’s not a hypothesis I’m willing to entertain, Gail. You’re here. Why would I even try to imagine that you’re not?”

  “Let me ask you another question then…” Something is tightening below my stomach. “Why me?”

  Professor Ferguson draws her lips into a crooked smirk. “Okay. Sure,” she says. “I’ll go there.” She takes a sip from her Manhattan before continuing. “You’re my former student, so there’s that. Not just any student, though.” She narrows her eyes a bit when she says that. “And I’m not referring to the obvious crush you had on me. I’m talking about how easily you grasped complex formulas and economic models. As a student, you really excited me. Nothing is more sexy than a woman with a brain.”

  “Tell me about it.” Professor Ferguson always seemed plenty sexy to me just by appearance. Although, in this case, it’s completely impossible to separate the two. I get her point.

  “Not that sometimes I don’t have to settle for less, but conferences like these are excellent spots for finding smart women.” She relaxes into her chair a bit more. “Despite the fact that our field is still so largely dominated by men.” A shake of the head. “But let’s not go there. I’d like to keep conversation light tonight.”

  “Have you always been, huh, interested in women?” A blush warms my neck as I ask the question.

  “Always,” Professor Ferguson confirms.

  Am I supposed to see her as some sort of female Lothario now? A woman leaving a trail of broken hearts as she travels cross country, and around the world? I sometimes check Professor Ferguson’s website for a peek at her schedule, and she’s very much sought after as a speaker all over the globe.

  “That can’t have always been as easy as you make it out to be?”

  “I don’t know. How do I make it out to be?”

  I break out into a light chuckle. “Gosh. Even though we’re trying to keep the topic light, somehow, I’m still getting flashbacks to exams with you.”

  “Ah.” Briefly, she chews her lip again. “Always such a pleasant experience when you entered the room.”

  The blush that I had hoped to keep confined to my neck is swiftly creeping upward. I’m also still a bit stuck on her comment on monogamy, seeing as I’m a firm believer in the concept myself.

  “Not that it matters that much to me, Gail, but are you single?” There she is with a question from left field again. On top of that, she’s making it sound as if seducing me is a foregone conclusion.

  “I, huh, I am,” I stammer.

  “Good. Less messy. Don’t you think?”

  What I think is that Professor Ferguson is verging on the edge of being obnoxious. “This is all very strange, Professor.”

  “Joanne,” she’s quick to say.

  “Joanne,” I repeat, testing again how it feels to let her first name roll off my tongue. At the moment she’s much more Joanne to me than Professor Ferguson. “You’re very cocky and I’m not a big fan of over-the-top personas like that.”

  She nods pensively, like she used to do in class. “Oh, I see. Is this going to be a fight for top?”

  My re-ignited attraction to Professor Ferguson, which is quickly starting to slip out of grasp, was still largely based on the crush I once had on her. Now, we both seem to be totally different people.

  “You’re making the Plaza seem very appealing right now, Joanne.” Still, if I really wanted to walk away, I would. I decide to stay, which is telling in itself. “What’s with the act?” I find it very difficult to believe that a woman I so admired would turn out to be this arrogant. Even slightly bitter. “Don’t tell me that actually works on
people?”

  She opens her palms and pulls up her shoulders. “Believe it or not… it does.”

  “Well, it won’t work on me.” I see her crumble a little bit as I drain the last of my cocktail. But suddenly, I have had enough. “I think I will call it a night. I would appreciate a bit of privacy. Have another on me.” With any luck, I’ll be asleep by the time she comes up. I don’t really want to go through the hassle of checking in to another hotel. I just want to go over my presentation for tomorrow, and try to get some sleep. Although the chances of the latter have been seriously dwindling in the past hour.

  “Sure.” She tilts her head. “Call reception and tell them to let me know when it’s safe for me to enter my room.” She’s only being semi-gracious about me denying her access to her room, which was my room to begin with. But the reason why she so eagerly invited me to stay with her is now a bit too clear for my comfort.

  “Fine,” I say curtly before heading to the bar, telling the cute bartender to put all drinks on my tab, and exiting the establishment. On my way down to ‘our room’, I curse my lack of privacy, and run through the review of this hotel I want to write on TripAdvisor. Most of all, I’m disappointed. Having to witness someone I’ve looked up to all my adult life fall off their pedestal is an unpleasant reality check I could have lived without. Part of me wanted to stay, perhaps try to get to the bottom of it, but the other part—the rigid economist bit, I guess—was so appalled by what came out of Joanne’s mouth, it started to seem like the exact opposite of flirting.

  The room I gave up is the same size as the one I had to move out of, and I find my luggage neatly arranged next to the huge bed. First, I check if all my belongings have made it to my new digs, and once I’m reassured that everything has been transported, I instinctively head for the minibar. I need something to unwind. Two Manhattans have not done the trick. I pour myself a glass of wine from the half bottle of white I find in the tiny fridge, and settle behind the desk, arranging my notes in front of me while I power up my laptop.

  I can’t relax with the prospect of Joanne arriving any minute. I hardly trust her to wait until I make the call. It’s probably just another one of the non-monogamous games she likes to play. I feel silly practicing my speech out loud, so I whisper it to myself. I know the words by heart by now. I know where to make my voice go up, and where to put a bit of a humorous inflection in my tone.

  Satisfied that I’ve practiced enough, I kick off my shoes, finish the rest of the wine, and dig into my suitcase to unearth my pajamas. To my dismay, I find none.

  In a flash, an image of the powder blue pair I had intended to pack lying on my bed pops up into my head. In the picture in my mind, they’re next to my trolly, waiting to be put in. They never made it that far.

  “Shoot,” I holler at no one in particular. “Can this evening get any bloody worse?” I guess Joanne could choose this exact moment to return to her room. But she seems to be sticking to the plan. I rummage through my luggage and the only thing I find that I can comfortably sleep in is the tank top I wore underneath my blouse for traveling, because I always get cold on the plane. It’s short and tight, though, and doesn’t come with matching pants.

  Sighing heavily, I undress and slip into the tank top. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I arrange the robe provided by the hotel on a chair next to the side of the bed I’ve chosen—the one closest to the bathroom—and slip under the sheets. As I lay down, I realize I’ve forgotten to make the call to reception. What happens if I don’t call? I’ll probably just lie here waiting for Joanne, anyway, so I push myself up and call the front desk.

  With Joanne’s arrival imminent—or not—any signs that I’m ready for sleep soon escape me. I grab my Kindle from the night stand, close the lesbian erotic romance novel I was reading before, and try to find something un-arousing to read. Not an easy feat when your main means of relaxation is being absorbed in books with a heavy sexual undertone. I’m also very much in the habit of keeping my eReader tidy, thus deleting books I’ve read as soon as I’ve finished them. Right now it’s a choice between dry works on macro-economy and whatever I found on my latest rampage through Amazon’s Lesbian Romance Best Sellers List. Why don’t I enjoy classic literature more? I ask myself, as I scroll through title after title with an image of two women on the cover.

  Then I’m startled by a knock on the door.

  “Are you decent?” Joanne asks. To my surprise, she waits for my reply to enter the room.

  “Yes.” I switch on the lamp on my bedside table so she can at least see where’s she’s going. I stay neatly tucked underneath the duvet, though.

  “Hey, Gail.” Joanne heads straight for the edge of the bed furthest away from me, and sits. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I was out of line. I fully realize that.”

  “It’s fine. Really.” It’s a bit disconcerting to have Professor Ferguson apologize to me.

  “It’s important to me that you accept my apology. Sometimes”—she clears her throat—“I get a bit defensive and too forward. Can’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth. I sit there, listening to myself being all cocky while inwardly, and trust me on this, I hang my head in shame.”

  This makes me sit up. Joanne’s words have made me forget about only wearing a tank top, but I soon remember as her eyes seem momentarily transfixed by my shoulder line. “I accept your apology, Joanne.”

  “This life I’ve chosen, it cost me a lot.” A grimace slips over her lips. “Being a rockstar of economics is not easy, you know?”

  “Because half of the people you encounter think you’re the dullest person on the planet, while the ones you meet at conferences like this think you’re a goddess?”

  “It’s mainly the interviews with Fox News. They really leave me with no sense of dignity intact.” A wider smile starts breaking through on her face.

  “You’re on Fox News?” I feign surprise.

  “The fact that you didn’t know shines an even more flattering light on you.” Joanne plays along, and I start feeling it again. A tingle in my stomach. A flutter underneath my skin. “Do you want to go over your notes for tomorrow? Or practice with me as your audience? I’m quite experienced at this lecturing at conferences thing. I could give you a pointer or two.”

  “I’m not exactly dressed to give a rehearsal speech.” I dip my chin to look at my own chest. “Forgot my pajamas.”

  “Ah.” She tips her head to the right a little, but doesn’t say anything else. Perhaps she’s biting back a lewd comment.

  “Either way, I’ve gone over my speech enough times. I should be good.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind.” Joanne gets up from the bed and walks to her suitcase. “You’re welcome to use my pajamas, although that would leave me rather exposed.”

  “I’ll make do with what I have.” I smile sheepishly as Joanne presents a pair of lilac silk pajamas to me.

  “I can be considerate and sleep in my underwear as well, so you don’t feel too naked next to me.” This time, her comment doesn’t sound half as obnoxious as before. The atmosphere has changed. Her apology has taken the sting out of her words. She also delivers them with an almost goofy grin on her face.

  “No need.” I shoot her another smile. A reassuring one this time. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Well then, excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable.” From behind her spectacles, she winks at me. I’m definitely feeling the flutter now. I’m not one for aggressive come-ons, but give me some playful banter and I can be up for some fun.

  While Joanne retreats to the bathroom, I revel in the anticipation of seeing her appear in the room in sleep wear. Specializing in economics might be considered not very exciting by a lot of people, but look at me now. Nothing boring about this situation. Economics brought us together, I think, and chuckle inwardly.

  I put my Kindle to the side, quite confident I shouldn’t be reading any of the steamy titles on there tonight. It would only blur my
boundaries.

  When Joanne reemerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face scrubbed clean of make-up, and the indentations of her lanky body showing easily through the silk fabric of her pajamas, I feel an unexpected tenderness engulf me. As a student, especially as a student with a massive crush, it’s so easy to assign other-worldly characteristics to professors. They seem to have all the answers. They look so good up there explaining all these complex theories. And, in Professor Ferguson’s case, she wasn’t just in possession of great intelligence, she was also very easy on the eyes.

  Now, as she stands in front of me, totally humanized, stripped of the power of the class room and the bravado of earlier in the bar, she’s just another woman. One I still appear to be quite fond of, but no longer the professor I was so infatuated with twenty years ago.

  “Ta-dah,” she says unselfconsciously, spreading her palms. “The economics slumber party is about to commence. Shall we discuss Political Economy or the global financial crisis? Whatever floats your boat, Gail.”

  “How about we just get some sleep?”

  “That’s probably the best way to go.” Joanne seems reluctant to slip under the covers with me. “Would you like a sleeping aid? And by that I mean a pill, nothing else.” She winks at me again.

  “No, thanks. I’m not very big on medication.”

  “Aah, more the herbal kind, are you?” She takes a step closer to the bed, but doesn’t hop in yet.

  “I just want a clear head tomorrow. Kind of a big day for me.”

  “Of course.” At last, she lifts the tip of her side of the duvet.

  Perhaps we should have asked for separate blankets. The thought only crosses my mind briefly. Lying under the covers with Professor Ferguson, doing nothing, in this suspended state of will-we won’t-we, is highly arousing. Definitely more erotic than any fantasy I dreamed up when I was still her student. The shifting of the sheets, the movements of her limbs inches away from mine, the possibility of everything so near, yet, in its immediacy, also quite faraway.