‘You’ll have to ask Alexandra,’ Soraya says. ‘She knows the details more than I do.’
Lucy looks over at Alexandra, who is flashing a lot of cleavage as she manoeuvres the knobs on the football table. Her face twinges with dislike.
Soraya clearly picks up on it. ‘She’s not so bad, you know. You should give her a chance.’
‘What about her giving me a chance?’
‘I’m sure she would, if you didn’t spend every waking moment either with the professor or doing his work. She hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to get to know you. None of us have.’
‘I’m not here to make friends,’ Lucy says. Soraya laughs, so she smiles, but she’s not joking. There’s only one friendship she’s been interested in building, and it’s not to be found in this bar.
‘All I’m saying is – be careful, Lucy,’ Soraya says. ‘I don’t know much about you—’
‘You certainly don’t,’ Lucy interrupts.
‘Let me finish. Underneath the piss-taking, Alexandra is a bit worried about you. I am too, to be honest.’
‘Are you trying to imply he’s like some kind of Bluebeard? Dead wives in the attic?’
‘No, not that. But there are rumours.’
‘Rumours?’ Lucy says.
‘He’s got this lovely wife,’ Soraya says, in an apparent non sequitur, ‘but you know how things can be.’
‘Things?’ Lucy says, not making it easy for her.
‘Oh, you know what I mean, Lucy. I don’t have to spell it out for you.’
Lucy raises an eyebrow, still not helping.
Soraya takes a deep breath, her expression crosser than usual. ‘OK, if you’re going to force me. There’s this dead wife in the background, and now, despite the lovelycurrentwife, the handsome Edgar is allegedly in the market for distractions. There are at least three affairs that I’ve heard about. And if that’s the tip of the iceberg . . .’ She pauses, pouts in a coquettish way. Both she and Lucy start to laugh.
‘Good to know,’ Lucy says. ‘Good to know.’
She finishes her drink in one go, Soraya too, the chill between them melted now.
‘I mean,Iwould. Wouldn’t you?’ Soraya says, tongue darting round the corners of her mouth. Her lips are wet, her tongue fleshy, and the moment of unity passes. Lucy feels a surge of revulsion, her gaze drawn irresistibly in by the red maw, like a fly at the edge of a Venus flytrap.
‘I mean, he’s gorgeous, wife or no wife. Plus his professional position. Everyone might be watching him, desperate for him to fail, but that’s only because they’re jealous. He’s made himself the undisputed expert, the first person justice ministers consult whenever they bring in a new policy. Who’d be able to resist?’ Soraya’s voice continues relentlessly, working its way into Lucy’s ears, seeping into her skull. The fact that this is just what she’s been thinking herself only makes it worse, that she’s complicit with this leering fool, brought down to a level that she can’t deny is exactly where she belongs.
She leaves shortly after this conversation, having sobered up entirely. Charlie was making hopeful faces at her before she went, edging his thigh closer and closer to hers, but the buzz has gone. She’s full of confusion now, not infinite potential; the professor she’s idolised has feet of clay, a cheat and a liar, infidelity and lies dripping off him. If she’s honest with herself, though, that’s not the issue. The issue is her. He’s found other women attractive. Why not her?
She’s washed up, a failure. She had one goal, to impress the professor, and she fucked it up.
She’s sober, but too wired for sleep. The flagstones are cold under her bare feet, but after the heat of the beer cellar, it comes as a relief. She’s heading towards the garden to sit under a tree for a moment and try and find some peace. This can’t be the end of all her dreams. There must be something she can do to save the situation.
As she walks through the cloisters, she hears footsteps coming from the opposite direction, and looks up automatically.
It’s him.
She puts her head down and spins around, heading back the way she came. If she’s quick, he won’t notice her.
‘Lucy,’ the professor says. ‘Glad I’ve caught you.’ His voice is entirely normal. No sign of the anger that he showed last time they spoke. ‘Do you have a moment?’
She blinks. The shoes she’s carrying in her hand feel as if they’ve turned into clown shoes, with massive toes and flashing red lights. She lifts a hand up to wipe away the eyeliner smeared under her eyes.
Without waiting for an answer, he leads the way into his office, holding the doors open for her as they go. Once they’re in, he gestures for her to take a seat in one of the leather armchairs by the fireplace while he goes to a side table and pours them each a measure of whisky from a heavy crystal decanter.
