by Harper Bliss
“Sure.” I find myself nodding eagerly.
“Mrs. Ferguson. Mrs. Garvey.” The clerk addresses us together. “Here are your keys.” He holds out a small envelope to each of us.
“Best make sure you have the right one, Gail,” Professor Ferguson jokes.
“Room 703 and 905,” the clerk says. “The elevators are over there.” He points redundantly to the bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby. “Enjoy your stay with us.”
Professor Ferguson and I walk to the elevators together, each of us dragging our carry-on trolly behind us. I handed the bag with the two suits I brought to the bell boy earlier, and I suspect Professor Ferguson has done the same. Unless she plans on addressing her audience in the jeans and blazer she’s wearing now—just like she did when I took her class. Personally, I wouldn’t mind at all.
“I’ve followed your rise within our ranks with a keen eye, Gail. I guess we were destined to meet at one of these sooner rather than later.”
For a stunned moment, I don’t know what to say. Before I can reply, she continues, while stabbing the elevator call button twice.
“I read your paper on Accounting Theory and I was thoroughly impressed with it.”
A beeping sound announces the arrival of the elevator and we both step in. I’ve had similar kinds of conversations numerous times before, but never with a professor whose classes I enjoyed for many more reasons than what she had to teach me.
“I was taught by the best.” The instant the words come out of my mouth, I catch myself wondering if that was a reply with a flirty undertone.
Professor Ferguson lets out a hearty chuckle. It’s just the two of us in the elevator cage, and I can clearly feel the tell-tale signs of an embarrassing blush coming on.
A bell chimes again, indicating that we’ve arrived on the seventh floor. “That’s me.” Professor Ferguson shoots me a quick smile. “See you soon, Gail.”
Once the elevator doors close behind her, I take a deep breath. Again, I feel as though I’ve gone back in time twenty years. But I’m not the same person anymore. I hold a PhD in the same subject as Professor Ferguson. Just like she already was twenty years ago, I’m now a professor myself, teaching youngsters the same things she taught me. Over the years I’ve learned, to my utter dismay, that when you’re in front of a class explaining something, it’s really very easy to pick out the students who have a crush on you. And I always believed I hid it so well.
In my room, I heave my small suitcase onto one of the single beds, which is almost queen-sized, and smile at the memory of Professor Ferguson arguing. It reminds me of how she visibly took pleasure in dissecting every argument a student ever made in class. If I’ve modeled myself after her in some areas of my career, I do believe my teaching methods are more encouraging than hers—not that hers didn’t encourage someone like me, someone who loves a challenge.
While I wait for the bellboy to deliver the rest of my luggage, I go through the conference’s program. As I am one of the youngest and most inexperienced speakers, my talk is up first tomorrow morning at ten-thirty. Professor Ferguson is, like at most conferences she attends, the keynote speaker and will close this two-day event with a speech I already look forward to, the day after tomorrow at three in the afternoon.
I’m secretly pleased that she’s arrived already. I’m sure lots of our colleagues will only check in tomorrow, well after my rookie speech has finished. Although the offer to buy me a drink makes me nervous in its own way, I do welcome the distraction it provides. It beats going over my notes for tomorrow over and over again.
After I’ve taken a shower and put more effort into dressing than I normally would when going for a drink in a hotel bar, I can’t help but acknowledge that strange feeling in my stomach again.
When I arrive at the bar, I find Professor Ferguson perched at the counter, sipping from, as far as I can see, a Manhattan. Heavy stuff. She’s in the same clothes as when I left her with, but a fresh coat of lipstick has been applied and her hair looks more put together.
“Let’s get a table, shall we?” Professor Ferguson says when she spots me. “It’s so much cozier.”
“Sure.” I turn to the bartender who looks at me expectantly. “I’ll have the same, please.”
“Coming right up, Ma’am.” She nods curtly.
Professor Ferguson has grabbed her drink and found us a table by the window, overlooking a rather spectacular part of the city.
“Are you a conference speaking virgin, Gail?” she asks me as soon as I sit down opposite her.
I’m still recovering from the shock of finding myself at a table with the woman I pined for for months on end in my last year of college—when I’d reached an age that shouldn’t allow for such teenage, hormonal occurrences anymore. And now she’s being coy with me?
“It’s my first time on the other end of the speaking platform in a situation like this, yes,” I confirm.
“Nervous?”
“A little, but I’ve been teaching for quite some time now. I suspect it won’t be that different.”
“I, for one, can’t wait to see you up there.” Professor Ferguson reaches for her drink. “It was such a thrill to see a former student’s name in the program. It means I must have been doing something right.” She fixes her gaze on me as she sips from her Manhattan.
Where’s my drink? Instinctively, I look away, pretending to search for the bartender—but mainly to take a deep breath and hope that the blush I feel creeping up my neck doesn’t reach my cheeks. To my relief, the bartender is on her way over, carrying my cocktail on a round silver tray. I lean back to let her deposit it between us, and patiently wait for her to depart.
“You’re a very inspiring woman,” I hear myself say, although I have no idea where those words come from.
“I get that a lot.” Professor Ferguson raises her glass. “But I wouldn’t want to sound blasé.”
Carefully, I clink the rim of my glass to hers. “Modesty is such an over-rated characteristic,” I remember Professor Ferguson saying once. I can’t remember in reference to what—and what it had to do with her lectures—but I clearly remember her saying it. It sounded as true as anything coming from her mouth. And I never was one to fall for the shrinking violet type. It made me wonder what she would be like in bed—hardly the shrinking violet type either, I suspected. And dreamed of.
Sitting opposite her now, I do wonder how many Manhattans she had before I arrived. Though it’s not so much a drunk—or even tipsy—air I get from her, there’s definitely a careless, flirty vibe coming off her. Or perhaps I’m imagining things again. I was always very good at that when it came to Professor Ferguson.
“But back to you, Gail. A tenure at Dartmouth is very impressive.”
“It’s not Princeton, but it’ll do.”
“Still in the top ten. Anyway, you should never sell yourself short. You were one of my most brilliant students. Apart from other things, I do remember that vividly.”
Oh shit. Are we headed in that direction already? I drink again, trying to drown out that twenty-one-year-old inside of me rearing it’s hormonal head. “Thanks, Professor Ferguson.”
“Nuh-uh.” She shakes her head. “I call you Gail, so you must call me Joanne.”
This is a far cry from the speech Professor Ferguson gave at the beginning of the academic year. “Some professors don’t mind being called by their first name. I’m not one of them.” She’d delivered the message with that trademark lopsided smile—as much disarming as it was threatening.
“A hard habit to break.” I try to get her name to roll from my lips. “Joanne.” It feels too strange.
“I’m well aware of my superior-seeming teaching methods, Gail. You must remember, there’s a distinct generation difference between the two of us.”
Date of birth of faculty was never disclosed to students through official channels, but it wasn’t hard to guess which age bracket a certain professor fitted into. Professor Ferguson, I mean Joanne, definitely shows
signs of ageing, but certainly not in a less than elegant fashion. Her hair is not dyed, for starters, although it has surely lost its previous ash-blond color. She must be in her late fifties or early sixties now. Her eyes are still the same yellow-flecked, strong coffee-colored brown and she has updated her spectacles to a retro-chic, heavy-rimmed pair.
What if I were to start taking one of her classes now? Would she have the same effect on me? I was never one to fall head over heels. It’s always a slow process. A culmination of appealing characteristics and aha-moments. It took me at least one term to realize that I looked forward to Professor Ferguson’s lectures much more than to any of the others.
“Princeton is not that far from Dartmouth. Maybe I should swing by some time. Sit in on one of your lectures. See how you go about things.”
Although this is the first conference I’ve been invited to speak at, I’ve attended quite a few in the past and, usually, bar chatter is nothing like this. If any flirting goes on, and I’m sure it does, it’s mostly out of my earshot and I’ve never been on the receiving end of it. Or am I interpreting this wrongly?
“I’m sure a visit from you would be very much appreciated.” I find it hard to look at her, so I let my eye wander to the bartender, who vaguely reminds me of Amy, a girl I dated while I was getting my PhD.
“Hm. If I were to decide to visit, it would most certainly be on the down-low. There’s a time and place for pomp and circumstance, and I wouldn’t want to put you off your game.”
I take a few sips from my drink. She must have known that I had the hots for her, and clearly it’s amusing her to throw me off guard. Whatever Professor Ferguson is trying to accomplish with this line of banter she has chosen, it’s working. I’m not one for playing games, though—and I certainly don’t enjoy being played.
“Pro—” I start, but quickly correct myself. “Joanne.” I find her gaze. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, her face relaxed.
“Yes, Gail.” She quirks up her eyebrows, the way she used to during an exam, to indicate doubt about where my answer was going.
“Are you—” Before I can finish my question, the door to the bar swings open, distracting me—something I’m not entirely unhappy about. The man who checked us in earlier scans the room and fixes his eyes on our table before resolutely heading in my and Professor Ferguson’s direction.
“Mrs. Garvey, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat and focuses his attention on me. “Something has happened in the room above yours, erm, making your room unavailable for the time being. We are fully booked and are working very hard to find a solution, but we may have to ask you to move to the Plaza a few blocks from here. I do sincerely apologize for this ordeal. You will, of course, get a full refund.”
“What?” I’m still trying to process the information. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Ma’am.” The receptionist tilts his head a bit. “I would like your permission to enter your room and collect your belongings, Ma’am.”
“This is all very odd,” I protest. “And I can gather my own stuff, thank you very much.”
“It would really be better if you didn’t enter your room, Ma’am. I’m very happy to take any instructions.” The check-in guy is unshakeable.
Then, suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, Gail,” Professor Ferguson says. “Put her luggage in my room,” she addresses the receptionist next. “We’ll share.”
I turn to Professor Ferguson, my jaw slacking. When, flabbergasted, I face the check-in clerk again, he looks at me expectantly. “We’ll take care of everything for you, Ma’am. And any expenses you incur during your stay will be taken care of by us.”
“Well,” I sigh. “Is anything damaged in my room? My laptop is in there. I must go and have a look.”
A hand on my shoulder again, fingers pressing into my flesh. “I understand you’re worried, Gail, but let them take care of it. We’ll go check on your stuff as soon as they’ve moved it.”
“Okay. Fine.” I shrug, but Professor Ferguson’s hand remains firmly planted on my shoulder.
“Thank you, Mrs. Garvey.” The receptionist all but bows before speeding off.
“What the hell?” I turn to Professor Ferguson, whose hand really has no choice but to slip off me now.
“It’s best not to let these things get to you, Gail.” She leans back in her chair. “But I bet you’re regretting that chivalrous move of swapping rooms with me now.”
Rub it in, why don’t you? “I suppose I’m the one who should be thanking you now, for saving me the shenanigans that come with staying in another hotel.”
“If you want privacy, I can easily make myself scarce, you know?”
I blink twice, not getting what Professor Ferguson is trying to say.
“That woman perched on the furthest barstool to your left has been giving me the eye since I arrived. This is a conference, Gail. Things happen. And I’m a single lady.”
It’s my turn to hike up my eyebrows in an inquisitive expression.
“Don’t play the innocent with me.” Professor Ferguson drains the last of her cocktail and waves at the bartender. “We’re all adults here. You’re not my smitten student anymore.”
I have half a mind to get up and storm out, but I have no room to flee to.
“What were you going to ask me before Mister Efficiency barged in?” Professor Ferguson cocks her head. The bartender approaches, buying me some time.
“I’ll have another,” Professor Ferguson says.
“Me too, please.” I wonder if, instead of attending the Antitrust Economics and Competition Policy Conference, I’ve somehow landed myself in a parallel universe—or the Dinah. I wait for the barkeep to saunter off, before casting my glance on Professor Ferguson, who is nothing like the distinguished, discreet teacher I remember.
“Well?” she eyes me with that dark stare of hers. You certainly couldn’t tell by looking at her. She sits there all elegant, the long fingers of her one hand spread wide on the edge of the table, tapping lightly with maroon varnished nails.
“I was going to ask you if you were flirting with me, but the question no longer seems relevant.” All pretense of being coy went out of the window five minutes ago.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you obviously have your eye on someone else,” I blurt out, suddenly realizing I’m jealous. Then, in a flash, it hits me that Professor Ferguson played me well.
She chuckles. It’s a very womanly laugh, high-pitched and bubbly and a little bit polite. “The answer to your question is ‘yes’, by the way.” Her eyes stay on me, her stare unwavering.
“But,” I hear myself protesting again. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t even know—”
“I know more than enough. Or should I say: I remember more than enough.” She taps a finger against her right temple. “I may be getting on a bit but all the grays in here are still intact.”
“Jesus Christ.” I don’t know what else to say. I look behind me, to check out if the potential bedfellow Professor Ferguson used to lure me in is even real. I only see an empty cocktail glass, alone on the countertop of the bar, on a half-shredded napkin.
“She could probably tell I had my sights set on someone else.” Professor Ferguson has an amused smile on her face. “I go to a lot of these conferences, Gail. I try to keep things interesting. It’s so easy to get bored. And really, life’s too short to sit around and wonder about the virtues of your actions for too long.”
“I didn’t know you’d changed subjects, Joanne.” Suddenly, I have no problem calling her by her first name. “Life Lessons with Professor Ferguson.”
“No need to attach such importance to it. It’s just a bit of fun.” Her smile shifts into more of a sly grin. A satisfied one. No doubt because I’m playing along. Am I, though?
Just as the bartender brings over our fresh round of drinks, the receptionist storms back into the bar.
“Her
e’s an extra key to room 703, Mrs. Garvey. You will find all your luggage there.”
I take the key from him and stare at it undecidedly for a few seconds. “Thanks.”
“Please don’t hesitate to call the front desk if you need assistance with anything.”
“Sure.”
He nods and speeds off.
I put the key on the table and reach for my drink. It’s a welcome sight. My nerves feel a little fraught and my shoulders are tense. Somehow, I wouldn’t mind feeling Professor Ferguson’s hand on them again.
“Here’s to an interesting two days,” Professor Ferguson says. “And, potentially, two even more interesting nights.”
I clink the rim of my cocktail glass against hers, determined to not have the joy sucked out of my meeting with Professor Ferguson because of recent events. After all, one of my most frequent tween dreams is about to come true. Tonight, I’ll be sharing a bed with Professor Joanne Ferguson.
“What do you think happened?” I ask. “In the room above mine?”
“This is a hotel. The options are unlimited.” Professor Ferguson grins.
“Care to hazard a guess?” No matter where this line of conversation goes next, I’m starting to feel glad I won’t have to stay in the room assigned to me as morbid images pop up in my brain.
Professor Ferguson shakes her head. “Just let it go, Gail.” She draws her lips into a pout. “And I promise I will be nothing but a lady tonight. Unless you don’t want me to.” She giggles at her own words.
My brain is trying very hard to digest all this flirty banter. And here I was thinking we’d be discussing economics tonight. What do I want, though? A question so easily answered twenty years ago, even though, back then, my tortured desire for Professor Ferguson was as much based on her unavailability as anything else. It’s so easy—even comforting at times—to pine for someone who can’t possibly ruin your expectations of them, because it’s all just a fantasy anyway.
“Let’s see how the evening progresses,” I say, not shying away from Professor Ferguson’s glance.
“I take it you’re a conference virgin in more than one sense of the word then.” It’s as though Professor Ferguson can’t find the off-button for innuendo.