Page 1 of Playing for Keeps

1

EMMA

“…and no, I don’t really believe in settling down. You could say it’s my method.” I gave Margaret an awkward smile. “I pick up my roots, move them somewhere new, and see what stories a city wants to tell me.”

Margaret’s pen hovered over her legal pad. She had a sharp bob and a knowing expression that suggested she had already memorised my file, but wanted to see if I’d say the same things out loud. “And this time, the method’s brought you to Toronto and to our university,” she said. “The whole department is delighted you’re here. You’re a big name in the literary world, Emma. Students who normally wouldn’t go near English lit begged for a spot.”

I never felt comfortable when someone called me a big name. I shifted in my chair. “We’ll see if they still feel that way after they get the reading list.”

Margaret smiled at that, then smoothly moved the conversation to my last two books. I kept my answers light. We covered readers and syllabi, touching briefly on the buzz my second book had generated. After a couple of minutes, Margaret stood up, gesturing towards the door. “Enough interrogation. Let’s go to the staff room. I want you to meet one colleague in particular. Simon. He’s the kind of person who remembers everyone’s birthdays and will bring balloons if a whole class aces an exam.”

“So he’s the department’s secret weapon.”

“Exactly.”

We walked down the corridor, my eyes darting between the framed photos of alumni and the students who were drifting by. In a couple of weeks, I would need to be able to engage them in, hopefully, lively discussions about Austen and Brontë. Thinking about that made me feel just the tiniest bit queasy.

“Simon is also really good at helping new employees settle in,” Margaret added. “Because of your… nomadic tendencies…”

“My creative geography,” I cut in.

“…your creative geography, he’ll be useful. He’s meeting us in the lounge.”

As we turned into a stairwell, the air got cooler. “Quick question,” I said. “Everyone keeps warning me about Canadian winters. Are they really as dramatic as people say they are?”

Margaret’s laughter bounced off the walls. “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, enjoy August. September will give you hints. By October, you’ll understand why we keep spare boots at work.”

That sounded a bit ominous.

The lounge was like the set of a long-running academic sitcom, complete with mismatched chairs, a scarred table, and the low hum of people who knew where they belonged. I counted three men by the coffee, two women bent over a printout, and two men by the bookshelves. One had short sandy-brown hair, the other good shoulders and dark hair that curled at the collar.

“That’s Simon,” Margaret said, pointing to the shelves. “I’ll be right back. I just remembered I need to talk to Professor Forester over there.”

I walked up to the two men by the bookshelves and gambled on the first. “You must be Simon.”

He turned around, eyebrows raised, and the silence told me everything. Not Simon.

His face was sharp and polished, like a man who knew his angles. Eyes that were blue and flicked too quickly. A mouth that smiled, but without any warmth. Hair gelled into shiny curls. I automatically took a step back because of his cologne that was so strong it could choke a room.

“Ah,” he said, like I had turned up at his private party. “You are Emma Dawson, the British author.”

“Yes,” I said cautiously.

Over his shoulder, the sandy-haired man’s eyes went wide. He shook his head in a frantic no while pointing at the man in front of me. A second later, he marched over. “Here you are! Emma, right? Welcome, welcome. Hi, I’m Simon.”

I immediately understood why Margaret had called him her secret weapon. He made me feel at ease right away. When he shook my hand, it felt warm and comfortable, like a cup of tea when you didn’t realise you needed one.

“And this is Henry,” Simon sweetly added, looking at the other man. “He lurks here to look taller.”

Henri’s face was pinched. He corrected Simon by saying, “Henri. Like in French. Not Henry. Henri.” He dragged out the last syllable like he wanted applause.

“Ah, forgive me,” Simon said, eyes wide with mock innocence. “One never knows whether to flatter the French or irritate them for sport.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Henri teaches something very useful, like metrics or misery.”

“Romanticism,” Henri snapped. “And I don’t lurk. I consult.”

Margaret came back and smoothed things over with her diplomacy. “Emma, I see you’ve also met Henri. He’s very good with Byron. This is Emma, our visiting novelist.”

Henri grabbed my hand without asking, his thumb pressing deliberately into my skin. “Welcome,” he said, eyes travelling in a way I didn’t like.