23
The next weeks go by in a blur. Work, research for the professor, more homework of her own. He asks her to complete a number of tasks for him – a paper that he needs to write, a presentation he’s giving online. Checking his references for a paper he’s submitting to an academic journal.
He makes his latest request at the end of their usual Thursday seminar. He doesn’t ask for volunteers anymore, nor even ask her to wait. She’s there, hovering, knowing that soon enough he’ll turn the beam of his attention to her and she’ll light up like a beacon.
‘It’s a lot of work,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry to spring it on you last minute.’
‘I’m happy to do it,’ she says. She means it, too. He hands over the work, his gaze lingering on her, their fingers meeting. She tries not to show the electric jolt she feels – it’s the first time they’ve ever touched, and her hand is burning. Her cheeks, too. She turns away in a hurry, goes straight to her room to get on with the work.
It is immediately clear that this task will be harder than most. The data is badly presented, the pages out of any logical order. Lucy’s usually good with numbers, but tonight she’s getting a headache, the black print dancing on the page before her. Even when it turns midnight, she’s still got pages left to go through. She puts on her kettle to make some coffee for the final push, sitting on her bed for a moment as she waits for it to boil.
When she wakes, it’s after six in the morning.
There’s no way she can finish it now.
Even as she hands over her rushed notes to the professor later that morning, she knows she’s broken something, the invisible chain of trust that was building between them. She’s let him down.
‘I’m surprised,’ he says. ‘Clearly I’ve been asking too much of you.’ His voice is light, tight, an edge to it she hasn’t heard before.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.’
‘I expected too much,’ he says. ‘I forget you’re only an MSc student.’
She’s winded by the blow.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘Please give me a second chance. I’m up to it.’
He ponders for a moment, shakes his head. ‘This work is too important. I can’t risk giving it to someone who doesn’t take it seriously.’
She stands in his office, mute. It’s raining outside, the sky iron-grey, the clouds dark, ominous. ‘I can do better.’
‘I hope so.’
Back in her room, the weekend stretches before her, dull, empty, no one to talk to, nothing to do. She picks up her phone, scrolls down to see who she could call.
Friends from school?
She doesn’t talk to any of them now.
From uni?
There was no time for friends back then. Between studying and her work in the pub, not to mention the long commute back to her family home every morning and night. She was barely on nodding terms with her fellow undergraduates, even after three years. And, of course, there were those long months online during the pandemic.
Other postgrads at college?
She leans back on her bed with a laugh, a barking sound that could be a sob. She’s not going to cry, though.
There is one option. She scrolls back up, presses call. The phone rings out for a long time, twenty rings at least before it’s picked up.
‘Who’s this?’ A gruff voice.
‘Me. Lucy.’
‘Lucy? I haven’t seen you in a long time.’
‘That’s because I’m away at college, Dad. You remember.’
‘College? Oh yes, college. Not good enough for you at home, was it? You had bigger ideas. Has it all gone wrong for you, then? I told you it would.’
