by Maxine Barry
Davina felt like crying. Damn him, he was doing it again. Undermining her. Where was the swaggering bully David’s letters had conjured up so vividly? Where was the bitter twisted man who could drive one of his students to suicide?
Obviously, he was a far more complex character than she’d ever imagined. A mass of contradictions, human failings, human majesties . . . Just like herself. No! No, she must not keep linking them together like this. He was the enemy!
She reached for her wine and this time took a hearty gulp. It didn’t seem to help much.
‘So, you have a Flame Moth. A female . . . ?’ he prompted, eager to steer the conversation away from such soul-scraping intimacy. Although he already knew, in his heart of hearts, that they were already destined to become lovers, already set on some predetermined course, it didn’t mean that he had to rush ahead like a blind, stumbling fool.
‘Yes,’ Davina dragged in a wavering breath, forcing her mind to concentrate. ‘A moth who learns that “Love is a flame for gossamer-minded fools . . .” And that’s the only line I’ve written so far!’ She laughed, a bit nervously, showing that she, too, was not quite so comfortable with heart-shattering revelations as she might appear.
Gareth leaned back, both physically and mentally. Time to come up for air. And did he need it! His heart was thundering so hard in his chest he felt as though he’d just swum a mile under water.
As if sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, Sin-Jun chose that moment to rise. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of St Bede’s,’ Sin-Jun bellowed, to sudden silence. Fluently he went on to introduce Davina, explaining her Honorary status for the duration of Hilary Term, her commission to edit the anthology, and his hope that the English Literature students would attend the lecture she’d agreed to give on the 22nd of April. There was the expected enthusiastic round of applause.
Seated at her table beside Jared, Alicia especially felt a rush of heady excitement. Once she told her father that Davina was at St Bede’s, he was bound to come down, hoping to wangle an interview with her. She wrote such powerful, awe-inspiring, sometimes frightening poetry. If only Alicia could get up the nerve to speak to her. But that night, after Dinner had finished, the poetess was quickly surrounded by avid students, so she and Jared left early, she to write up her notes on the play, he to revise for his finals.
Finally, nearing midnight, Davina managed to escape Hall. It seemed to Gareth that she left an ominous feeling of emptiness in her wake.
As she walked through the semi-lit darkness of the college, through Becket arch and across the lawns, she paused to stare down at the pond. A light was on in the library—some poor soul burning the midnight oil no doubt—and it cast just enough light on the pond for her to see the ponderous turning of a black-edged fin. Did fish sleep, she wondered? And imagined a poem where she was a fish, never sleeping, turning endlessly in a pond that never grew any bigger . . . Restlessly, she turned the poem off, and walked to her new Rooms, undressing and stripping off with a leaden-limbed weariness that had her tumbling into bed in exhaustion.
But, such is the way of things, once she’d done so, she quickly discovered that sleep was suddenly a million miles away. Instead, she lay in the unfamiliar bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking of him. Gareth Lacey. She found herself cataloguing him, listing the ways in which he was so different from what she’d expected. He was young, not old. Good-looking, not ugly. Sensitive. Clever. Passionate about poetry. Lovely eyes. Lovely voice. And he understood her.
She tossed violently on the bed, not liking that last thought at all. In her rehearsals for how things would go, she’d pictured herself as a Mata-Hari-type figure, wrapping a happy, smitten, panting Dr Lacey around her little finger.
He might be feeling happy right now. Even a man with no sensitivity at all wouldn’t have been able to miss the strong sexual signals she’d been giving out. And he might be smitten. She was a big enough girl to know what a dark, deepening look in a man’s eyes meant. But she’d seen no sign of panting. And certainly no sign of a willingness to be wrapped around her little finger. She tossed again. Dammit, this was no good. Young or old, good looking or not, sexually attractive or not, he was still the enemy.
OK. So, as things stood, it was beginning to look as if she wouldn’t be able to entice him into her orbit, make him want her, perhaps even love her, and then flit away again without getting her own wings singed a bit. All right.
She could cope with that. She just had to concentrate on her two goals.
Dr Gareth Lacey had betrayed the Student/Tutor trust, and for that he would know what it felt to be betrayed himself. He was going to fall in love with her, dammit, just so that she could throw that love right back in his face. Even if she had to cut out her own heart to do it.
But Dr Gareth Lacey had also driven her brother to suicide, by labelling him a cheat, and having him sent down from his beloved Oxford. And for that, he, too, would be labelled a cheat. He too, would be ‘sent down’ from Oxford, kicked out by his college and ostracised by the university.
Tonight, she’d begun step one.
Tomorrow, she would figure out a way to accomplish step two.
CHAPTER FIVE
By her third week in Oxford, Davina was becoming desperate. She’d talked to practically everyone in college who knew Gareth Lacey personally, right down to the scouts who cleaned his rooms, but nobody had a bad word to say about the man. She’d managed to pump both the other English dons for every little titbit concerning him, from the strictly professional to the downright personal. But nothing.
The scouts came up with such facts as that he didn’t smoke, liked his coffee with cream and one sugar, always folded his clothes neatly, and shaved with a wet razor. Very helpful!
The undergraduates were more easy to get gossiping about possible scandals, but even they were of little help, and Davina was getting heartily sick of all the adoration the man inspired. Why couldn’t they see through him?
For some reason, she was never able to bring herself to steer the talk around to David. But if she had, she had no doubts everyone would roundly lecture her on how it was not poor Dr Lacey’s fault. And that, Davina simply could not have borne.
Her shoulders were unconsciously slumped with dejection as she crossed Wallace Quad. She was going to the Bodleian Library, the world-famous institution which was given a copy of every book ever published in the world. But even that thought could not cheer her. Still, like it or not, it was time she did some work on the anthology. She’d been the one to bully her publishers into supporting the idea, knowing she needed an ‘in’ at Oxford. Now she was stuck with it.
The last of February’s cruel wind teased her flapping blue coat as she trudged along. She had to find a way to get to the man. But how? He seemed to have every-body fooled.
She almost bumped into a tall, elegantly dressed man as he stepped through the main gates. ‘Miss Granger! I had no idea you were in Oxford. Neville Norman,’ Alicia’s brother introduced himself.
Davina smiled politely at the theatre critic. Neville Norman’s reviews usually demonstrated that he knew what he was talking about, and he was one of the few critics who could actually give constructive criticism, but she was in no mood for idle chat, and quickly excused herself.
Neville ambled his way towards Webster, but his sister was not in. It didn’t take him long to discover from a third year theology student down the hall, that Alicia Norman was to be found in the theatre nowadays. She was writing the Easter play. This startling news both amused and annoyed him. Why hadn’t she written and told them all about it?
The theatre held a modest one hundred seats, but it was well appointed, the stage simple but adequate. At the moment, only the stage was lit, and Neville was able to creep silently forward, unseen and unheard, and take a seat just a few rows back from centre stage.
He’d caught them, it seemed, it mid-audition. Even as he watched, the good-looking man next to Alicia gave a plea for quiet. Alicia, her ever-present notebook
in her hand, looked up and smiled. She was glad Jared was in charge of casting the play—the whining and wheedling pleas for inclusion just seemed to roll from his shoulders like water off a duck’s back.
‘Right, we’re casting the heroine first,’ his strong voice easily carried to the back of the theatre. ‘She’s the murder victim, the wife and battered mother. You’ve all read the excellent character analysis provided by our august and astute author here . . .’ he turned and bowed deeply at Alicia, who blushed hotly. Clown!
In his seat, Neville found himself stiffening. This play sounded suspiciously like a cheesy whodunit to him.
‘You’re all supplied with dialogue from Act Two, Scene One,’ Jared continued smoothly. ‘Right Vera. You first.’
Neville wasn’t sure he was ready to listen to words penned by his own sister. What if they were corny? But they weren’t. The scene Vera performed was a straightforward but touching scene between the heroine and an as yet unseen boy, her son, who was challenging his mother about an affair she was having. And as the scene progressed, it was obvious to Neville that the scene was going to be some kind of catalyst. Neville, in instinctive critic mode, began to make notes.
‘Right, thank you everybody’ Jared said, after the last audition had finished. ‘If you can just wait a moment . . .’ He went back to consult with Alicia, but Neville already knew that there was only one possible choice. The ginger-haired girl had been by far the best.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Alicia whispered to Jared anxiously. ‘I think Emily was good, don’t you?’ But would the others think she was only recommending her because of their friendship?
Jared could see the worry in those big, china-blue eyes and grinned widely. ‘I agree.’ His eyes were tender as he watched her face light up. She was really coming out of her shell now. These last few weeks had been the best of his life, watching the butterfly emerge from the chrysalis.
They picked the best actresses for the other two parts. All of them were members of OUDS, the Oxford University Drama Society, and already had experience.
Alicia sighed. Things were happening so fast! Just three weeks ago she’d never even heard of Jared Cowan or thought much about the St Bede’s Easter play. Now, here she was, actually writing it and watching it as it took shape. And all done with Jared right beside her.
In his seat, Neville wondered what his aunt Georgina would say about all this. Any pride she might have in her niece following in her literary footsteps was bound to be dented when she learned Alicia was writing a dismal whodunit. For the woman who’d won the Booker Prize for a scathing indictment of sexual inequality in modern Britain, it would be a come-down. And as for Dad . . . ? Neville shook his head. What on earth had made her agree to such a thing?
He simply had to nip this thing in the bud now, before it got any further. He walked purposely forward, still, at that moment, unnoticed.
‘Right, now we’ve got the ladies sorted,’ Jared called out cheerfully, ‘lead on with the men.’ There was a ribald series of cat-calls, comments and swaggers, as a group of male undergraduates shuffled on to the stage.
‘For you miserable-looking lot, we have a first-draft scene, from Act One. We’re casting for the killer, the victim’s husband, and the detective.’
Alicia made a sudden sound. Jared turned and looked at her.
‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘I was just thinking,’ Alicia said. ‘What if we make the detective a woman? Nowadays a senior police officer is just as likely to be a woman. She could even have marriage problems of her own.’
She was sitting in a folding chair and Jared put one knee on the floor in front of her to get more comfortable. As he did so, his loose-fitting, open-necked shirt gaped open, allowing her to see the strong column of his throat and the warm and smooth, tanned expanse of his almost hairless chest.
Alicia dragged in a ragged breath, pulling her eyes away. Jared noticed, and felt his body heat, as though an invisible sun had suddenly come out. He felt his nipples harden, beginning to throb as he imagined her touching them, her white, gentle fingers moving over his body . . .
Alicia swallowed. Licked lips gone suddenly dry, unaware of how the flickering of her tongue tip was driving him crazy. It was hard for her to breathe, let alone think, when he was kneeling before her like that. Like an old-fashioned swain about to propose.
‘Are we going to be here all day, Jared, or what?’ one of the male students on the stage called restlessly. Jared turned and made a nicely judged rude gesture. Everyone erupted into laughter.
‘We’ll discuss it tonight, after Hall. Come to my place?’ Jared whispered quickly. He had a room in Wolsey.
She nodded, blushing, thinking about being alone with him in his room. ‘OK.’
Jared turned, saw Neville, took in the Savile Row suit, the ginger hair and rolled umbrella, and hesitated. It didn’t take a genius to know that this was no undergraduate. ‘Can I help you, mate?’ Jared asked genially, getting up lithely.
Alicia, along with everyone else, turned to see who he was talking to, and felt the blood drain from her face.
‘I was looking for my sister,’ Neville said smoothly. ‘I was told she was here.’
Jared glanced automatically at the gaggle of female undergraduates, but it was from behind him that he heard a response. ‘Neville! What are you doing here?’ Alicia croaked.
And suddenly, there was a surprising tension in the room.
Neville ignored his sister’s dismay. ‘I just thought I’d come by and see how you were doing,’ he said easily. ‘I had no idea you were writing a play,’ he added mildly. But his level, gleaming brown eyes seemed to bore into hers, and she felt herself go a whiter shade of pale.
Jared, sensing some kind of problem, moved restlessly. ‘It’s a wonderful play she’s written for us, Mr Norman,’ he came to Alicia’s defence instantly, and heard the others around him murmur in agreement.
‘Hmm,’ Neville said non-commitally. ‘I was listening in. It sounded to me,’ he laughed jovially, ‘like a “whodunit”.’
Jared stiffened, sensing the put-down in his voice. ‘It is a whodunit,’ he said, deliberately cheerfully. ‘With a complex victim, a fallibly human killer, a good smattering of hearty red-herrings and plenty of clever clues. It’s also set on a run-down estate, rife with crime and violence, and has a lot to say about domestic violence, a woman’s right to happiness and the repercussions of the twin urges to love and to kill.’
The students around him nodded in enthusiastic agreement, but, naturally enough, most of their attention was centred on Neville Norman himself. It wasn’t often that anyone got to meet a real Lion of the Theatre.
Indeed?’ Neville said coldly. He didn’t like the challenging look in the younger man’s eyes. He didn’t like the way Alicia moved closer to him, as if for protection. And he especially didn’t like the way he must have lured his sister into writing this trashy little play either.
‘In that case,’ Neville smiled wolfishly, ‘perhaps I can request an invitation to the opening night? Even review it for you to the local press?’
There was a sudden collective whoosh of caught breath followed by a whoop of delight as the others considered their huge luck. To be cast in such an obscure play, and only to have their efforts reviewed by the great Neville Norman!
Jared sensed trouble, but what could he do? Old Sin-Jun would jump for joy to have St Bede’s so honoured. So would the English Literature Tutors. He could hardly say No. Although, from the agonised look in Alicia’s eyes, he longed to do so. Perhaps he could put him off? ‘Thank you, Mr Norman. But the play only goes out for the one night. I don’t know if you’ll be free. It’s on April the second.’
Neville made a great show of opening his diary. ‘It’s a date.’
Aware that now was not the time to tackle him, Alicia turned away helplessly.
‘Please, do carry on with the auditions,’ Neville said urbanely, and took a seat next to his sister.
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br /> Reluctantly, Jared restored order and began to call up the men for audition. Not surprisingly, with the great Neville Norman watching their every clumsy, amateurish move, there was a lot of spluttering and fluffing of lines, stiff acting and nervous coughing. Jared, trying to see through the nervousness to detect any real talent underneath, found that the joie de vivre had gone right out of the day. Alicia looked as tense as a violin string.
‘OK, Rupert Greyling-Simms,’ he called wearily.
By her side, Neville suddenly perked up. With a name like that, the tall handsome blond man who stepped on stage had to be a relation to Seymour Greyling-Simms, otherwise known as the Earl of Warrington. The family had a huge ancestral pile not far from Stratford-upon-Avon. Of course, he’d never met the Earl—they moved in very different circles.
As the blond man accepted the pages of script from his sweating predecessor, Neville noted the strong family resemblance. The son, then. Heir to title and estate?
Then the critic in him took over. The boy had a good voice. Upper crust, but clear. The role he was reading was that of Sam Blake, the lover and eventual killer of the victim. And he was good. Neville, who’d reviewed most of the great actors of the day, recognised at once that highly-strung, volatile nature that all the best actors possessed.
On the stage, Rupert Greyling-Simms was pleading with his invisible lover to leave her husband and children and get off the estate. He was offering her all that he had, and the desperation of the character was coming through clearly.
Nor was Neville the only one to recognise the man’s talent. Jared and Emily were both on the edge of their seats, and even the other waiting undergraduates were nodding at each other, silently acknowledging the fact that Rupert was the best so far.
An hour later, and the play was cast. Neville, despite pointed hints by Jared, had not left, but stuck close to his sister’s side.
Rupert Greyling-Simms hovered on the edge of the stage, half in darkness, half in light, looking at no one but Alicia. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her from the moment he’d walked into the theatre. He’d seen the auditions for the play advertised last week, and had decided to go along, more out of a sense of defiance than anything else. He knew his father had no time for the arts, but acting was something Rupert had always been good at, and he knew he could join the college play without too much flack from his family.