Every second Wednesday he treats me to what he calls a ‘working lunch’ in the staff canteen. We do talk about work mainly, but sometimes the conversation moves onto more personal territory and he tells me about what his boys have been up to or updates me on his father’s illness or his house extension. I always listen intently to whatever he wishes to share with me and try to provide supportive comments. Over the years I have heard a lot about his soon-to-be ex-wife, carefully hiding my glee beneath a concerned face when he has confided in me about her appalling behaviour.
Prof also likes to tell me about his research and finds it incredibly helpful to use me as a sounding board as he thinks through his ideas. I am thrilled that he values my opinion, although I never have anything critical to say as he is way beyond me intellectually. I tell him how interesting I find his work and that’s why he has given me the honour of proofreading all his papers and book manuscripts before they go to the publishers.
‘You are so good with the details, Sylvia,’ he always says, as he passes me another one of his stuffed plastic folders. ‘What would I do without you to look after me?’ I hurry home, looking forward to spending the evening immersing myself in Prof’s work, delighting in finding missing commas and correcting spelling mistakes, playing my small part in his superb contributions to the field of Educational Sociology. I don’t mind the extra hours I put in for free doing this for him. In fact, I enjoy it, and it makes the time I am away from him easier to bear.
Monday 21 September
I was getting ready to go home this afternoon when Prof’s soon to be ex-wife Martha came storming into the office to pick up some documents that Prof keeps in his desk, relating to the boys’ passports. I must admit I am always fascinated to have a good look at her and to carefully note their interaction, so I sank back down into my chair and rebooted my computer. She was wearing a sort of black cape, which swamped her skinny frame, and thigh-high black suede boots that had a pantomime feel about them. She has a black bob with a short fringe and she was wearing the bright red lipstick which I gather is something of a personal motif. No other make-up, mind, just the lipstick, making her look both glamorous and oddly unfinished. I saw Prof look up from his computer and see her come in and he jolted in his chair as if he’d been caught stealing. He stood up, sat down again, took off his glasses, then put them on again and pretended to be engrossed in his work as she threw open his office door. She had her back to me at this point and, annoyingly, she closed the door behind her, so I couldn’t hear what was said, but Prof was obviously thrown by her turning up like that, unannounced. She didn’t stay long. Prof fumbled in his desk and passed her the papers she wanted. She snatched them off him and came out into the main office where I was able to give her a withering look that said all it needed to say about what I thought about her and the way she had treated Prof.
It clearly irked her and she stopped in her tracks on her way out, turning to face me full on. ‘Do you have something you want to say, Sylvia?’ she snapped.
I simply continued staring at her with a stern expression on my face, adding in a slight head shake to reinforce my disapproval.
‘I don’t know what fairy story he’s told you,’ she said loudly so Prof could hear her, ‘but please don’t waste your time feeling sorry for him.’ She did a nasty, scoffing laugh as she said the last bit and with a final poisonous glare at Prof through the glass partition she strode out the door.
Prof actually bit his lip, bless him, like a small child. I just wanted to run in and throw my arms around him. What he must have gone through, being married to that dreadful woman, and then for her to behave as if he was the villain of the piece. I had to stay seated for several minutes until I had stopped shaking with anger and then went in to Prof to see if I could soothe him in any way, at the very least with a cup of tea. He was rather curt and dismissive of me, which was hurtful, and he didn’t even look up from his screen, but I forgive him as he was clearly distressed by Martha’s visit.
I thought for a long time about what I could do to get back at her, both for belittling me and for upsetting Prof. Finally, I settled on leaving some unfavourable, anonymous online reviews of the art gallery she manages, making sure I mentioned her by name. It wasn’t enough to settle me, but a better idea will come when I feel calmer. It always does.
Thursday 1 October
I was gazing out of the window this morning, watching a new batch of enthusiastic students being given a campus tour by a bored-looking Dr Bastow, when my mobile burst into noisy life on my desk. I sprang to answer it, hoping that Prof hadn’t heard it ring. It’s one of his pet hates, phones going off in the office or in lectures or meetings; even a muffled vibration is enough to darken his mood when he is in the middle of speaking or reading or listening to something important. As a mark of respect to him I always have my phone either turned off or on silent at work even though it means I sometimes miss calls from the bank or Mother or, less commonly, Jonas. Today, as I picked it up, I realised that I had used it this morning to call Mother and that she had said she would call me back so I had left it on and then forgotten about it.
‘You were supposed to call back hours ago,’ I snapped, furtively checking through the glass divide that Prof hadn’t been disturbed.
‘What? Was I? What do you mean?’ It was Millie, not Mother, and she was as confused as I was.
‘Millie. I thought it was Mother. It doesn’t matter. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, fine. Listen, darling, sorry to ring you at work, I know you don’t like it, but I had to talk to you about something exciting.’ Millie sounded fit to burst, so, with some trepidation, I encouraged her to continue.
‘Una Shipman came into the shop today – do you remember her? They used to live next door to us in Purbeck Road and she had that gorgeous son who we both fancied. He rode a motorbike and was in a band. You used to say that you were going to marry him one day.’
I had no idea where Millie was going with this, but was beginning to feel most uncomfortable. I checked again that Prof couldn’t see or hear me on the phone, but he was engrossed in editing an article – glasses on, shirtsleeves pushed up, slight frown. I loved watching him while he worked.
‘What about him? We were all teenagers, Millie, that was a long time ago.’
‘Well, apparently he has recently divorced his second wife and is single again. He’s living back at Una’s at the moment while they sort out selling the house and everything and Una says he is really down in the dumps and could do with some cheering up.’
‘And?’ I was getting impatient at this irrelevant stream of information, but was not prepared for what came next.
‘And I told her that you were also still single and looking for love and that you two should go out for dinner and see what happens. Darling, are you there? Did you hear me?’
‘I am not going for dinner with Neil Shipman, Millie. What on earth were you thinking? What do you take me for?’ I saw Margaret’s head pop up in interest at this and moved further into the corner away from her flapping ears, annoyed with myself for giving her an insight into my personal life.
My harsh tone took Millie aback and put her on the defensive. ‘What’s the problem, darling? This could be wonderful for you. You used to really like him. Don’t you remember that diary you used to keep of all his comings and goings and everything he wore and everything he ever said to you? You were mad about him. And now here is a chance to make it real. You are both of … of a certain age, both single – you could be perfect for each other. You have to be brave, take a risk, see what happens.’
‘I’m not prepared to discuss it with you any longer, Millie. How dare you decide what I need and what I should do? I’m perfectly fine as I am and I don’t need to go chasing after some has-been rocker who lives with his mother!’ I was whispering furiously down the phone by this point, with one eye still on Prof.
‘For heaven’s sake, darling. You waste so much time and energy trying to ensure that
nobody pities you. Why don’t you just admit how lonely you are?’
I hung up and tossed the phone back onto my desk as if it had offended me itself. Hot tears sprung to my eyes and, horror of horrors, Prof chose that exact moment to throw open his office door and come striding out, academic paper in one hand, empty coffee cup in the other.
‘This is really very good, you know. Really very good,’ he said absently as he poured himself another coffee from the jug. I grabbed the watering can from my desk and turned to water the windowsill plants to hide my upset, knocking over a small potted fern in my haste.
‘Careful, Sylvia,’ Prof called as he re-entered his sanctum and closed the door.
‘Everything all right, Sylvia?’ Margaret asked with exaggerated concern when he had gone. ‘It’s just that you sounded a little bit upset on the phone. Boyfriend trouble, is it? It must be awful still being single at your age. I don’t know how you bear it, really I don’t. Still, at least you’ve got your hedgehogs.’ She picked up her mug and sailed past me to the kitchen, her spiteful missile neatly despatched, as I picked up the fallen plant and burned with shame.
I was put out for the rest of the day. I’m not sure what I was most upset about: Prof seeing me in such a dither, letting Margaret get to me, the fact that Millie obviously perceives me as such a sad case or the fact that she had discussed me with Una Shipman and made ridiculous plans behind my back. Whichever it was, I couldn’t face eating anything when I got home and sat sipping peppermint tea with a copy of the paper that had so impressed Prof on the table in front of me. I was trying to concentrate on it, to understand what he had admired about it, but was finding it difficult to follow the complex, and rather dull, argument about the relationship between pedagogy and religion. When the phone in the kitchen rang I knew it would be Millie and ignored it. Then my mobile rang, which I also ignored. Ten minutes later the landline rang again and I answered it crossly, my concentration completely shot for the evening.
‘Am I forgiven?’ Millie was using her sweetest voice with a hint of humour. It was hard to stay angry.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Will you please just meet him for dinner? It’s all arranged. Next Wednesday at seven thirty at Stones in Covent Garden. Kamal can pick you up afterwards if you don’t want to get the bus home.’
I sighed, sensing defeat. ‘I don’t understand why this is so important to you.’
‘It just is. I love you. I want you to be happy, darling. Please go.’
‘You are emotionally manipulative, do you know that?’
‘I know. It’s one of my best features. I’ll tell Una to tell Neil to expect you at seven thirty. I’ll book the table for you both. Do you want me to come over after work on Wednesday and help you get ready?’
‘No, I’ll manage, thank you, Millie.’ I was momentarily amused by imagining how I would look if I let Millie have free rein with my clothes and make-up. ‘How will I recognise him?’
‘Apparently, he hasn’t changed all that much according to Una. Good luck, can’t wait to hear how it goes.’
Millie hung up as I contemplated having dinner with a tattooed man in his mid-fifties, clad in leather, with a goatee and long hair.
Tuesday 6 October
I arrived at Jonas’s around six o’clock and found him in the garden, carefully deadheading the roses that grow up the back wall next to the raspberry canes.
‘It’s a shame when they’re done for the year,’ he said, pulling off a pinkish-brown bloom and throwing it into the wicker basket by his feet, flanked by a sleeping Igor. ‘Paula’s favourite flower, they were. By a mile.’ He gave a little chuckle and I felt obliged to show interest.
‘Really?’ I asked dutifully.
‘Oh aye. That’s how we met, you see, because of the roses. And my grandmother dying, of course.’
I waited for him to elucidate further but he just nodded and carried on plucking the flowers.
‘Dad, you don’t explain things properly.’
I looked round at the female voice and saw it was Katie, holding two cups of tea and smiling broadly. Her long brown hair was pinned up and she was still wearing her white optician’s overall under her coat, indicating she had come straight from work. She is the best-looking of the sisters in my opinion, in a wholesome sort of way, even though she’s in her early forties now. Her younger sister, Carrie, is tall and very hippyish in her style, often looking a bit of a mess as she eschews make-up and hairdressers, whilst Harriet, the oldest, is the opposite – a somewhat intimidating, highly successful corporate lawyer with expensive perfume and designer clothes. All three of them have Jonas’s light-blue eyes, though, despite their different looks; they are all very fond of each other and they adore their father.
I took one of the cups with thanks and Katie continued, ‘Mum worked in a flower shop in Bridlington, Sylvia, where they both grew up. Dad’s mum sent him to get some roses for his grandmother’s funeral and they didn’t have any in that day.’
‘No roses, in a florist,’ Jonas repeated, shaking his head.
‘Anyway, Mum was so embarrassed that she told Dad to wait in the shop and she ran all the way back home and picked a big bunch of roses from her family’s own back garden and brought them back and gave them to Dad.’
‘All the way back to Argyle Street she ran, uphill it was. And she left me in charge of the till, told me to serve any customers that came in. I could’ve been a robber. I used to say to her, “Paula, you are too trusting of folk.” But that’s the way she were.’
Katie put her hand on Jonas’s shoulder and handed him his tea. ‘She was, Dad.’
‘I knew I had to marry her then,’ said Jonas taking a thirsty gulp and wiping his beard with a hankie. ‘I couldn’t let a lass like that get away.’
I remember Millie declaring much the same about Kamal when she got back with him from India, and how Mother had raised her eyes and commented to me later that she predicted it would all be over by Christmas. She was wrong, of course. Despite what I think about Kamal, he and Millie are clearly made for each other. When you know, you know – and that’s how I feel about Prof.
‘Time to go in, it’ll be dark soon,’ Katie said, doing up her coat as I stood gazing at the faded roses, wondering why I am even bothering to meet Neil tomorrow.
Wednesday 7 October
I’ve had a hideous evening.
I knew it would be a mistake to meet Neil and how right I was. It wasn’t worth going all the way home and then into town again so I went straight to Covent Garden after work and had a wander round, watching the street performers before going to Stones, arriving there a fashionable seven minutes after the agreed time. As the waitress led me through the beige and brown restaurant, lit with low-hung chandeliers, I realised I was holding my breath with anticipation despite my annoyance about the whole affair. I needn’t have bothered with my orchestrated lateness because he wasn’t there anyway, and irritation mixed with embarrassment started to rise up in my chest. I ordered a glass of tap water (if he didn’t come at all, at least then I wouldn’t have to wait for the bill) and stared unseeingly at the menu for several minutes, silently berating myself for agreeing to this charade in the first place.
‘Sylvia?’ The pleasant male voice matched the warm smile of the attractive man who had appeared in front of me. I laid down my menu and nodded, wishing I had made the effort to go home and get changed after all.
‘How nice to see you again. I’m Neil.’ He held out his hand and I shook it – a cool, firm handshake that matched his steady gaze.
‘Yes, I know. I’m Sylvia,’ I said unnecessarily.
‘Yes, I know,’ he said and smiled again. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Please do,’ I said somewhat overeagerly and we both gave little nervous laughs.
‘One tap water,’ declared the waitress pointedly as she placed a glass in front of me, overdone with ice and a wedge of lime.
‘Not drinking?’ asked Neil after he’d ordered a beer.<
br />
‘Well, I wasn’t sure if—’
‘If I’d turn up?’ He raised his eyebrows and the creases around his eyes temporarily disappeared. He had a beautiful face for a man of his age. A face that spoke of a life filled with laughter and warmth and adventure, of summers on the beach and winters skiing down mountains. His greying hair was cropped close to his head and his eyes were hazel with hints of green around the pupils. He was fit, too: long and lean and muscular with a relaxed way about him that suggested a man at ease with himself and his place in the world. He was dressed in baggy chinos, cowboy-style boots and a blue T-shirt with a grey linen jacket. Smart casual to a tee, with a little bit of edge, and perfect for both his age and the occasion. I was acutely aware of my lack of effort with my own appearance and although I was wearing a pleasant enough skirt and blouse, my brown cardigan brought the ensemble down. I shrugged it off as Neil hung his jacket on the back of his chair. I felt a tinge of regret that I hadn’t reapplied my make-up since this morning and that my hair was hanging limply on my shoulders, crying out for a brush. Mousey was how I looked and mousey was how I felt.
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