Page 2 of Playing for Keeps

Why do some men seem to think this is the kind of behaviour women appreciate? I slipped free, and thanked him as politely as I could manage.

He smiled as if I had complimented him. “We must get coffee. I’ll show you the real campus, not the one for visiting lecturers.”

“Great idea,” Simon said cheerfully, sliding between us like a shield. He handed me a paper cup with tea and a slice of lemon floating on top. “Except I’ve got first dibs. Department tradition. The official tour for new staff.”

“Tradition,” Henri sniffed dismissively. “It’s often the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

“Second last,” Simon said pleasantly. “The last is misquoting Oscar Wilde in the staff room. Henry.”

Henri’s nostrils flared. “Henri.”

“Yes, darling,” Simon said in a voice so sweet that I thought Henri might combust. “Go consult a bookshelf.”

I couldn’t help but laugh before I could swallow it. Simon’s eyes met mine, warm with inclusion. He was sarcastic but also genuinely kind, which made me feel we would get along, maybe even become friends.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Emma, I’ll leave you to Simon. He’ll take you to your office without getting lost in the tunnels.”

“Tunnels?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” Simon said. “Don’t worry, there are only two ghosts.”

“Three,” Henri put in. “If you count the chair of eighteenth-century studies.”

“Four,” Simon said. “If you include Henri’s sense of humour.”

Margaret gently squeezed my arm. “Email me if you need anything. And if Simon tries to recruit you for the salsa society, say no. He’ll only love you more for it.”

“Spoilers,” Simon sighed dramatically. “She messes up all my plans.”

Margaret wandered off to the photocopier. Henri gave me a lingering look before turning away in a cloud of cologne.

Simon exhaled, half relief, half theatre. “He’s not all bad. He’s just not so good with boundaries.”

“I noticed.”

“He once RSVPed yes to a wedding he wasn’t even invited to.” He said, shaking his head. “Come on, Emma. Before you become the first person in the department to go missing.”

We slipped back into the corridor, which was full of flyers for poetry readings, seminars, and drag bingo. The air was stale and cold, as if an air conditioner had been working too hard.

“So,” Simon said casually, “you move from city to city, leaving behind great sentences and perhaps some confused admirers. Is that your story?”

“Maybe great sentences,” I said. “But I leave the lovers in the books.”

“Ah,” he sighed, “a woman after my own heart. I read your second novel on a flight to Halifax. I cried into my pretzels. The flight attendant hated me for constantly blowing my nose.”

I stopped. “You read it?”

“I did. There’s music in your sentences. You land hard truths without crushing the reader.”

I had never heard that before. I blushed and softly said, “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“I like to be honest and straightforward, so if you appreciate that, I have a feeling we’re going to be good friends.” He winked at me while saying that. “Now, a tour of the campus. Fake castles in the neo-Gothic style. Disasters of modernism. Tunnels because of the snow. A food court that will save your life and shorten it by a year. And most importantly – the best chocolate croissant you’ll ever eat.”

“I see that you’re really focusing on the essential things.”

“Finally, someone sees how much I matter.”

We turned into a glass walkway, with the sun shining on a quiet courtyard.