by TM Logan
Sarah felt dizzy with anger. She knew she had to be calm, controlled, but inside she was burning up. The injustice of it was like bile in her throat, threatening to choke her. She took a breath and held Lovelock’s gaze.
‘I talked to you about it on that Wednesday night at the conference, Alan, in the taxi, remember?’
‘I’m surprised you can remember anything about that night, Dr Haywood,’ Clifton added with a humourless smile. ‘From what Alan tells us, I imagine it was all a bit of a blur.’
Sarah felt the breath hot in her throat. The unfairness of it was overwhelming. For a sudden horrible second she thought she would burst into tears, right here in front of all of them. No. No. Don’t do that. Not that. She bit her tongue, hard, until the pain made her tears recede. Don’t cry. Don’t you bloody dare, Sarah. Don’t give them the satisfaction. But she couldn’t contradict him either. Not vehemently, not if she eventually wanted that permanent contract.
‘That wasn’t quite how it happened,’ she said, her voice flat.
Lovelock leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, a sympathetic smile on his lips.
‘The truth is, Sarah, I’ve been in contact with them for some months.’
Liar, she thought but didn’t say. You’re a bloody lying bastard.
Clifton leaned forward too, his hands palm-up as if he was about to say something blindingly obvious.
‘With all due respect, Dr Haywood, they’ll want to deal with the head of department, rather than . . . ’ He gestured at her, seeming to run out of words. ‘Rather than a junior member of staff.’
‘You’re very welcome to join me on the trip, Sarah,’ Lovelock added, his voice neutral. ‘I know this wonderful little boutique hotel in Beacon Hill – it was Benjamin Franklin’s house in the late eighteenth century.’
It seemed to Sarah that all eyes around the table swivelled to focus on her. She felt sick. You stole my idea and then lied about it. Brazen, just like that. Like it was nothing. Is that what you have to do to get to the top? Cheat and steal and lie, just so you can climb the greasy pole?
And then: Be calm. Walk the line.
‘Thanks,’ she choked out. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Knowing that she would do nothing of the sort. The prospect of spending four days on a foreign trip with him was totally and utterly out of the question. Even though it would be good for her career, even though this was a rare opportunity to build her network and it would look good on her CV, even though she had found the bloody opportunity herself, there was no way she would put herself in that situation with him. It was just too risky. She couldn’t face the prospect of trying to keep him at arm’s length for four days straight: the Rules wouldn’t work if it was just the two of them. There would be nowhere to hide.
‘Good,’ Clifton said, looking down at his agenda. ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’
28
‘Professor Clifton?’ Sarah said quietly as they filed out of Lovelock’s meeting room. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got five minutes, have you?’
The dean of the faculty checked his watch ostentatiously. He was a small man and the large timepiece looked faintly ridiculous on his wrist, as if he’d swiped it from his father’s bedside table.
‘I have the finance steering committee at 10.45. I can give you three minutes.’
‘Great, thanks,’ Sarah said. Her anger had boiled down into a hot, hard lump that had burned in her chest for the last hour of the meeting. She had said almost nothing after Lovelock had shut her down on the Atholl Sanders lead, and she knew she couldn’t challenge him head-on in a meeting in front of half the school. But she could at least give the facts to the dean, so he could decide for himself.
‘What’s on your mind, Dr Haywood?’
Sarah looked over her shoulder at a few of their faculty colleagues lingering nearby.
‘I wonder if we could we speak in private?’
‘As I said, I’m pushed for time but we could walk and talk if you like?’ He gestured towards the stairs at the far end of the corridor.
‘Of course,’ Sarah said as they started walking. She waited a beat until they were out of earshot of the other members of staff. ‘I wanted to fill you in about the Atholl Sanders discussion.’
‘Ah yes, Alan’s latest venture.’
‘Not exactly.’
Clifton slowed a little and glanced across, his small beady eyes meeting hers.
‘How do you mean, Dr Haywood?’
‘That was what I wanted to explain. It was me that did all the legwork on the Atholl Sanders foundation. I found the opportunity originally and I wanted the chance to develop it.’
‘I see.’
‘Alan seems to have presented it at the meeting just now as his idea. But it was actually me that found it – and I wanted to lead on it. It doesn’t seem fair, how it’s happened.’
Clifton stopped as they reached the bottom of the stairs, his face darkening.
‘Dr Haywood, I’ve known Alan for more than thirty-five years and I can assure you that he would never do anything unethical or improper in the way you seem to be implying.’
‘All I’m saying is that he –’
‘And I’m certain that he would never do anything which might risk damage to his own excellent reputation, or to the reputation of this university.’ He fixed Sarah with an unblinking stare. ‘I’m absolutely certain of it. Do you understand me, Dr Haywood?’
For a second, Sarah was at a loss. Was Clifton just denying it, or did he really not know what Lovelock was like, even after all these years? Was it possible that he couldn’t see it, or was he blinded by personal loyalty? By Lovelock’s financial value to the university? It was impossible to tell from his inscrutable face.
Either way, it was clear that asking him for a quiet word had been a bad idea.
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Was there anything else, Dr Haywood?’
‘I just wanted to let you know how things had – had come about. That’s all.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m keen to take on more responsibility in bringing funding in. To help the department.’
Clifton lowered his voice and leaned closer.
‘Here’s a small suggestion, my dear: trying to undermine your boss is not the way to go about helping the department.’ He checked his watch again. ‘I really have to get to my next meeting now. Have a good day.’
With that, he turned on his heel and went out into the drizzly November morning. Sarah stared after him, heart beating hard in her chest.
Marie appeared at her side.
‘You OK?’
‘No,’ Sarah said, blowing out a breath. ‘No, I’m not OK. I’m bloody furious. I just tried to tell the dean about Alan stealing my idea and he acted like I was lying through my teeth.’
‘Original members of the Queen Anne Uni Old Boys’ Club, those two.’
Sarah shook her head in disbelief, still watching Clifton’s retreating figure.
‘Honestly, I give up with this bloody place.’
‘Want to get a coffee?’
‘Can’t. I’m teaching at eleven, straight through until half four. Don’t think I’d be very good company, anyway.’
*
The anger stayed with her all day, swelling and burning in her chest whenever she thought about what had happened. It was only when she got home with the kids that she let her emotions rise to the surface.
She gave Grace and Harry a digestive biscuit each, put fish fingers and chips in the oven for their tea and went upstairs to the master bedroom. It was times like these that she missed Nick the most, when she wanted to sit down and share a bottle of wine with him, and just talk about everything that was going on in their lives. Work problems, frustrations, funny moments with the kids, small triumphs and troubles ahead. The future. He had been her outlet, her safety valve.
She couldn’t get used to his side of the wardrobe being empty.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she let the
tears come. It had been just over a month since he’d gone, but she still had a raw mixture of anger and love when she thought of him. Maybe resignation was starting to creep in, too. She took her mobile out of her handbag. Nick’s number rang six times then went to voicemail, so she hung up and dialled again. This time it rang only once before Nick’s recorded voice came on.
‘Hey! You’ve reached Nick’s phone. Would love to chat but I’m probably on stage, or in an audition, or otherwise tied up. Leave a message at the beep and I promise I’ll call you back. Thanks!’
She hung up again and sent a text instead, her hands shaking.
When are you coming home?
She stared at the phone’s screen, willing him to reply. Willing him to tell the truth for once.
The mobile remained obstinately silent in her hand. Jonesy, their ginger tomcat, padded into the bedroom and jumped up on to her lap, purring his deep bass purr. Sarah put the phone down for a minute and scratched him behind his ears. Jonesy blinked his pleasure and raised his head to her hand, kneading her sweater with his big front paws. She picked up the phone again and typed another text.
Are you with Arabella?
She hated herself for asking anything of him – even an answer to a simple question. But she had to know, for the kids and for the practical stuff too, for childcare, for bills and mortgage payments and everything else they usually shared. Would it be another week, a fortnight, a month? Longer?
She selected another name in her address book and sent a third text.
There was a high-pitched scream and, almost simultaneously, a cry from the lounge. Jonesy jumped off her lap and padded under the bed, reappearing a moment later with a dead mouse in his jaws.
‘Jonesy! Where did you get that?’
She grabbed for him but he scampered off towards the stairs, taking his prize with him.
Sarah sighed and wiped her eyes with a wad of toilet roll.
There was more shouting and crying as she headed downstairs. Her children were at each end of the sofa in the lounge, crying.
‘He kicked me,’ said Grace, through her tears.
‘She hit me first,’ said Harry, sniffling and pointing to his forearm. ‘Look, she made a mark.’
Sarah leaned over and studied his arm but could see nothing.
‘It hurts,’ Harry said in a small voice. ‘So much.’
‘He keeps changing the channel,’ Grace protested. ‘It’s my turn to watch Tracy Beaker but he keeps putting baby stuff on.’
Sarah switched the TV off and put the remote high up on the bookcase.
‘Right, who wants to help me lay the table for tea?’
Both children looked at her as if she’d asked them to swim the Channel.
‘Who’s going to help?’ Sarah repeated. ‘Grace?’
Her daughter let out a slumping sigh, and Sarah made a mental note – again – to limit her TV time. Grace seemed to be entering her teenage years five years early.
‘Come on, Grace. Tea’s nearly ready anyway.’
‘Why is it always me?’ Grace said, sliding off the sofa and following her mother into the kitchen.
‘Because you’re my good girl, aren’t you? My helper. You know where everything is in the kitchen. Harry’s still a bit small, he can’t reach the cupboards.’
Grace didn’t look convinced.
‘When’s Daddy coming home?’ she said.
The question made Sarah stop. She took a breath, looked away. Don’t let them see you upset.
‘He’s doing another play, touring around lots of different places.’
‘Cool. But when’s he coming home?’
‘Soon, Grace. Soon. Can you put the ketchup out on the table for me, please?’
She fed the children their tea, and tidied up the kitchen around them as they ate. The house seemed to be in a constant state of war between her clearing things up and the kids leaving Lego, colouring books, plastic dinosaurs and dolls, building blocks and clothes and the rest of their toy boxes strewn across every available surface.
When the doorbell rang, both kids sat bolt upright like meerkats.
‘Daddy!’ they shouted simultaneously.
The two of them pushed back their chairs and ran into the hallway. Sarah didn’t follow them, knowing it wasn’t their father returning, listening instead to their high voices in the hallway as they greeted the visitor; the familiar deep voice in return, telling one how handsome he was and the other that she’d grown, even though it was only a day since he’d seen them last. Her children came trotting back a moment later, sat down and resumed eating their fish fingers.
‘Grandad’s here,’ Grace informed her.
Sarah waited a moment until they were settled back with their tea, then went out into the hallway herself. Out of their view.
Her dad took off his coat and held out his hands to her.
‘I got your text. How’s my youngest girl doing?’
The look on his face said he knew the answer already. But he asked anyway. He always did. He was the one person she could share anything with – even though she didn’t dare tell him about the strange turn her life had taken in the last twenty-four hours.
‘Not so good, Dad,’ she said quietly. ‘Not so good.’
29
A midweek sleepover at Laura’s was a welcome chance to talk. Chris was away and Laura wanted the company. After dinner, with the children tucked up in bed, Sarah and her friend lay full-length on the two sofas in Laura’s lounge, the fire on low, candles flickering on the hearth. Sarah took a sip of red wine, trying to think of a way to broach the other question that had been ever-present in her thoughts since her meeting with Volkov.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘No, of course not.’
Sarah pulled a face.
‘What if you could do something, and no one would ever find out about it? No one except you.’
‘Something like what?’
‘Anything.’
‘And no one would ever know?’
‘No one.’
‘So I could shag Channing Tatum without his wife finding out?’
‘Well, not quite like that. Something – something bad.’
Laura smiled.
‘It would be bad, trust me. He’d be begging for mercy by the time I’d finished with him.’
Sarah shook her head, smiling back at her friend. She thought for a moment, unsure how to phrase the next question. It was a bit of a risk, she supposed – but not if she stayed hypothetical. Not if the reality of the situation stayed firmly locked away in her head.
‘What about something that was, well, not quite legal?’
Laura took a sip of her red wine and put the glass on the table next to her, refilling it from the nearly empty bottle.
‘Not involving Channing Tatum?’
‘Just forget about Channing for a moment.’
‘OK. Something not quite legal. Like punching my twatty next-door neighbour when he makes a really loud drunken phone call at 3.00 a.m. and we can hear every bloody word through the adjoining wall?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Then yes. I’d smack him into next week if I could get away with it. I’ve been trying to get my darling husband to do it for months, actually. Or at least knock on the door and ask him to stop being a noisy arse. But Chris normally sleeps right through it.’
‘So you’d do it? You’d take a swing at your neighbour?’
‘If it was a freebie? God, yes. He’s woken us up so many times I’ve lost count.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘How do I get away with it, though? Am I invisible, or something?’
‘Not invisible, exactly. More . . . untraceable.’
‘Interesting. And no one would find out?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Sort of like the perfect crime?’
‘Yes. And perhaps it would be something more serious than just smacking your neighbour.’
‘You’re starting to worry me a bit now,
Sarah.’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘Are you all right?’
She remembered Volkov’s warning.
Tell no one.
‘Yeah. I’m fine. Just had a bit too much wine, maybe.’
‘Sure?’
Sarah laid her head back against the cushion, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling in the candlelight.
‘It’s just been a bit of a shit few weeks, that’s all, what with Nick leaving and getting passed over for promotion again. Things have been getting on top of me lately and every day I pray for a little bit of good news, for something to go my way, instead of constantly getting screwed over. Instead of people constantly fucking taking advantage.’
‘Like your Professor Lovelock stealing your idea about that funder in Boston and presenting it as his own?’
‘He told everyone I was so pissed that night in Edinburgh I wouldn’t have remembered what I was saying anyway.’ Her voice cracked as she swallowed back a sob. ‘Sorry, Loz. You know me – can’t cope with people being nice when I’m feeling crap. People being nice just makes me want to burst into tears.’
‘I could be horrible to you, if you like?’ Laura said, exaggerating her Leeds accent. ‘You lousy trollop. You stinky fishwife. You skanky moo.’
Sarah laughed.
‘You mardy minger.’ Laura threw her a quizzical look. ‘How am I doing? How do you feel now? Better?’
‘Yes, better, thanks,’ Sarah said. ‘A bit less like crying, at least.’
There was silence between them for a moment. Laura put her wine glass on the floor and swung her legs off the sofa so she was sitting upright.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes?’
‘Look at me.’
Sarah turned her head to meet her friend’s gaze.
‘What is it?’
‘You know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you? Anything at all. It wouldn’t go any further, I wouldn’t tell Chris or my mum, or anyone. It would just be between you and me, OK? And it would stay that way.’
‘I know, hon. Thanks.’
‘So,’ Laura said, ‘are you going to tell me what’s going on?’