I’m just walking downstairs when I hear a vaguely familiar voice call out my name.
Lloyd perhaps, I think, although that seems odd - he’s been keeping an amiable but distinctly polite distance since I told him I was spoken for, which I must say I feel much more comfortable with.
But when I turn around, I can’t help but think: if only it was indeed just Lloyd.
Because not only is it not him, it’s the creep.
He grins at me with his usual smugness.
“Aha, so I was right on all counts. Your name’s actually Paige, not Tiffany, and you are his student, just as I suspected. My God, imagine that, Sebastian Morland, golden boy and star hire of Arts and Sciences, all-round nice guy whom everybody likes, mixed up in a juicy scandal like this. And such a conventional scandal too …”
“Shhh,” I hiss, looking around to check that nobody from class is around - and fortunately, no one is.
Unfortunately, the need for discretion means that I can’t move away when he comes closer to me, even though every fiber in my being is repulsed by his proximity …
“I see you agree with me that it wouldn’t be good for anyone to find out about this,” he says, this time in a lower voice.
“How did you find out who I am?” I hiss.
He smiles. God, I could slap him, he’s so ridiculously smug.
“It wasn’t difficult finding out your name - dad couldn’t stop going on about how pleased he was that Sebastian’s new girlfriend Paige seemed to be a very nice girl. Anyway, since you have a university decal on your car, and since Sebastian seemed to have some sort of prior acquaintance with you when he was at the club, I figured that it might be worth it to check out his classes, see if you showed up …”
“And what do you want exactly?”
“I’m not a demanding man, Paige. In certain ways, I’m probably much less demanding than your Mr. Lover-Boy. It’s very simple, what I want. I want you to go back to the club for a night - this Saturday, specifically - and I want to see you dance. Both on stage and for me, personally. That’s all. It’s not unreasonable, is it?”
Of course it is, I want to say. It was always just a job, but now - like everything else the creep touches - it feels dirty, shameful in a way that it didn’t use to.
In fact, I feel nauseous enough that I have to pull myself together and remind myself of what Sebastian said to me at the restaurant: Don’t look scared. Don’t let on that he’s gotten to you, even if he has.
Aloud I say: “And why wouldn’t I just go and tell Sebastian you’re trying to blackmail me?”
He laughs.
“Feel free to, if you want to end up being at the center of a scandal that would basically end his teaching career. Because if you tell him about this conversation, you know what will happen - he’ll confront me, and I’ll know that you told him. In which case I’ll simply go straight to dad and tell him everything. He’s seen both of you two lovebirds canoodling in person, so it’ll hardly be difficult to convince him of what’s going on. Oh, and you might also want to note that university policy forbids any sexual relationships between faculty and students, and it’s considered especially bad if the student is still in a class taught by the professor. I also believe he’s only up for tenure review next year, so he wouldn’t even have that for protection. Just so you know what is at stake.”
“But why are you doing this?” I ask, and I know it’s a ridiculous question to ask him, but it’s at least partly to stall for time while I think about how I can possibly get out of this.
He smirks.
“A … social experiment. Maybe I just want to prove something to myself. See what will happen.”
I shake my head disbelievingly.
“Seriously, why would you go to all that trouble for an experiment?”
“Why, would you prefer it if I were obsessed with you? Perhaps you do. Well, you are a very pretty girl, and I suppose I was always a bit miffed that you would so studiously attempt to avoid me. Does that make you feel better? I mean, I’m not sure why there’s all this angst here. I’m offering you a very easy deal, really, just think, I could ask for so much more, if you know what I mean. Or maybe you’d have preferred it if I asked for more?”
He leers as he says that last bit, and I can’t help cringing, even though I catch myself almost immediately.
“So you said this Saturday,” I interject abruptly, if only to keep him from going down that even worse train of thought.
“This Saturday, Paige.”
“I’ve quit the club, you know.”
“I do know that. However, I’m a regular, and I’ve brought up that possibility with management. It won’t be a problem.”
Fuck.
“Can I have some time to think about it? Does it have to be this Saturday? Why not next Saturday?”
“This Saturday, Paige,” he repeats, staring me straight in the eye, like some kind of stupid movie villain. “This Saturday or never. This Saturday, or I go to dad with what I know. And no, I want an answer now.”
It’s hard to contain the visceral disgust I feel, and I’m sure he’s picked up on it as well, because he looks even smarmier than ever.
“It’s not that difficult, Paige. It’s just this one time. Do it, and you will be completely free of me on a permanent basis. A worthwhile exchange, isn’t it, assuming that you do want to get rid of me?”
“How do I know you’ll keep to that part of the bargain?”
“Well, you can’t know for sure, Paige, but I can tell you I’m generally good at keeping my promises. And as I said, this is an experiment, I will have my answer once you go through with it, in which case I won’t have much to keep me interested.”
“Fine. I’ll do it,” I mutter, disgusted with him, disgusted with myself.
“Good girl,” he says. “Give me your email address so that I can send you further instructions.”
I give him a withering look, as if to say, what, really? …
He shrugs, as though to say: Do what you like, but remember what’s at stake here.
And so I cave and give him an old email address that I still have access to, but which I don’t use any more, although it still forwards to my regular email address.
“You’re a clever girl, Paige, not giving out your school email address. Maybe I should have asked you for your phone number instead. But then, didn’t I tell you, I’m not as demanding as you think. See you on Saturday.”
And with that he takes off, leaving me standing there, still dazed, shocked, nauseated, not quite sure what’s just happened, not quite sure if I’ve done the right thing in agreeing to this bizarre plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
She’s sitting at a bench in the lobby, fiddling with her phone, absent-mindedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand.
God, I could look at her forever, she’s just so utterly adorable. And if I have it my way, I will get to see her around a lot more, at least once the regulation against teacher-student relationships doesn’t apply any more to us - which couldn’t be soon enough for me.
Here now, I text her. My car’s in the parking lot across the street. Meet you there?
She gives a start, looks up and around, sees me, and smiles before texting me back: Of course.
She gets up from the bench as I approach the door. There’s something strangely nervous about her manner - perhaps she’s still unsettled by that run-in with Roger and Caleb the other day, I’ll probably find out soon enough …
She still looks a bit pale when she gets to the car - happy to see me, I think, but distinctly jumpy, looking around more than once before she climbs into the car.
“Hello, baby girl,” I say as I lean in for a kiss.
She reciprocates with unusual timidity.
“Hello, Sebastian,” she murmurs.
“So what do you think, where shall we go today?”
“Anywhere you like,” she says, shivering a bit. “Anywhere, as long as it’s not on ca
mpus.”
“But you’re shivering, my dear girl. Are you all right? You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”
She looks startled.
“Oh, no, no! No, I’m just - just feeling a bit nervous. You know, about Dean Miller spotting me on campus and realising I’m a student, that sort of thing.”
“Well, let’s be on our way then, I want my girl to be happy after all.”
She smiles.
“Thank you, Sebastian.”
Given her worries about being seen, I decided it might be best to pick up some takeout and eat at the house.
She seems terribly grateful and (unnecessarily) apologetic, but there’s still something a bit off about the whole thing, something I don’t understand.
She’s also picking at her food rather than attacking it with her usual healthy appetite. Of course, it could be that she doesn’t like it all that much, but to be honest, in light of everything else, it’s as though someone or something has taken away her usual spark, replaced it with a sort of bleak, grinding dread.
She was still quite saucy and chatty when we talked last night, so I’m pretty sure something’s happened this morning, unless she’s having a case of delayed sub drop, which I don’t get the impression it is.
What’s unsettling me is that every gesture of affection I make is responded to with disproportionate gratitude, and yet I can’t help having the feeling that my tenderness is also, in some strange way, causing her pain at the same time.
After we’re done with lunch she gathers up our plates to take them to the sink, but her manner is so painfully meek and anxious to please, in contrast to her usual lively, feisty self, that I take the plates from her, set them on the table and pull her over to sit on my lap.
“Are you all right, Paige,” I finally ask her again. “I just feel like something’s the matter, that something’s not quite right. You’re upset about something. You know you can talk to me about anything, can’t you?”
She looks at me, pale, almost frightened.
Frightened of me, I almost would have said, as much as the idea cuts me to the quick, except that she then huddles against me, burying her face in my shoulder, like a small child seeking comfort.
At least she’s still all right with seeking comfort from me, I think …
“I’m sorry, Sebastian. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s a passing mood, I’m sure. I - I’m very sorry. I know we were supposed to have a bit of fun today, and I’m being a complete wet blanket -”
I hold her closely to me. It’s strange, she’s always seemed lithe and delicate yet strong to me, but in this moment she seems terribly, touchingly fragile.
“Paige. Paige, my darling girl. Look, yes it’s true that you are a very attractive young woman, and I can’t get enough of you. But it isn’t just about that for me - just about whether or not I get laid. Surely you know that by now? You matter to me.”
She raises her head and looks at me with a stricken expression that I don’t understand.
Or rather, it’s an expression that I think I recognise, but I can’t imagine why she would have that expression on her face, don’t want to imagine why she would have that expression on her face.
Because she looks guilty, somehow.
But why? Guilty of what?
It’s with a terrible feeling of dread that I realise Maggie used to look like that towards the end of our relationship, before she eventually broke down and confessed about Peter.
And yet …
That occurred very gradually, over months. How can things change that quickly, in, what, half a day? Hours, even, because she seemed just fine in class. No, it can’t possibly be a replay of the Maggie thing. It simply can’t be.
“Paige, darling Paige,” I say, as she buries her face in my shoulder again and I stroke her hair. “Look, I really don’t know what I can do to help you. Would it help for you to stay here for the day? Or would you prefer it if I drove you home? I wish I knew what you wanted - I just want you to be happy, baby girl.”
“Oh, Sebastian,” she sighs, her voice still muffled. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve just been stressing out over some of my other classes. I wish I could spend more time with you …”
“My poor girl. I’ve been taking up a lot of your time recently, haven’t I?”
She looks up and shakes her head.
“I’ve loved every moment of it, and I don’t regret it one bit,” she murmurs, running her hand through my hair as she speaks. “But finals are coming up, and I’ve fallen behind in the advanced calc class, it was probably silly of me to take it as an elective but regular calc was easy and so I wasn’t expecting this to be so difficult.”
“It’s all right, Paige,” I say gently. “I’ll drive you home then. And you let me know when you might have time to meet up again, we can talk on the phone or Skype in the meantime, if you feel like you might be in the mood. I would love it if we could meet for a bit on the weekend, maybe grab dinner Saturday night, but please don’t feel like you’re obliged to, if you’re busy with work …”
An expression of alarm flits over her face when I mention Saturday.
“Not Saturday,” she says hastily, before appearing to realise that maybe she said it just a tad too hastily, and trying to backtrack and sound more casual. “Um, I mean, I don’t think Saturday will work, I think it might be better to aim for Sunday. You know, I’d like to see you after I get everything done, so I can forget all about homework and just be with you, without any distractions …”
She seems tense and yet anxious to please (to appease, almost), all through our somewhat awkward drive back to her place.
When I pull up in front of her apartment building, she takes my hand and presses it to her cheek before kissing me.
“Thank you, Sebastian,” she whispers. “You’re so kind. I really appreciate it. I’m sorry about today. I hope to make it up to you on Sunday. And please do call me anytime. I - I always love hearing your voice.”
“Sweet girl,” I say, and pull her in for another kiss, a long, soft, tender kiss that she seems to respond to, which is at least a bit of a relief. “Do what you need to do. I’ll be fine. And yes, I’ll call and check in with you tonight.”
She smiles timidly and gets out of the car, pausing to blow me a kiss before she slips into the lobby of her building.
It’s all quite perplexing, and I don’t really know what to think as I drive home. The whole thing about the advanced calculus class seems vaguely plausible, given her conscientiousness, and yet there was something a bit off about it - as was her panicky insistence that she wouldn’t be able to see me on Saturday.
And yet she seemed so affectionate as well - just oddly closed off …
After I get home, I idly take out my phone, which has been muted all this time, as is my usual habit both when I’m teaching and when I’m with her, and idly scroll through my new emails.
A few messages from students fretting about their grades, and then a message from someone I don’t know, who’s using his or her email address as a screen name - an email address I don’t remember ever coming across, and which gives no hint as to the actual name of the sender.
Subject line: Saturday.
If you want to know why she can’t meet you on Saturday night, be at the Royale at 7:30pm. Don’t bother asking her about this email - she won’t tell you a thing. And it won’t change a thing.
A well-wisher.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I don’t know why the whole thing makes me feel so ill.
Well, of course it’s true that anything involving the creep has a tendency to make me feel ill.
But it isn’t just a matter of disgust with him, of disgust at what I’ll have to do at the club on Saturday night. (Dance for him personally? Ugh.)
It’s that I feel sick with fear and guilt.
Fear, not just of the creep, but of what Sebastian would think or do if he found out.
Guilt, because I promised him never t
o go back to the club again. Because I was supposed to tell him, if the creep ever tried to harass me.
But what can I do? He’s been nothing but sweet and kind to me. I can’t destroy his career, just like that. He’s a brilliant professor, well-respected, clearly loves what he’s doing - surely he would resent me, or eventually grow to resent me, if I screwed that all up.
Why would he want to give up a promising academic career for a girlfriend of - well, we weren’t even using the word till just a week ago, and even if we started counting from the night he met me at the club, it’s hardly been six weeks?
What’s more, not just a girlfriend, but a girlfriend with a past, as absurd as it sounds in this day and age.
I know he’s acting like he wants something longer-term, but all it would take would be for someone like the creep to rat on me to someone in his circle, and I would suddenly be the scandalous working-class ex-stripper girlfriend who totally ruined his life.
And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s true that it’s not all that much the creep’s asking from me - not all that much in comparison to what Sebastian stands to lose, or what he’s done for me.
Surely I can do that for him!
It’s the lying that’s hard to bear, especially when he looks at me with those kind eyes full of concern. I just felt so ill after that encounter with the creep, too bad I wasn’t able to keep it in.
That was why I couldn’t bear to see him in person before Sunday.
I think he suspected something was off as well, but was trying to believe me, because he wanted to believe me.
How terrible it is to have to lie to someone who wants to believe one …
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
And so here I am, driving on that old route to the club that I never thought I’d have to drive again.
The creep seems determined to make the whole thing as mortifying for me as possible - though knowing what I know about him from both Brandi and Sebastian that probably shouldn’t have surprised me too much.
A Dance for Him Page 16