Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  I knock loudly but there’s no answer, so I knock again, twice as hard just in case he hasn’t heard or is hiding. I call out too. There’s no escaping from me, Sneaky Simon. Come on out and give me back my statue. Or else.

  “Simon? Are you there? It’s Cleo.”

  There’s still silence, which is frustrating because I was ready to charge in and read him the riot act. It’s quite an anti-climax to be all geared up for a confrontation, only to discover that the person you need to have it out with has gone AWOL. There are quite a few other bones I have to pick with Simon, too. He’s lucky this isn’t the Natural History Museum: their entire dinosaur exhibition probably wouldn’t contain enough bones for all the picking I intend to do. What did I ever see in him?

  I check my watch. It’s just gone noon, and he doesn’t usually take lunch this early. Where on earth is he?

  “Hello Cleo! Welcome back. You look better!”

  It’s Dawn and today must be one her days for escorting school kids around: she’s in full Egyptian garb, complete with rubber asp and half of the Maybelline counter plastered over her face. It’s a bit drag-queen-meets-Carry on Cleo for my taste, but who am I to spoil the fun? Besides, I hardly made a great success of the exercise myself. At least Dawn’s Cleopatra doesn’t flash her backside at people.

  “Thanks, but I haven’t actually been ill. I was spending some time with my father,” I say patiently. Our junior is well known for getting the wrong end of the stick. She once typed up a private collector’s name as Crispy Cock rather than Chris Peacock; although it made all of us howl with mirth, it nearly resulted in the offended elderly gentleman withdrawing the artefact he’d loaned us. Only some careful sweet-talking on my part prevented him from making an official complaint.

  Beneath her make-up, Dawn looks even more perplexed than usual.

  “Oh, sorry. I thought Simon said you weren’t very well. I must have got confused. You know what I’m like. I’m such a butterfly brain! I was worried when you were off because of your accident. Simon was saying at the meeting yesterday how head injuries can be really dangerous.”

  I hold my breath and count to ten while Dawn rabbits on and on. Simon, it seems, has been very busy telling all and sundry just how unwell I’ve been and laying it on not so much with a trowel as with an entire lorry load of cement and a team of builders too. The more Dawn tells me just how upset they’ve all been and how concerned Simon is, the more I seethe – because now I know exactly what his devious little game has been and, like an idiot, I’ve played right into his hands. When Dawn tells me that they were even going to have a collection and send me some flowers, I think that Simon’s very lucky he’s not in his office, otherwise I’d burst in and batter him to death with the stolen statue. Then he could try a head injury on for size.

  “So where is Simon?” I ask when Dawn finally runs out of steam. “Polishing his halo somewhere?”

  She gawps at me. “Eh?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “He’s clearly not in his office. You carry on; I’ll find him.” Or die in the attempt, I add silently.

  “He is in his office,” Dawn says, looking confused. Then her eyes widen, two white islands floating in a sea of kohl. “Oh! You don’t know!”

  “Don’t know what?” I ask. But Dawn isn’t listening: she’s far too busy grabbing my hand and towing me down the corridor towards Professor Hamilton’s office. To my surprise she stops at the one before it, traditionally the Assistant Director’s office, and beams from ear to ear.

  “Wrong office, silly!” Dawn giggles. “Tra-da! Here he is! I bet you’re dying to see him and say well done!”

  And stepping aside she points proudly to the nameplate on the door. I can hardly believe what I’m looking at. I even rub my eyes until I see stars. Unfortunately this doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference: the words remain exactly the same.

  Dr S Welsh – Assistant Director, Egyptology Department

  “Isn’t it exciting!” squeals Dawn. “Simon’s been promoted!”

  Exciting isn’t the adjective that springs to mind. Underhand, thieving and totally bloody unfair seem far more appropriate in my opinion. All of a sudden everything makes complete and utter sense. While I’ve been caught up with Alex and Rafe, Simon has stolen the job from right under my nose.

  And I have a nasty feeling that I know exactly how he’s done it.

  Chapter 23

  I don’t have red hair for nothing and although I seldom lose my temper, when I do it’s pretty spectacular. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m flying into Simon’s new office like a tornado, only to be greeted by an empty desk.

  “Where is he?” I snarl, scanning the place like Robocop just in case Simon’s cowering behind a pot plant – and believe me, he ought to be cowering after what he’s done. “I thought you said he was in here?”

  Dawn dithers on the threshold, one hand pressed theatrically to her large bosom. Her mouth swings on its hinges.

  “I don’t think he’s here after all, Cleo.”

  I clench my fists and force myself to count to ten. “I think I’ve worked that one out for myself, Dawn.” The statue of Aamon is perched on the desk, which feels like the ultimate V sign. Hardly able to contain my rage, I snatch it up and clutch it to my chest. Then, spinning on my heel, I fix Dawn with my famous steely glare.

  “Where is Dr Welsh supposed to be, according to his schedule?”

  Dawn takes a nervous step back. “I haven’t checked the diary but think he’s working on the new exhibition.”

  “What new exhibition?” It’s the first time I’ve heard of this and I’ve only been away a week. Have I been pitched into a parallel universe? If so, it’s a pretty crappy one.

  “It’s a really exciting idea he’s had,” Dawn tells me, looking relieved that I’m changing the subject. “It’s very cool, actually Cleo. Simon’s had this idea that we could have everyday ancient Egypt as an exhibition with all sorts of interactive stuff and even actors in role. The Prof is dead excited about it. Well, we all are. It’s going to be huge. It’s featuring the life of a boy pharaoh, Aamon something or other, and there’s this brilliant story too. Simon’s found out loads of cool stuff and he told us all about it when he delivered his paper at the last department meeting. Seriously, Cleo, you’ll love it! This is going to be huge!”

  I’m cold from head to foot. Of all the devious, sneaky, underhand gits!

  “That was my idea! He’s stolen it and presented it as his own!”

  The cat hisses and Aamon stamps his foot furiously, scattering papers everywhere.

  Dawn bites her lip. “Maybe you should talk to him?”

  “Oh, I intend to; don’t you worry about that,” I promise her. I cast a quick glance around the room in case there’s anything else of mine lying around, then storm out of Simon’s new office and blast down the corridor to find the Professor. He needs to know exactly what’s happened. This time I’m not holding back. I don’t care if he thinks I’m crazy. I’m telling him the truth.

  “Come in,” calls the Professor when I rap on his door. “Ah, Cleo! Welcome back. We weren’t expecting to see you this week, but always a pleasure.” He pushes his glasses up his nose with a forefinger and smiles at me. “Are you feeling up to coming back to work? I was sorry to hear that you’d decided not to apply for the Assistant Director’s job. My dear, you didn’t have to pretend you had family business to attend to. You could have told me the truth. I know you’ve been unwell and I would have understood.”

  I goggle at him. What?

  “I did spend some time with my family. I told you that before I left. I thought I’d explained it all?”

  His brow pleats in confusion. “Ah. I see. My apologies in that case, Cleo. I’d naturally assumed ill health was the real reason why you didn’t apply for the Assistant Directorship. I can’t say that I’m not disappointed – you were a very strong candidate – but I do understand. You’ve had a great deal on your plate recently. Having family issues
so soon after your accident must have compounded everything.”

  “But I did apply!” I stare at him in horror, hardly able to take in what I’m hearing. “I left the application here. Simon was going to take care of it and pass it to you.”

  A shadow flickers across his face. “Ah yes, about that, Cleo. Maybe we should discuss it alone?” The Professor motions to me to sit down but I ignore him. There’s no way I can sit still while I’m fizzing with agitation.

  “Paul! You have to talk to Simon. He’s stolen my application and my research! He’s used everything I’d prepared, to win the job for himself.” I’m shaking with anger. “Paul, he even went to my house and took this statue of Aamon so that he could pass my work off as his own. You have to believe me! Simon Welsh is nothing more than a fraud and a thief! I left my laptop here too. He’s used it to steal my work!”

  “Be careful,” warns the Professor. “You’re making some very serious allegations here – allegations which would end up with you receiving a written warning if it wasn’t for the fact I know you’ve been unwell. I’m prepared to make allowances for that, Dr Carpenter, but only once. Not indefinitely.”

  “I’m as fit and healthy as you,” I protest. “Paul, that’s all part of it! Simon’s been telling you all I’m unwell and exploiting my accident to further himself at my expense. He’s bloody good, I’ll give you that. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner myself. No wonder he was always trying to encourage me to go home and offering to help with my research. He even tried to get me to go on dates with him. Good old Simon’s been playing the long game.”

  “Bloody hell!” breathes Dawn, still at the door and agog to hear all this. “What a bastard!”

  “Thank you, Dawn. You can carry on with your tour now,” the Professor says swiftly. There’s steel in his voice now, too. “Not a word of this conversation is to be repeated. Not a word. Do I make myself plain?”

  Dawn nods, looking disappointed. She was probably dying to spill the details of this juicy conversation to everyone from the tea ladies to the security guards. Once the door has closed behind her the Prof exhales and gives me a piercing look.

  “Dr Carpenter, please take a seat and try to calm yourself down. This is no place for hysterics.”

  Reluctantly, I sit down. Or rather, I perch one buttock on the chair; I’m too on edge to relax. I’m still clutching the statue while Aamon slips his small chilly hand into my left one. The cat leaps onto the Prof’s desk, stalking backwards and forwards and whisking papers with its tail.

  “I have no idea where this dreadful breeze is coming from. I thought I’d asked the maintenance people to investigate it,” the Prof sighs, anchoring some documents with a pink pyramid paperweight. “My wife’s idea of a joke,” he explains when he sees me looking at this. “Naff, I know, but these offices are so draughty – and cold, too. Is your office cold?”

  “My office is fine, thanks,” I say shortly. What are we doing wasting time talking about our rooms when there are far more important issues to discuss?

  “Paul, I’m not here to talk about my office. I’m telling you that Simon Welsh has stolen my research and my application. He’s cheated his way into the Assistant Director’s job and he deliberately withheld my application from you.” My voice is shaking with anger. “I want to know what are you, as director of this department, going to do about it?”

  Professor Hamilton looks at me for a moment, then rises from his chair and fetches a file from the cabinet at the far side of the office.

  “Cleo, I did receive your partially completed application. Simon handed it to me the day you left for Buckinghamshire.” Returning to his seat, he puts the file in front of me, pushing it across the desk with his forefinger. “Do you recognise this?”

  I stare at it. This is the foolscap folder in which I placed my application. With an icy sense of dread I release Aamon’s hand and flip open the folder. Even before I read its contents, I know exactly what I’m going to find.

  “This isn’t mine,” I whisper. The application is in my name but none of this is my work. It’s on the Ptolemaic period, for a start. Simon must have switched the applications.

  Professor Hamilton shakes his head. “Can we please stop this? Your incomplete application is there right in front of us. It’s disappointing but I understand why you would call and ask to withdraw it. There’s potential, and you have put forward some excellent arguments – but Simon’s work on Aamon is groundbreaking. It gave him the edge and I think he also has his finger right on the pulse of the zeitgeist. You were right to entrust your mother’s findings to an academic of his calibre. His Egyptian Life idea is superb too; it’s exactly what we need.”

  “That was my research and my idea!” I jump to my feet. “I was researching Aamon. You know I was! It was my mother’s life work – and my grandmother’s too!”

  “And you passed the project to Dr Welsh when you had your head injury.” The Professor looks at me with pity. “Don’t you remember, Cleo? Simon has everything on his laptop. The dates all tally up from that time too.”

  “Because he copied it from me!” I’m desperate now. “I never gave him my laptop then! He only took it last weekend. He was going to lock it away for me so I didn’t have to carry it on the train.”

  “Cleo, you gave him your laptop. You even emailed me to say so.” Professor Hamilton turns to his own laptop, opens his email and spins the computer around to face me. Sure enough, there’s a message from me granting Simon total access to my work. I’m horrified. Did Simon somehow manage to glimpse my password? That would have enabled him to see all my files, access my email and even look at my personal accounts, including Facebook. It would serve me right for using the same password for everything. He was my office too that first day I saw Aamon and the cat. Did he see something while I was passed out on the floor? Would he really be so callous as to take advantage of my ill health like that?

  Of course he would. It’s all coming back to me now: I remember that he was trying very hard to persuade me to let him take over my work.

  My mouth is drier than the desert where Grandmother Rose found Aamon’s tomb. No wonder he knew all my movements. Like a spider weaving a web around a fly, Simon has been carefully trapping me for months. Of course the Prof is convinced. It looks as though I’ve authorised everything. Even I’m starting to wonder…

  Panic clenches my heart and sweat trickles down my back. This is impossible. The more I protest the madder I look. It was a lucky day for Simon Welsh when I had my head injury. I’ve been so preoccupied with Alex and Rafe since then that my eye has been well and truly off the ball.

  And, to my utter shame and humiliation, I was also blinded and flattered that somebody as good-looking and popular as Simon might be interested in me. How he must have laughed. I really was a sitting target. Tears fill my eyes and I blink them away frantically. I’m not beaten yet. There has to be a way to prove that I’m not crazy or jealous, or any of the other things Simon has made me appear to be. He’s plausible and devious and clever, but I know I’m the better academic. I just need to find a way to make the Prof realise this.

  “Cleo, you’ve had a tough few months and you’ve been working so hard here. Maybe it’s time you took a sabbatical? Perhaps you could go back into the field for a year?” He leans forward and pats my shaking hands awkwardly. “I blame myself for pushing you so hard. You do seem to have been a bit unsettled lately. Simon mentioned that you thought there were cats in your office. My dear, stress does strange things to us all. There’s no need to be embarrassed. Simon was concerned about you; we all were. After a serious head injury it’s hardly surprising you can’t recall certain events and have struggled to keep up with your work. You are a gifted academic, there’s no doubt about that, but as the director of this department I have to put the needs of the museum first – and I don’t think this is the right time for you to take on any extra responsibility. Simon is the obvious and, in my opinion, the right choice.”

&nb
sp; It’s so unfair. I have kept on top of my work. Better than that: I’ve excelled myself and managed to cope with a sudden psychic gift I never asked for or wanted.

  I’m racking my brains to think of a way that I can prove what Simon has done, when the man himself breezes into the office as though he hasn’t a care in the world. With his golden hair swept back from his smiling face, and in his spotless cream cords, sky-blue shirt and newly acquired wire-framed glasses, he looks every inch the cultured academic. If he’s surprised to see me sitting here holding the statue he’s stolen, Simon doesn’t show it. There’s not even so much as a flicker of unease. He’s certainly very sure of himself.

  The cat arches its back and hisses, leaping off the table and toppling the heavy pyramid paperweight. Aamon sticks out his tongue and I glower, but Simon doesn’t turn a hair.

  “Ah, Simon, here you are,” says Professor Hamilton awkwardly. “Dr Carpenter and I have just been having a little chat about you.”

  Simon plasters a smile across his insincere face. “No wonder my ears were burning while I was chatting to the guys at the Ashmolean. They’ve agreed, by the way, Paul. I’ll get Dawn onto organising the shipping. Sorry, Cleo. I’m getting carried away. How lovely to see you back. Are you feeling better?”

  “You know full well I haven’t been ill,” I say, so coldly his gonads should have frostbite. “I’ve been visiting my father.”

  Simon nods sympathetically but I see him slide his gaze to Paul’s and lift an eyebrow in resignation. “Of course, of course. Look, this is a little embarrassing, but I totally forgot that you wanted to keep those headaches of yours between us. How long are you back for?”

  “Back? I’m not going anywhere,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “But what about the sabbatical you wanted so much?” Simon’s eyes are big circles of innocence. “You were so keen to get back into the field again. I even spoke to Paul about it, although I know you didn’t want me to try and pull any strings on your behalf.”