by Alison May
She’s already waiting at his side, arm linked through Dad’s, like he belongs to her now.
‘Dominic. I’d like you to meet Tania. My fiancée.’
Dom splutters his drink, but rallies. ‘Your?’
Dad laughs. She smiles. Everyone’s so bloody happy. Dad’s stroking her arm. I don’t want to see that, but I can’t look away. ‘My fiancée.’
She holds her free hand out to display the diamond that’s weighing down her ring finger.
‘Right. Well congratulations.’ I wrap my arm through Dom’s. We can all play the perfect couple game. Dom rallies from the shock enough to make a sentence. He’s doing better than me. ‘So, er, how did you get together?’
She giggles. ‘Well, I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar.’
Dom laughs. I dig my fingers into his arm. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. That much is true.’ Another giggle. ‘Sadly that isn’t where we met. Actually we met because I got fired from the cocktail bar. Theo found me crying on the pavement outside the cocktail bar.’
‘A real-life damsel in distress,’ my dad chips in.
‘I was! Anyway, I was sitting on the kerb, in a foreign country, crying my little eyes out, when this voice asked whether I was feeling subjugated by the patriarchy?’
‘What?’
Dad shrugs. ‘I’d just come out of a two hour seminar on radical feminism and the redefining of historical paradigms from a female perspective.’
‘You’d just come out of a bar.’
He nods. ‘But the seminar straight before that.’
‘And after that, I don’t think you saw much of the conference, did you?’
Dad’s gazing at her. It turns my stomach. ‘Love at first sight. I wouldn’t have believed it was possible, but ...’
My fingers tense around Dom’s arm. I look at Tania. ‘And you dropped everything and came back to England with Dad!’
She nods. ‘Pretty much.’
Something about that doesn’t add up. People have commitments. Families. Homes. Normal people have ties that take more than a few days to undo.
Dom glances at me and shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. This was at the conference? You met in Verona? You were only out there for two weeks.’
Finally, somebody’s going to say something beyond platitudes about how happy they seem.
‘I know. We met eight days ago.’
‘Wow. Erm ... wow. Well, congratulations.’ Dom shakes Dad’s hand again and leans forward to kiss her cheek. I let go of his arm. I’m not going to be supportive of all the good wishes and cheek kissing.
‘Excuse me.’ I walk away. The kitchen is as good a place to hide as any. Another glass of wine. That’s what I need. With a bit of luck it’ll help me sleep tonight as well.
‘Are you okay?’
Dom’s followed me into the kitchen. We’ve been dating for nearly a year. We have a routine. I stay at his house three times a week; that’s most Fridays and Saturdays and one night during the week. At work we maintain a friendly distance. I think Dom still feels weird about dating his boss’s daughter. A year. Can you be ‘just dating’ for more than a year? Somewhere in the background there’s a clock ticking on our relationship. I take a sip from my wine. Right now it’s not my own relationship that’s my main concern.
I point back towards the living room, towards the smiling, loved-up craziness. ‘It’s a phase.’
‘I’m not sure sixty year old men have phases.’
‘Well this is one.’ Another sip. ‘It’s a mid-life crisis or something.’
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you mean “maybe”? People who are acting rationally do not come home from holiday with a cocktail waitress in tow. He doesn’t know anything about her. He can’t marry her.’
Dom leans against the wall. ‘Well, it’s not really up to us, is it?’
Logically he’s right, but logic isn’t helping me at the moment. ‘She’s not right for him.’
‘Tania?’ He shrugs. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine when you get to know her.’
I shake my head. I have no intention of getting to know her. If I have anything to do with it, she won’t be here long enough anyway.
Alex
‘So that’s the bathroom.’ Helen Hart, Alex’s childhood friend and now grown-up landlady, pointed at the shower head. ‘It goes down to a freezing trickle if there’s a tap on anywhere else, so if you want guaranteed hot water let me know you’re getting in the shower.’ She stepped back into the hallway. ‘So that’s it really. My room’s through there. I think you’ve seen everything else.’
Alex nodded. ‘Thanks for this. Everything went a bit tits up at my last place.’ He paused. ‘A bits tits up’ was something of an understatement. What had actually happened was that his housemate had found Alex in bed with the housemate’s girlfriend, and started throwing Alex’s stuff out of an upstairs windows. It had seemed like a good time to move on.
‘That’s okay. I needed someone after Susie went.’
Alex remembered Susie. ‘Why did she move out?’
‘Got a job in Exeter. Post-doctoral research fellow in eighteenth-century domestic history.’
Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds right up your street. You didn’t go for it?’
‘I didn’t want to move away.’ Helen paused. ‘So do you need any help unpacking?’
Alex nodded and let Helen follow him into his new bedroom. He looked around. One suitcase of clothes. One box of books. A laptop, and two plastic crates of miscellaneous crap. It wasn’t much to show for twenty-seven years on the planet, but it fit into the back of his prehistoric Renault Clio, and he believed in travelling light – no commitments, nothing to anchor him down, no hassles, no fuss. He hauled one of the crates onto the second-hand bed, and rummaged through it. ‘There was something I wanted to show you.’
He found the crumpled photograph he was looking for and handed it to Helen. Two children, standing on the beach at Weston-Super-Mare, both clutching buckets, both stripped down to their pants. Alex guessed he must have been about six, which would have made Helen eight or nine.
‘Oh my god! Where did you find this?’
‘My mum sent it, when I told her we’d sorted out you renting me a room.’ Alex paused. ‘Are you sure your mum didn’t bully you into this?’ Alex and Helen’s mothers had been best friends since childhood, and were now both godparents to the other’s child. Alex could imagine his Auntie Paula being quite forceful in her opinion that Helen should help out her poor, homeless not-quite cousin.
‘I’m sure.’ Helen knelt down next to the box of books on the floor. ‘You want these on the shelf?’
The shelf, plus the bed and a rickety hanging rail formed the full complement of Alex’s furniture. He looked around. Clothes on the rail. Books on the shelf. It wasn’t as if he had a wide range of other options. He nodded and watched Helen for a second as she started to unpack his stuff. She held up a book. ‘Do you own any books that aren’t to do with your PhD?’
Alex shrugged. ‘I don’t like reading.’
He watched Helen splutter. ‘What? How can you not like reading?’
‘I prefer looking at the pictures.’ It was true. It was also, Alex admitted to himself, true that it was something he took great pleasure in telling serious, arty, academic type girls just to outrage them.
‘But, how can you be doing a PhD? It’s all reading.’
Alex laughed and picked up one of the texts in front of her. ‘I’m doing tenth-century peasantry. Seriously, there’s like hardly any written record and exactly four major text books. Why do you think I picked it?’
Helen looked at him. ‘Well, I guessed there weren’t very many people wanting to do it, so it was easier to get funding.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. That too.’ He chucked the book back over to Helen to stick on the shelf. ‘Anyway I’m teaching now. I’m gonna be rich.’
Helen sighed the world-weary sigh of the long-standing hourly paid lecturer.
‘How many modules are you teaching?’
‘One.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe one and a half.’
‘Samson’s modules?’
Alex nodded. Professor Samson had been his PhD supervisor for the last five years of a research project that had been supposed to last for three. They’d got along well. Professor Samson had adopted a pleasantly laissez-faire approach to monitoring Alex’s progress, and, in return, Alex had adopted an equally laissez-faire approach to actually making progress. But now, rather inconsiderately, Professor Samson had gone and died. On the downside, this had left Alex with a new supervisor who seemed quite adamant that this was his last year of student-life. On the upside, he’d got an hourly-paid lecturing job covering the prematurely-departed professor’s classes for the rest of the year. Every cloud and all that. ‘Did you hear how he ...?’ Alex’s voice tailed off.
Helen nodded. ‘Yeah. With the orange and the duct tape. He didn’t look the sort.’
Alex flicked an eyebrow skywards. ‘There’s a sort?’
‘Definitely.’ Helen shot a look in Alex’s direction. ‘Like you. If you were found tied to the bedposts in the Norwich Travelodge nobody would bat an eyelid.’
That was the sort of comment a person probably ought to take offence at. Alex shrugged. ‘Do you think they’ll advertise his job?’
Helen looked at him. ‘You want a permanent job?’ She crawled across the room and put her hand on his brow. ‘Are you feeling all right pet?’
‘Ha. Ha. I meant for you. I mean they’re not going to hire another medievalist are they? The modules they already do are way undersubscribed. They’ll want something trendy like all that gender stuff you’re into.’
‘We’ll see.’ Helen carried on unpacking the box. She held up a notepad. ‘What’s this?’
‘PhD notes.’
Helen flicked it open. ‘It’s mostly doodles.’
Alex grabbed the pad from her and turned a few pages. It was true. His library sessions tended to be more doodling than researching. He held the pad open. ‘But look. These pages are doodles of tenth century peasants.’
He was secretly quite proud of Anglo and Saxon, as he’d named the bearded peasant and his equally bearded wife, who cropped up in doodle after doodle. They added a certain personality to his notes.
His landlady shook her head. ‘Oh – are you around tomorrow evening?’
Alex shrugged. ‘Guess so.’
‘I’ve got some people coming round for dinner. You’re welcome too if you’re in.’
People coming round for dinner? At his previous address, the most formal thing anyone ever came round for was drink. Sometimes there would be crisps, if they were really setting out to impress. Alex’s own cooking skill level had stalled somewhere around breakfast cereal. ‘Who’s coming?’
‘You might know them. Dominic. Professor Collins. He’s a senior lecturer.
Alex nodded. Everyone even vaguely associated with the department of history at least knew of Dominic Collins. Collins was a Tudor historian, and the Tudors were the rock stars of English history. They were all beheadings and adultery and witchcraft and feuds with other rulers. That made the Tudor historians the golden boys of any history department, especially in a department where academic riches were spread as thinly as they were at the former teacher training college currently labouring under the rather unprestigious title of the University of the South Midlands.
‘And his girlfriend. Emily.’
Alex paused. ‘Midsomer’s brat?’ Emily Midsomer was departmental secretary and PA to the head of department. She was also, by utter coincidence the head of department’s much beloved only child. Alex had never actually met her, but the received gossip-based wisdom strongly suggested that she hadn’t got her job through innate brilliance and organisational skill.
‘She’s not a brat. We’re friends.’
‘Sorry.’ Alex grinned. ‘I’m sure she’s very nice.’
‘So you’ll be here for dinner.’
Alex nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’
Emily
‘And if you could take the first exit at the roundabout, and then pull over and stop at the side of the road when it is safe and legal to do so.’
I do as I’m instructed, slowing down as I approach the roundabout, checking my mirrors and indicating. I check my mirrors again as I pull onto the roundabout and turn left. There are double yellow lines and then a pedestrian crossing, so I wait until I’m safely past both of those before I’m back to looking in those mirrors, and parking at the side of the road.
‘That’s great Emily. If you could turn the engine off.’
I do as I’m told, but I’m slightly confused about why we’re stopping. I’ve paid for another twenty minutes of lesson and we’re supposed to be practising bay parking. This is nowhere near a car park. Tony, my latest driving instructor, twists in the passenger seat to face me.
‘Emily, I did want to have a little talk with you today.’
I nod.
‘How long is it you’ve been having lessons with me now?’
I shrug. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well I’m sure. It’s over six months.’
‘Is it?’ I have a feeling I know where this is going.
‘It is and, remind me, how many instructors had you had before you came to me?’
I mutter something into my chest.
‘I’m sorry Emily. Say again.’
‘Four.’ It’s actually six, but still.
‘Four. Right. And in all that time you’ve never actually taken your driving test, have you?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not my fault though. Some of those instructors weren’t very good, and I’m definitely getting nearer, and I just think a few more lessons—’
‘Emily, I’m not sure why I’m saying this. I mean the two hours I spend with you twice a week are probably the easiest bit of my job, but I don’t feel right taking your money.’ He smiles at me. ‘You’re more than ready to take your test. You’ve been ready since I met you. You were probably ready several years before that.’
It’s not the first time this has happened, but he’s wrong. The others were wrong too. I need more time. I need more practice. It’s one thing driving when he’s sitting next to me with the dual control. I can’t go wrong then, can I? Doing it all on my own is completely different. ‘I need a little bit more time.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry Emily.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘We’ll do the lessons you’ve already booked, but after that, unless you book your test, there’s nothing more I can teach you.’
‘But—’
He holds his hand up. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re ready to drive on your own.’ He smiles again. ‘That’s a good thing. You should be pleased.’
I nod. There’s no point arguing with driving instructors when they get like this. I’ve tried before with Zoe, and Barry, and Carl, and Amanda, and Kelly. Darren, I got rid of, rather than him ditching me. He kept ‘accidentally’ touching my knee. I nod at Tony. I guess it’s time to find a new driving school. Again.
Dominic
Dominic rang the bell and waited. He was looking forward to the evening. Hopefully Emily would have calmed down from the shock of her father’s new house guest, because he had news of his own to share. He rang the bell again, grinning to himself.
‘Hi!’ Helen threw the door open in a flurry of flour and enthusiasm. She held up her fingers. ‘Sorry. I was making pasta. Covered in flour.’
He leant forward and kissed her cheek, trying not to coat his clothing in baking debris. ‘You make your own pasta? Seriously?’
Helen nodded. ‘I thought it might be cheaper.’
‘And is it?’
She laughed. ‘Not if I have to chuck it out and use regular pasta anyway.’
Dominic followed his hostess into the living room. He’d known Helen for years, since she was his student in fact, and earnest, passionate twenty year old who ... He shut down the train of thought. He knew too well wh
ere it always led.
‘So Dominic, this is Alex. Alex, Dominic.’ The man lounging on the sofa hauled himself to his feet and shook Dominic’s hand. He was slim, with a shadow of stubble across his chin. He looked familiar but Dominic couldn’t place him.
‘Hi. And you’re ...’ Dominic’s voice tailed off. What exactly was he trying to ask? There was a man in Helen’s living room, a man who looked very much at home. He knew he’d been distracted with his dad’s condition recently, and tired from driving back and forth up the M6 for hospital visits, but he was pretty sure he’d have remembered Helen moving a boyfriend into her home. ‘So you and Helen are ...’ His eyes flicked from Helen to Alex and back again.
‘No!’ The stranger sounded horrified at the notion. ‘No. Definitely not. We’re practically related.’
Dominic glanced at Helen. ‘My mum is Alex’s godmother.’
Alex interrupted. ‘And vice versa.’
‘Alex is taking over Professor Samson’s classes for the rest of the year, and he’s renting Susie’s old room.’
Dominic nodded. Suddenly the fug of the vaguely familiar face cleared. ‘You’re a grad student! I’ve seen you around.’
‘Yep.’
Helen laughed. ‘You’ve seen him around the university? A rare sight.’
Alex flicked his middle finger in Helen’s direction. ‘I’m on campus loads.’
Dominic sat down in an armchair in one corner of the room. ‘Well you must be doing well if they’ve offered you Samson’s job.’
Alex shrugged. ‘They were kind of desperate. Did you hear how he died?’
Dominic nodded. The entire university had heard how Samson died. The only thing that had stopped Professor Midsomer actually having a heart attack over the whole thing was the fact that the man had had the decency to do it during the university holidays.
