Husband-To-Be

by Linda Miles

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Grant, smiling.

  ‘It’s not wonderful,’ corrected Professor Edwards. ‘It’s moderately good news: it’s not much of a conference. But if we like what we see we’ll be back, and the biennial is the kind of three-ring circus this place is meant for.’

  Grant grinned. ‘Well, we’ll have a glass of champagne anyway, shall we? I’m afraid it’s only moderately good champagne, but perhaps you won’t mind, in the circumstances.’ He strolled off in the direction of the bar.

  Rachel smiled in spite of herself. Grant seemed to have got the measure of Professor Edwards in three minutes flat—something some people didn’t manage in years.

  ‘I’m sorry Driscoll couldn’t be here to see you again,’ she said, with an unfortunate association of ideas.

  ‘Humph,’ said Professor Edwards unenthusiastically.

  ‘He’s been short-listed for the Birmingham job, so he couldn’t come,’ she explained conscientiously.

  Even if Driscoll didn’t get the job, which on past performance seemed reasonably likely, it could only do him good for word to get around that he’d been on the short list. Professor Edwards was a notorious gossip, after all. He was exactly the kind of person who could be relied on to pass on the news to other people in the subject—people who could be useful to Driscoll if they remembered his existence and thought of him in connection with things like jobs and, presumably, glowing references.

  To her surprise, the professor frowned horribly. ‘The Birmingham job? Impossible. You must be thinking of something else. Unless perhaps he was applying to a school?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he wasn’t,’ insisted Rachel.

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t the university job,’ he said positively. ‘There were only four people on the short list, and he wasn’t one. I don’t even think he was on the long short. Which is hardly surprising, considering…’

  ‘Considering what?’ asked Rachel, with a sense of foreboding.

  But Grant had returned with the champagne.

  ‘Today Madagascar, tomorrow the world,’ he said cheerfully, raising his glass.

  Professor Edwards snorted.

  Grant laughed. ‘I know—conferences are all very well as far as they go, but how far is that? To tell the truth, I’m really expecting more from the science park. We just need planning permission in order to finish raising the capital, so it’s a matter of waiting for Rachel to complete her study, and then—well, blast-off into the twenty-first century, but of course I would think that, wouldn’t I? Meanwhile we’re still waiting to hear whether most resident ants prefer grandchildren or knitting as a leisure interest.’

  Edwards pricked up his ears, and asked Rachel a number of questions about the area and the methods she was using, from time to time putting a probing question to Grant about the type of research he expected to be done there. Rachel was kept busy fielding questions, and all the time there was a heavy, leaden feeling in her heart. What could he have meant?

  At last Grant went off to join another group and she was able to tax her supervisor again. ‘What were you going to say about Driscoll?’ she asked tensely.

  ‘Oh—ah—er…’ Astonishingly, the bluff man looked embarrassed. ‘I was just wondering whether he’d considered changing career,’ he said at last. ‘I really don’t think much of his chances, Rachel. Now, if it were thirty years ago I don’t suppose there’d be a problem, but what with the cuts…’ He shook a mane of white hair regretfully. ‘Shocking, shocking. Why, I’ve seen absolutely brilliant young men—and women too, of course—unable to get a job. With that kind of competition, it’s simply not realistic to expect people to look at Driscoll.’

  ‘But he’s got a terrific publication record!’ protested Rachel.

  ‘There’s a lot of it, certainly, but the problem is, people can read,’ Edwards said drily. ‘I realise affection has made you partial, but surely you must see he’s not in your class? It’s not just that there’s a world of difference between your solo efforts and his—there’s a difference between things he lists that he collaborated on with you and what he did on his own. Funny thing is, to talk to him you’d think he’d done the bulk of the work on the joint efforts—bis ideas, you just helpful.

  ‘Well, as I said, people can read, and they can think too, and they don’t much like someone riding on someone else’s back. Driscoll really should stop wasting his time and look for some other line of work. You can tell him I said so if you like—more tactfully than I should, I dare say.’

  He saw, with relief, that a colleague was trying to attract his attention, and excused himself hastily. Rachel stared unseeingly at the floor, then wandered dully out of the room into the corridor that ran the length of the building. With a vague desire to mull things over on her own, she walked down to the end before opening a door at random. It seemed someone else had had the same idea—a couple were standing by the window, so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice the door had opened.

  ‘It’s awfully sweet of you, Rupert. I really am a bit strapped just now.’ The voice was Olivia’s—Rachel froze on the threshold.

  ‘Don’t mention it. You know your father’s an old pal of mine. Anyway, I’m counting on you to convince that young hothead of yours that I’m not the monster he imagines.’ Matheson laughed indulgently.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll come round,’ said Olivia.

  ‘I hope he does.’ Matheson paused. ‘I’m sure it’s in his best interests to let us deal with the development of this drug; perhaps you can make him see that. It’s the safest way for him to raise money; after all, these environmental impact assessments are very chancy things—you never know what may turn up.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Olivia.

  ‘And if something turns up and word gets out, it can make investors nervy.’ He paused. ‘Well, if anything awkward should turn up, remember you can always count on me.’

  Rachel tiptoed back into the corridor, then walked quickly back the way she had come. She thought Matheson was wasting his time—she’d noticed Grant’s look of exasperation when he’d realised that Olivia had invited the man. Still, it wasn’t her problem. She had problems of her own.

  She crossed the corridor and passed through a bedroom onto a balcony that overlooked the park. The sky was black, the stars brilliant in the country air, the insect sounds of a country night rose from the grounds, and against the black sky she could sometimes see the silhouettes of the tiny bats that lived in one of the towers. At least it was a little better than staying inside making conversation.

  Affection makes you partial, Eddie had said. The problem was, it didn’t. She and Driscoll had never really bothered with the spontaneous, emotional side of the relationship: whenever she’d tried to build this up he’d accused her of wasting time or destroying his concentration. So she’d just had the idea in her head of a kind of life together—a life which would be based in the scientific world, which in many ways still attracted and interested her, but which would spare her the drudgery she now associated with her area of specialisation.

  Now it seemed that it was just an illusion. Without her work and her connections, Driscoll wouldn’t have got as far as he had. Trying to go it alone, he’d produced work which she’d always found dull, and now realised was mediocre rather than sound; so he’d used her to get his name on better work, and he’d claimed her ideas as his own, and when even that hadn’t worked he’d lied to her about his prospects. So what did that leave?

  Well, the problem was that it didn’t seem to leave much of anything, but what kind of person did that make you if you dropped someone as soon as you found out he was in trouble? On the other hand, if everything she’d taken for granted about their relationship was wrong, how could she possibly let it go on?

  Wearily she leant over the railing and stared out into the night.

  Footsteps approached from behind her.

  ‘Rachel? Are you all right?’

  ‘Hello, Grant. Yes, I’m
fine. I just came out for some fresh air,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady—but it shook at the end in spite of her.

  ‘Rachel! Someone’s upset you! What is it?’

  At the sound of his concerned voice Rachel could control herself no longer; she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

  Suddenly his arm was around her shoulders. ‘Rachel! You’re crying!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tell me what it is. Come and sit down over here.’

  He led her to a low stone seat which had been cunningly placed so that it was impossible to sit on it and see over the balustrade. Rachel sank onto it, too miserable to resist.

  ‘Now, tell me all about it,’ he said. ‘And please don’t cry. Have a handkerchief. That’s better. Now, what’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, Grant,’ sobbed Rachel, drenching the handkerchief. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Tell me who’s upset you and I’ll punch his nose,’ he offered handsomely.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Rachel, smiling feebly. ‘It’s Professor Edwards, and he’d take back his Madagascar conference.’

  ‘To hell with his Madagascar conference—’

  ‘And anyway it wasn’t his fault; he was just telling the truth.’ Haltingly, she repeated what Professor Edwards had said.

  ‘So now I don’t know what to do,’ she said wretchedly. ‘It seems so selfish and disloyal to break up with someone when he can’t get a job. But how can I go ahead and marry him just so as not to let him down?’

  She turned over the handkerchief, looking for a dry patch, and mopped her eyes with the damp wad.

  ‘I mean, it’s not that I mind about the job,’ she went on dismally. ‘It’s not the job that matters. After all, if you were broke and unemployed you’d still be the same person. But Driscoll hardly seems to exist without somebody’s good opinion; when he can’t get it from anybody else he has to squeeze it out of me. He tried to cheat other people into thinking well of him by using my work, and he’s tried to cheat me into thinking well of him by lying to me.’

  Grant didn’t say anything. His arm was still warm and solid around her shoulders, and he held her close to his side, but he resisted what she supposed must be an overwhelming temptation to say, I told you so.

  ‘And the worst of it is,’ she added bitterly, ‘that if it hadn’t been for him I’d never have done Son of Thing after I got that award for The Thing from the Swamp.’

  ‘What?’ said Grant, startled into speech at last.

  ‘Aspects of Population Fluctuation in Reedbeds in a Sub-Industrial Environment,’ Rachel said lugubriously. ‘Known as The Thing from the Swamp to its friends—or should I say enemies?—and closely followed by the rip-roaring read, Further Aspects of Population Fluctuation in et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, alias Son of Thing. Not to mention,’ she continued gloomily, ‘Effects on Pampas Populations of Proto-Industrial Development, aka Thing Meets Godzilla. If it hadn’t been for Driscoll I could have been studying zebras.’

  ‘You shock me inexpressibly, Dr Hawkins,’ said Grant. ‘I’ve read all those studies, at least the published versions, and I thought they were terrific. I’m sorry if you weren’t having fun, but your loss is the world’s gain. It seems unsporting to kick a man when he’s down, so I suppose I can’t say what I really think of your soon-to-be-ex-fiancé-if-you’ ve-got-any-sense, but if it was his influence that kept you going it’s the first evidence I’ve seen that he’s made a solid contribution to science.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said Rachel. ‘You didn’t have your body made into a movable feast for mosquitoes. If somebody wants to give a body to science that’s fine by me, but he should at least make sure it’s his own.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Grant. ‘Never say die.’

  He took her hand in his, stroking the palm gently with his thumb. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘I’m trying to think of a way of saying this that won’t sound like I told you so, but since I can’t all I’ll say is I think it would have been better if you’d found out sooner, but better late than never. You’ve already admitted you agreed to leave the physical side of your relationship on the back burner because you shared intellectual goals that you thought more important. Now you find that shared interest wasn’t what you thought either.

  ‘By the sound of it, he may actually have used the fact that you were away so much to encourage false ideas of what he was doing and able to do. Well, it’s one thing to give something your best shot and miss, and another to spend all your time making it look as though you’re giving it a better shot than you are. It’s obviously not his fault if he can’t do better work—but he seems to have tried to con you into propping up his fantasy world. It’s not your fault if that came unstuck.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rachel. ‘But don’t you see, Grant? Even if I didn’t mean it to happen, he’s been depending on me to keep his career at least ticking over—you know, help him to get casual teaching, research assistantships, that kind of thing. If I pull out he’ll be sunk. And without a girlfriend. It seems so heartless.’

  ‘It might be if he stood a genuine chance of an academic career, but according to your pal the professor he doesn’t. In which case he’d have been better off if you’d broken up years ago, and he’ll be better off if you break off now than if you leave it till later. It’s a big world out there, after all. There are lots of other things to do besides be an academic.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Rachel, feeling a little better. ‘In fact, I could get an office job with a completely clear conscience. I could be a receptionist and press little lighted buttons on a switchboard, and in between phone calls I could grow my nails and paint them interesting colours.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Grant. ‘If I thought you meant that I’d tell you to marry him after all.’

  ‘Would you really?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Well, no, maybe I wouldn’t,’ he admitted. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to give your body to science. But I think you should give the zebras a fair chance. Anyway, speaking of your body, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do all evening, ever since I first saw you in that embraceable dress, and now that we’re celebrating your new-found freedom it seems as good a time as any.’

  He stood up, drawing her to her feet.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Rachel suspiciously.

  ‘Why, dance with you, of course,’ he said, laughter in his voice. ‘What did you think I meant?’

  He pulled her into his arms, and began dancing in a very slow circle to the music which came drifting out to them.

  ‘Aren’t we going inside?’

  ‘Not on your life. We rough outdoors types prefer to dance out of the public gaze. We find hysterical laughter makes it hard to watch our steps.’

  In fact he seemed to dance with the same careless ease with which he did everything else; the slowness and simplicity of the movements were more of a concession to Rachel’s inexperience than his own. But he was right, she thought, not to go in. It was comforting to move slowly down the balcony, with only the moon for light and no one to watch. It was comforting to lean against him, to feel his hands resting lightly on the narrow velvet waist of her dress.

  As if in a dream they glided down the balcony, moving further from the light of the door, moving deeper into the dark and silence of the night. Rachel felt that she never wanted the dance to end; so dream-like was it that it almost seemed that it might go on for ever. As they came to the end of the balcony at the corner of the house, the music stopped.

  Rachel stood still in his arms, her cheek against the crisp white front of his shirt. ‘Thanks,’ she said softly. ‘I do feel better.’

  ‘Good.’ She could feel his breath warm against her hair.

  ‘I suppose we should be getting back to civilisation,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I should be saying goodbye to people.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ said Rachel, not moving.

  He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Could I just remind yo
u, Dr Hawkins, that one of us still loves another?’

  ‘So you keep telling me,’ said Rachel. And suddenly, as she stood quietly in Grant’s arms, the scales fell from her eyes. Oh, how could she have been so stupid? If she hadn’t been so obsessed with her ideas about intellectual compatibility she’d have seen it weeks ago.

  She, Rachel Katherine Victoria Hawkins, whose sole ambition was to spend the remainder of her days in an adventure-free and mosquito-proof environment, improving her personal acquaintance with garments known only from their occasional appearances in the pages of Vogue, had had the idiocy to fall in love with a man who couldn’t go to the post office without finding armed bandits to tackle single-handed, a man who probably fought muggers just to keep his hand in, a man synonymous, in her view, with danger, discomfort and sartorial devastation.

  More to the point, she thought gloomily, she’d fallen in love with a man who wanted to change the world and had decided he couldn’t do it without a toehold in the establishment, a man who’d fallen in love with a well-dressed puller of strings. There was no way Rachel, connected with no one more important than a local builder and headed for the peaceful new occupation of growing her nails would ever qualify. In fact, he’d made it abundantly clear, on more than one occasion, that she wasn’t his type.

  Rachel sighed deeply, and looked up into his face. Here she was, in the arms of the man she loved for probably the last time in her life, and he cared nothing for her. In spite of herself, tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘Rachel, you’re not crying again!’ he exclaimed in dismay.

  Rachel blinked, and gave him a watery smile.

  ‘Will you stop that?’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop whatever it is you’re doing. Stop looking so damned beautiful,’ he said, in a tone of strong ill-usage. ‘It isn’t fair. I’m sure you know that we haven’t even scratched the surface of all the things I’ve been wanting to do ever since I saw you in that dress, but I’m a happily to-be-married man, and I wouldn’t have done even one of them if you hadn’t been looking so miserable. I’m sure this strange effect you have on me will wear off sooner or later, but in the meantime my view is that the best thing is to ignore it. And I would if you’d just stop looking at me like that.’