Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  His reticence about blinding me with science was nowhere to be seen tonight, however; he was positively loquacious. Maybe he’d had some major scientific breakthrough, I wondered as he described the project in more glowing detail than ever before. Maybe he’d discovered the deep-sea equivalent of charting a black hole in space. Maybe he’d be famous and we could travel the world together while he gave lectures …

  ‘Are you with me Penny?’

  ‘Er, a bit much detail for me, Simon. You know how overwhelmed I get when you get into the micro stuff.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. I’m so excited, I can’t help myself.’ I could hear him taking a deep breath. ‘Anyway, my work has been picked up by a university in Europe and they want to collaborate with me on the project. They’re studying and tagging tuna too. So I’ve got approval from my dean, he’s given me access to some research funding and I’m going to go over there.’

  ‘There? Where’s there?’

  ‘Turkey. The south coast of Turkey.’

  ‘But don’t they have Muslim extremists there letting off bombs?’

  Simon laughed. ‘No, not there. There are no Muslim extremists in Turkey that I know of. There’s been trouble on the Iranian border with the Kurds, but that’s a very long way away from where I’ll be going.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  I realised that must have sounded more like a whine than a question; it was out before I could stop it. But I felt I had a very good reason to whine. Simon’s departure, let alone to a country harbouring a bunch of crazy killers — Kurds or whatever — brought the number of bad-news announcements today to a grand total of four and that simply wasn’t fair. Three had been plenty — this piece of news was definitely superfluous to requirements.

  There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. ‘Well, Penny, I’d certainly like to go. And the work will be very rewarding. It will add a whole new perspective to what I’ve been working on all this time.’

  ‘How long will you be gone for?’

  ‘It’s not all set in stone yet, but it could be a couple of months.’

  ‘A couple of months?’ I squawked. ‘You can’t be serious. Why so long?’

  ‘It might not be quite that long, but there’s a lot to get through, a lot of data to record, and then I need to compare my results with theirs. At least six weeks, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ I was so gobsmacked, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. How could he disappear off to the other side of the world, just like that? I needed him here.

  ‘Yes, Penny, really,’ he said chuckling. ‘You sound as if you might miss me while I’m gone.’

  ‘Miss you? I … er, I suppose I will.’ I stared at the television and sighed. Not for me the extreme makeover of wardrobe, house and life. I was doomed to a drab existence sandwiched between work, ageing parents and teenagers. The mere thought of swanning off somewhere exotic like the south coast of Turkey sent hot waves of jealousy swimming through my veins.

  ‘I just wish I could get away from all of this and go too,’ I said. ‘The Mediterranean at this time of year would be heaven.’

  ‘You’d have to acquire more of a scientific bent to qualify for the expedition, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘We’ll all be on the research ship working together. It comes equipped with a laboratory and everything we need. And I’ll be able to try Turkish wine.’ I could almost hear him grinning at the other end.

  ‘Turkish wine? That sounds pretty ghastly. I didn’t even know they made wine.’

  ‘Apparently it’s quite good. I’ll bring you back a bottle so you can see for yourself.’

  ‘You’re so kind,’ I said, with more than a tinge of envy. ‘I’d rather be there to taste it myself. You lucky man.’ I let out a giant sigh. ‘I never get asked to go much further than the end of the southern motorway.’

  ‘It just goes to show, us scientific types closeted away in our dull old laboratories can make the glamorous world of PR look pretty insular at times. You should have paid more attention in your biology classes.’

  ‘Oh, I paid plenty of attention to biology when I was at school.’

  ‘Just not the sort taught by teachers, I suppose.’

  ‘You could say that,’ I laughed.

  ‘Perhaps you could give me a few lessons on Friday night? Something to remember you by?’ His voice sounded highly suggestive but I found the words alarming.

  ‘Remember me by? Why, how soon are you heading off on this jaunt?’

  ‘In ten days’ time. We need to get our work done before the weather turns. That gives us just enough time, providing we get started right away.’

  ‘Oh.’ The reality hit home. Simon would be gone at the end of next week and I’d be on my own for two whole months. ‘You’re right then, I will miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too, a lot,’ he said. ‘But at least I should be able to email you occasionally.’

  ‘It’s a pity partners can’t come too. Then you wouldn’t need to miss me at all.’

  Simon chuckled. ‘Nice try. I can’t see that happening though.’

  ‘Neither. Besides, I’ve got my work cut out here for a while. Adam’s been bunking school ’cause he’s being picked on by some bully boys, and if Adam is to be believed, Charlotte is in deep water too.’ I decided it wouldn’t be wise to mention exactly what sort of water she was in as the man she was supposed to be having it off with could well be known to Simon — they were on the same campus.

  ‘You have got your hands full, then. Sounds like you won’t have much time to miss me at all.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it!’

  ‘Anything I can do to help with their problems?’

  ‘No, thanks. Kind of you to offer, but I’m going to have to sort both these issues myself. Adam has made me promise not to tell his father, but has at least allowed me to talk to one of the teachers about it. It’s so wrong. You’d think schools would have got their shit together over bullying by now.’

  ‘You’d think so. But I reckon a lot of schools say they’ve got it sorted, point to their wonderful anti-bullying policies and such, then when it comes to the actual act they seem powerless to stop it.’

  ‘Well, they’d better not be powerless tomorrow when I go see them. I’ll be expecting some real action, not weasel words.’

  ‘You go for it, Penny Rushmore. Pity the poor wretch of a teacher you’re going to deal with. I can just imagine you on the warpath to protect your son.’

  But before I could sort out Adam’s issues there was another warpath I needed to tread, and that was up the stairs to Charlotte’s room. Simon’s bombshell about going off to Turkey for the best part of two months seemed to have snapped the balance of my tolerance level, so I was way out of kilter and ready to pick a fight with anyone who had contributed to that mighty imbalance.

  I checked on Dad, who was nodding off in front of the closing strains of Coronation Street, shut the door firmly behind Tigger and marched up the stairs, working out with each tread how best to handle what was one of the trickier situations Charlotte had presented me with.

  A bit of a drama queen in her teens, Charlotte had nevertheless been an easy child. She’d never done drugs — at least no more than a group grope with cannabis and a brief experiment with party pills, which she’d reported had been so scary she’d refused to touch them since — and apart from the occasional binge-drinking session, she’d never given me much cause for concern. I’d long ago given up trying to talk to her about sex. The last time I’d broached the subject she’d given me one of those looks that told me she knew everything and I knew nothing. Scarily, part of me believed her. Just the same, I was pretty sure I knew when she’d lost her virginity and the spotty-faced boy she’d lost it to.

  But to have a relationship with a man who, if Adam was to be believed, was old enough to be her father and who was also alleged to be her lecturer (or lecherer might be more apt, I thought) was way out of line. It definitely came under the job descriptio
n for parental intervention.

  I knocked on her door and went in without pausing.

  ‘Mu-um, I’m busy,’ she said.

  I took a closer look. ‘Busy’ seemed to entail painting her toenails while talking on the phone — no doubt she’d been waiting to dial her friend the minute I disconnected. Her lecture notes were open on her desk but there was no recent sign of activity.

  ‘So I see,’ I replied with more than a hint of sarcasm, stepping purposefully into the room. ‘I want to have a talk to you.’ I stood there firmly, trying to radiate immovability, and stared at the receiver in her hand.

  ‘I’d better go, Becks,’ she said into the phone. ‘Mum’s here.’ She clicked off, flung the phone on the bed and turned towards me. ‘But I’m not saying anything about Peter, so there’s no point in asking.’

  ‘Peter? Peter who?’

  Silence.

  ‘Does your father know about Peter?’

  Silence.

  ‘What about Jacinta? Does she know?’

  ‘Of course. She’s a friend.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, not seeing at all. The thought of the Conniving Cow being a ‘friend’ made me seethe, but I was determined not to let the conversation get sidetracked and lose the small ground I’d made. ‘Well, in that case I think you should tell your mother too.’

  Still silence. But I thought I detected a slight wavering.

  ‘Charlotte, you’re not being fair. Would you like me to talk to Jacinta about it?’

  ‘No! No, please don’t.’

  ‘Then you need to tell me yourself. How long have you and Peter been close?’

  All of a sudden, out it came, the whole sordid story: how they’d made some sort of connection through eye contact during classes and how it had all come to a head at a post-exam party. They’d been ‘seeing’ each other since. She wouldn’t tell me where they went for their clandestine liaisons — for clandestine they were, since both knew full well that what they were doing was totally against the university rules. But since she didn’t have a car, I figured it was his place … or his car, the broom cupboard or some cheap motel somewhere. Neither could I get out of her exactly how old he was, but it sounded like he was somewhere in his early forties. He didn’t have a wife or children — as far as she knew, anyway — but I had my suspicions about that. I resolved to look up the name of every lecturer in her faculty with the name Peter. There couldn’t be many, surely?

  ‘Charlotte, you do understand, don’t you, that what you’re doing is completely out of bounds. If the university found out, Peter would probably lose his job and you’d have to switch to another subject.’

  ‘I know, Mum. It’s so not fair. But we’ve kept it quiet, really.’

  ‘Do you understand why it’s out of bounds?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Because whatever grades you’re getting, Peter could have …’

  ‘I know, Mum, really.’

  ‘So why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because he’s just so right for me. Because we love each other.’

  I suppose I should have expected that, but it just about made me throw up.

  I could just picture a randy, badly dressed lecherer preying on my trusting, gullible daughter, luring her into his study to go over her essay and giving her a thorough going over while he was about it. I bit back the bile in my throat. Even in my dark fury I could tell it would be total stupidity to say anything further. She was smitten, and therefore she was stuffed. Literally and figuratively.

  As I thought, it didn’t take me long to find out the dirty rotten scoundrel’s name. I went downstairs and Googled the university faculty and there he was: Peter Mortimer, lecturer in art history, followed by a list of tedious-sounding papers he’d collaborated on. I clicked on their links until I found one with a photo of the team working on the project and a caption pointing out which one he was. I had to admit, despite my intense dislike of him and everything he stood for, and despite the fact that he had a dark beard and moustache and a smug smile on his face, he didn’t look half bad. In a predatory sort of way, of course.

  Chapter 11

  Needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I tossed and turned, haunted by Peter’s face, by the thought of what he was doing to my daughter. I pictured myself telling Steve then wondered if he already knew, if Jacinta had told him. I pictured myself having it out with the Conniving Cow for not telling me what was going on out of concern for her so-called ‘friend’. And I pictured the sort of row that would erupt if anyone in the faculty, or the wider university even, ever found out.

  So when hostilities broke out between Adam and Charlotte at breakfast during our usual morning rush-around, I was in no mood for it. I’d just got through to Adam’s school to make an appointment to see his teacher when the first volleys were sounded.

  ‘You used up the last of the milk,’ Charlotte accused, slamming the fridge door and marching over to Adam. ‘You’re so selfish. You could have left a little bit for my cereal.’

  ‘You should have got up earlier,’ Adam retaliated.

  ‘I did, but someone was in the shower forever.’

  ‘Please, I’m on the phone,’ I called, carrying it through to the lounge and further from the fray.

  The battle died down temporarily, fortunately allowing me to talk to the school secretary about making a time to see Brian Henderson. She promised to phone me back on my mobile with an appointment for lunchtime or after school that day.

  But the row flared again when Adam said something about Charlotte seeing her boyfriend today.

  ‘None of your business,’ she spat. You’re such a telltale. You couldn’t wait to tell Mum about it, could you?’

  ‘Well you had to stick your nose into my business. Serves you right.’

  ‘You’re such a pain, Adam. I can’t stand living here with you any more. I’m going back to Dad’s place. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Run off to suck up to Jacinta then, see if we care,’ Adam said.

  ‘That’s quite enough, you two,’ Dad said, coming into the kitchen in his dressing gown and slippers. ‘I can hear you from my room. Couldn’t hear what they were saying on the radio for all the racket.’ He made his way through the melee towards the downstairs bathroom and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Yes, he’s right,’ I added. ‘That is quite enough.’

  ‘Well, I meant it,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m sick of Adam. I’m going back to live with Dad.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s all that keen …’ I hated being the naysayer all the time with Charlotte but she needed reminding: the last time she’d lived at Steve’s, Jacinta had subtly tried to edge her out.

  ‘He said I could always go back if I wanted, any time,’ she huffed.

  ‘But that was before the baby. Jacinta will be getting tired, and …’

  ‘It’ll be great for her, for both of us, now we’re on the pregnancy diet together. She finds it really hard to stay off the coffee unless I’m there with her.’

  I let it slide. I’d done my bit and warned her. She could find out for herself.

  • • •

  Charlotte left for her father’s on Friday, taking most of her clothes and books and leaving behind a mountain of junk which I discovered on the way past her door, rushing as usual after work to get ready to see Simon. He was due in less than twenty minutes and I had to get glammed up for the big, glitzy charity event we were going to. I shut her door firmly to make the mess immediately invisible, and hoped the clutter fairy would visit with her Jif bottle while I was out.

  Ginny had got us tickets, in exchange for me somehow edging up the bidding on the auction items without actually ending up buying anything. This made me anxious for a start. I mean, I’m an absolute ditz when it comes to auctions at the best of times. I’m the one who puts a hand up to scratch my nose and ends up buying the ten-thousand dollar painting that looks like a sea of mud with a few bits of barbed wire dragged through it.

  I flung
myself under the shower while trying not to get my hair wet (making yet another mental note to get a damned shower cap), brushed my teeth, gargled some Listerine, filled my hair with product and fluffed it up as best I could without looking like I’d had an electric shock.

  Back in the bedroom, I pulled out, as usual, the little black number that had more than done its dash but was nevertheless the most flattering frock in my wardrobe. From the bottom of my undies drawer I fished out my sturdy strapless bra and wrapped it around me, found a pair of knickers that almost matched it, covered them with fishnet pantyhose which turned out to have a large, gaping hole near the top, found another pair of pantyhose, without fishnets and without a hole, carefully slipped them on while trying not to snag them, and unearthed a pair of earrings.

  Five minutes to go and I still had to do my make-up, an increasingly difficult job these days as my slowly ageing eyesight means I can’t see my face so well in the mirror, yet my slowly ageing face has never been in more need of meticulous restorative care. As if that weren’t bad enough, my coordination isn’t as sharp as it used to be, making me incapable of dragging a mascara wand through my eyelashes without getting a large blob of it on my eyelid. Très chic. And by the time I find a tissue to wipe it off, it’s dried into the waterproof, earthquake-proof star-shell the mascara packaging promises to deliver. This time I was ready, however: I had a makeup-remover pad in my left hand, reducing the impact of the blue-black blob so it looked more like a fading bruise — nothing a reapplication of foundation wouldn’t hide.