I did a little research myself. The Institute’s website was barebones, but I studied the staff’s headshots and short bios. I hadn’t met any of them before, or seen them speak at conferences, though I was aware of an excellent publication by one of them: Karen Lynch. I also couldn’t find them mentioned on sites where students review their professors, which I found curious, but Trevelyan shrugged it off. “Students tend to leave reviews when they have something to complain about. Maybe theirs don’t.”
Maybe, I thought, happy to let Trevelyan call that one for me, a decision that seems painfully naïve to me now.
Professor Cornish arranged to meet me the following week at the offices ofThe Wimpole Magazine, on the corner of a cobbled, pedestrianized street in Bloomsbury lined with Georgian houses. At street level their elegant, bowed shop fronts were beautifully kept, and the old streetlamps gave the scene the half-real quality of a film set.
The magazine occupied a whole house, on the corner, five stories tall. A brass plaque beside the door announced it discreetly. I was curious to see inside, because the magazine was over a century old and highly esteemed in niche academic circles. The joke went that it had more footnotes than subscribers.
I rang the buzzer at 11 a.m. precisely. It was genteel and shabby inside, two small, cluttered offices downstairs, a staircase in the narrow hallway between them. I climbed to the second floor, as directed. Professor Cornish stepped onto the landing as I reached the top, as if she’d been listening for me.
“Dr. Brown?”
“Yes. Anya Brown.”
Her smile was warm, and her handshake firm. She was poised, a slender brunette, with smooth, olive skin and lively eyes. I guessed she was in her late thirties. Her hair hung long and loose in soft, glossy curls, and she was darkly chic, wearing all black except for a colorful silk scarf tied at her neck.
“Diana Cornish,” she said. “Call me Diana.”
She showed me into a corner room with windows on two walls, looking south and west. Leather-bound collections of the magazine going back a hundred years filled rows of bookshelves. We sat in high-backed armchairs on either side of an elegant fireplace, its marble surround carved with a riotous frieze of Bacchanalian figures. It was out of place among the stiff furnishings.
She fixed me with a bright gaze. “I expect it’s very likely that on paper St. Andrews may not be your first choice for the next step of your career, but I’m hoping I can convince you to change your mind.” Her half smile hinted that she knew something I didn’t. “We recruit very rarely, because we can afford to wait years for the right candidate, Dr. Brown, and we think that’s you.”
Mortifyingly, I blushed and muttered, “Please, call me Anya.”
“Our institute is unusual because we’re the recipient of a substantial endowment, which gives us valuable independence and the opportunity to be extremely selective when we recruit staff and students. We make outstanding offers, but only to the people we really want. Our offers include very generous remuneration and exceptional accommodation. You won’t find that anywhere else.”
She more than had my attention now. I was as flat broke as any PhD student, and the other universities were offering amazing jobs but at the usual low salaries.
“Your PhD is remarkable. The sort of breakthrough that happens once in a generation. It makes you a perfect fit for us. As well as a generous package, we want to offer you the opportunity to develop at St. Andrews. We’ll keep your teaching duties very light so you can focus on your personal research projects. Whatever you need, including travel, we’ll fully support you. The endowment ensures that you won’t find yourself in competition for any resources and there’ll be no pressure to publish frequently. We prioritize quality over quantity.”
“May I ask who endows you?”
“They prefer to remain anonymous.” She smiled warmly. “Any questions?”
“What’s the accommodation like?”
“It’s a very pretty cottage, with two bedrooms, the perfect size for one person, or for a couple. Do you have a partner?”
“My boyfriend is finishing his PhD in computer science at Oxford.”
“We can explore opportunities for him at the university here, if it’s something you’d both like.”
“I’ll talk to him about it,” I said. “That could be amazing.”
“Let me know.” She smiled. “The cottage faces the sea. When you lie in bed you can hear the waves. St. Andrews is a magical place, Anya.” She had a look in her eye as if she was talking about something she really loved. It was powerful. “There’s one more thing I should mention: our benefactor has made it known that if we recruit you, andonlyyou, they’ll make available for study an outstanding collection of manuscripts. They’ve been in private hands for centuries and will be yours to devote your research time toif and only ifyou accept our offer.”
“Would I have heard of this collection?”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. How about you come and see for yourself?”
The bait she’d cast was irresistible.
“I’d love to.”
Diana
Professor Diana Cornish watched through the window as Anya Brown walked away from the offices ofThe Wimpole Magazinein the direction of Bloomsbury Square. She had her phone out; she was barely paying attention to where she was going.
The interview had gone well, Diana felt. You couldn’t mistake the spark in Anya’s eye, especially when she’d heard aboutthe collection of manuscripts. Diana was hopeful that she’d done enough to lure Anya to St. Andrews.
