‘The ruby slippers! They’re so cute,’ squealed Donna. ‘Who are you going to be, Nancy?’
‘The witch,’ said Nancy. She sipped her Martini.
‘That’s going to take a lot of green paint,’ commented Sarah.
Nancy sputtered. ‘The good witch, Glenda, of course,’ she said.
‘It sounds like so much fun,’ said Donna. ‘I wish I could work there.’
‘There’s always room for a pretty girl,’ said Nancy.
‘She’s not old enough to … serve liquor,’ said Sarah. ‘Finished?’ She grabbed Nancy’s glass. ‘I’m sure you have a lot to do to get ready for tonight.’
‘Yeah, well, now that I’ve done Veronica the favour of dropping off your duds, I’ll be on my way.’ Nancy rose.
‘Thank you,’ said Sarah. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘You should,’ said Nancy. ‘Nice to meet you, Donna Meadows. Have fun at the Faculty Club with David. Where will you be sitting?’
‘With the history department of course,’ said Donna. ‘I can pretend I’m Mrs Caruthers, faculty wife.’ A puzzled look crossed her face at Sarah’s groan. ‘Oh come on, Sarah, I’m kidding.’
Nancy grinned at Sarah. ‘Well, I hope David Caruthers, historian, doesn’t mind you working tonight, Sarah. I’ll have to remember, next time I see him, to be ’specially sweet to him for letting us have you on New Year’s Eve.’
Christ. Nancy was as good as promising to contact David.
‘And I’ll be sure to be sweet to your family,’ Sarah said. She gave Nancy a warning look as she opened her door.
Nancy paused. ‘I don’t have any family,’ she said. Then she was gone.
Two hours later, Sarah was the one pirouetting before the full-length mirror. Her costume was authentic down to the last detail. Little white shirt with puffy short sleeves, detailed in the same blue gingham as her pinafore. Her hair was styled in two short braids with long tails, tied with blue ribbons. She wore matching blue ankle socks. And the shoes. They were a tad tight, but still, shoes to die for! She’d already practised clicking the heels together three times. Now she did it again.
So cute. And she was lucky not to be wearing high heels. It was likely to be a long night. Nancy had neglected to bring Sarah a basket but she had one that would do, and a little stuffed dog that would stand in for Toto. Fun!
Sarah had sent Donna off to meet David for drinks before dinner. Happily, he hadn’t called to complain, yet, and, as soon as she was tucked inside the car that was coming for her, she’d turn her phone off.
This was going to be a great night – making double her usual pay for partying with the wealthy in a private mansion, hobnobbing with Toledo’s elite – dressed to thrill as little Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. The men were going to eat her up. The very last thing she needed was David whining in her ear about obligations and broken promises.
Sarah applied one more barely there coat of lipstick and batted her lashes at her reflection. She shrugged, dropping any vestiges of guilt as easily as she might once have dropped a cardigan from her shoulders. She slid her ruby slippers off her feet and tucked them into the basket beside Toto, pausing to pat the stuffed toy’s head. ‘Fun, fun, fun, here we come!’
The private home at the end of the winding driveway was more fortress than mansion. Sarah tried not to gawk as she got out of the limo and ascended the stone steps. Before she could knock, the double doors swung wide open. Men in chitons stood on each side, beckoning her into the massive hallway. They bowed as she entered, then relieved her of her coat and boots and ushered her towards more double doors, these, no doubt, leading to the party room.
These doors were also manned by guys, but in togas. Sarah didn’t recall any such characters in The Wizard of Oz story, but then, she hadn’t read the book, just seen the movie. One of the men touched her arm. ‘How would you like to be announced, mademoiselle?’
‘Dorothy, thank you,’ she replied, quelling the ‘duh’ that sprang to her lips.
The doors opened, revealing a costume-clad crowd of Roman soldiers, Greek gods and goddesses, gladiators and pharaohs. The music and chatter stopped as Sarah made her entrance.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Dorothy,’ announced Sarah’s companion.
There was stunned silence as Sarah was regarded by what seemed like a thousand pair of astonished eyes. She felt her face flush scarlet. She scanned the crowd and picked out a few Classique girls, resplendent in the garb of ancient citizens of Rome and Greece. Yes, there was Nancy, a fat smirk on her pug face, dressed in a glittering Cleopatra costume. She pointed and laughed.
‘I – uh –’ Sarah felt big and stupid and ridiculous. No. She was none of those things. Sarah popped open her basket and tugged the stuffed dog into view. ‘Gosh, Toto,’ she squeaked as loud as she could, ‘I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.’
It brought the house down. Sarah grinned at the laughing, applauding crowd, curtseyed prettily, clicked her heels three times and proceeded into the ballroom.
She decided against killing Nancy immediately. First she downed a glass of Veuve Clicquot champagne and chatted up her host and hostess, Mr and Mrs Pettifer. They were a handsome couple, old Toledo money in the hands of a new generation. The woman’s bright green eyes, in particular, seemed to linger on her as Sarah introduced herself and apologised for her inappropriate costume.
‘Nonsense, you’re adorable. And we hardly need another Cleopatra traipsing about the place,’ said her hostess.
Sarah asked if there were any particular men they’d like her to entertain and, armed with their answer, set about dancing with one single man after another, flirting and laughing her way through the band’s first set. Earning her pay.
It wasn’t until close to midnight that Sarah found herself face to face with Nancy.
‘Dorothy,’ said an older man with a balding pate, an impressive moustache and a curling beard, ‘come entertain me with a story.’ He patted his knee.
Sarah knew the man was an international tax lawyer, someone her host was particularly intent on impressing. She perched herself on the old man’s knee and playfully tugged the laurel wreath that adorned his balding head. ‘I think you have the best stories to tell, sir.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve heard rumours about you, Socrates.’
‘Ah, you recognise me?’
‘But of course.’
‘Aren’t you the clever little poppet?’ He jiggled her on his knee.
Nancy must have noticed the two of them, circled by the old man’s sycophants, just as Socrates had been in his time, and wormed her way into the group.
‘I’m a clever poppet, too, Socrates,’ she said, pouting. ‘I know you ask questions as a way of teaching.’
‘True, true,’ admitted the old man, nodding his head.
‘I wonder about the Socratic Method, actually,’ said Sarah. ‘I know Socrates used questions as a teaching method but perhaps he was also seeking to refine the contours of his own hypotheses.’
‘What do you think?’ The old man looked at Nancy.
‘Well, I disagree.’ Nancy faltered but stood her ground.
‘Have you studied him, Nancy?’ Sarah gave her nemesis a wide-eyed look.
‘I’ve read everything he ever wrote,’ said Nancy. She tilted her chin defiantly.
‘That’s quite a feat,’ commented Sarah, ‘since he never actually wrote anything.’
‘He did so.’
‘Nope. He talked. Xenophon and Plato wrote.’ Sarah batted her lashes at the old man upon whose knee she sat. ‘Isn’t that so, sir?’
‘Quite right,’ said the old man, beaming at her. ‘I think, little miss,’ he said, glowering sternly at Nancy, ‘Socrates would suggest you not feign knowledge when you are ignorant.’
Nancy blushed beet red. Sarah would’ve felt sorry for her if she hadn’t been a thorn in Sarah’s side for so long. As it was, she sat on the old man’s knee and giggled.<
br />
Nancy attacked!
Bright costumes and shocked faces kaleidoscoped as Sarah flew in an arc off the man’s lap. When she landed on the floor, Nancy still had hold of one of her braids.
‘Bitch!’ Sarah struggled to break Nancy’s grasp as Nancy slapped her face repeatedly with her free hand. ‘Let go!’ Sarah punched wildly and was gratified when her fist connected with Nancy’s pug nose. Nancy shrieked and dragged her nails along the length of Sarah’s arm as she was pulled off her prey. Sarah sat up, stunned.
Nancy was being firmly escorted from the ballroom by Mr Pettifer. The stupid, stupid bitch! Sarah could only guess how Veronica would react to news of the way they’d represented Classique on New Year’s Eve. Damn. They could get canned for this.
She burst into tears, as much from humiliation as pain, although her scalp ached and her arm was bleeding. Mrs Pettifer helped her to her feet.
‘I’m so sorry,’ wailed Sarah. ‘Please –’
‘Come on,’ said the older woman grimly. She propelled Sarah through the crowd and out the ballroom doors. There was no evidence of her husband or Nancy in the hallway, much to Sarah’s relief. She fully expected to be tossed out of the front doors, but instead she was climbing the Scarlett O’Hara staircase to the second floor.
Mrs Pettifer led her to the lush en suite bathroom off the outrageously opulent master bedroom. Sarah sat, mute and miserable, on a white cane bench while Mrs Pettifer washed her bloody arm and then, with a fresh washcloth, mopped her tear-streaked face and hands as if she were a toddler.
‘I think you got the worst of it,’ said Mrs Pettifer.
‘Only because she surprised me,’ grumbled Sarah. ‘I punched her though, and she only hit me and pulled my hair.’ She brightened at the thought then, remembering who was tending to her wounds, darkened again. ‘She must be insane. We’ll get the sack for this,’ she added, hoping for a hint from her hostess that it might not be so. ‘I’m really, really sorry, Mrs Pettifer.’
‘Call me Caroline. I’m no more than ten years older than you.’ She squeezed cream onto a swab and daintily dabbed at the long scratch marks on Sarah’s arm. Somehow, she managed to do it elegantly.
‘I’m sorry, Caroline.’
‘That girl had a real hate-on for you. Why?’
‘We had a misunderstanding. I stole her date by mistake. She’s convinced I did it on purpose, but I didn’t. I mean I didn’t even know what was going on until the next day when I found the envelope. Full of money. On the pillow in the hotel room.’
‘You picked up a john by mistake?’ Caroline laughed. She tilted her head to look at Sarah with her sly green eyes. ‘That’s pretty funny.’
‘I wish Nancy could see the humour in it. Ouch.’ She flinched as Caroline started winding gauze around her wound. ‘Will it scar?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t look for trouble. It’s just the way I think. I misunderstand what’s going on, or what people are talking about, like I’m on a slightly different plain than everyone else.’
‘Like Superman’s Bizzaro World?’
‘No. Not that bad. More like Unusual-o World,’ Sarah rattled on, oblivious to the amusement in Caroline’s expression. ‘My sister thinks I have Asperger’s syndrome.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think she’s crazy. It’s like I either think big thoughts or I don’t think at all. I mean I get distracted or whatever and I just latch on to what I perceive is happening and go with the flow. Sometimes I make mistakes.’
‘That must be dangerous in your line of work.’ Caroline sat on the bench beside Sarah to fasten the gauze.
‘I’ve been lucky. This is the only bad thing that’s ever happened to me since I started at Classique. Most of the time people are good.’
‘Perhaps because your heart is pure? Or, as pure as it can be, given what you do for a living.’
‘Oh, I’m not a real –’ Sarah bit her lip. She’d been about to say she wasn’t a real call girl, but that would be a lie. She glanced at her neatly bandaged arm. ‘Thank you for taking care of me,’ she said instead.
‘You’re welcome, little Dorothy.’
A roar sounded below them, counting down. ‘Ten … nine … eight … seven …’
‘Oh my God, now you’ve missed midnight!’
‘No I haven’t. I’m celebrating with you.’
‘Four … three … two … one … Happy New Year!’ A cacophony of noisemakers and voices rumbled in the ballroom below.
But Sarah didn’t hear it. She was focused on the feel of a woman’s lips on hers, soft, plump and as red as cherries, as delicate as rose petals. Caroline drew her closer with a slender hand at the base of her neck. Sarah could smell her perfume and beneath it, her light natural scent. Caroline’s tongue tasted sweet as it flicked her lips in a teasing manner, urging her to open her mouth, which she did. The teasing turned into something else, something sensual and sexy. Caroline touched Sarah’s face. Sarah mimicked her, stroking Caroline’s cheek, so smooth, and sliding down Caroline’s elegant ivory neck to feel her clavicle, like bird bones under Sarah’s hand.
Sarah’s eyes opened when her hand felt the swell of the other woman’s breast. But Caroline lured her back in, her mouth insistent on hers, her gaze gentle for all its intensity. She touched Sarah’s breast, above the pinafore, and kissed Sarah throughout the initial shock of a woman’s touch. Sarah didn’t know her buttons were open until Caroline’s hand slid inside her blouse and bra to cup her bare breast.
Sarah closed her eyes again.
19
THE NOTICE ON the bulletin board said that the ethics course had been moved to the Grand Auditorium.
‘That’s crazy,’ Sarah said. ‘How many philo-nuts are we, a dozen? In a hall that seats a hundred and forty?’
Penny giggled and nudged her. ‘There’ll be more than a dozen of us this semester. Haven’t you heard? Doc Braun’s been sent to the funny farm. It seems that he’s gone totally gaga. For real.’
‘Poor guy,’ said Sarah. ‘But what’s that got to do with enrolment?’
Christopher grinned at her. ‘It’s not who’s gone, but who’s taking over, that’s drawing the crowd.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘We have a celebrity lecturer now – Professor Jonathon Trelawney.’
‘Is he good?’
‘Supposed to be, but it isn’t just that.’ Penny wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist and gave her a squeeze. ‘Ever have a crush on an older man, Sarah?’
Of course she had, but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Not really, why?’
‘If you had, he’d likely be something like our new prof. He’s tall, good-looking in a rumpled sort of way, very strict, I hear, absolutely brilliant and has an air of danger about him. Shame he’s so old, but that won’t stop some of the girls from throwing themselves at his feet.’
Whispering, Christopher confided, ‘As I hear it, at his last post, a lady teacher and a townie got into a fight over him – a real catfight, with hair pulling and everything.’
‘It happens,’ said Sarah. She was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt to cover the souvenir she had from her own catfight. ‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Why do you think he’s come here, when Harvard or Yale’d be glad to take him?’ Penny wrinkled her brow.
‘Their loss, our gain.’ Sarah shrugged.
‘He’s English,’ Christopher supplied. ‘That means he’s gay. Maybe Harvard and Yale have filled their quota of gay profs.’
‘Just because he’s English doesn’t mean he’s gay.’ Penny shook her head at Christopher. ‘He could be kinky, though,’ Penny added. ‘All Englishmen are kinky.’
‘Cut it out you two,’ said Sarah, giggling. ‘Show some respect.’
Christopher said, ‘Maybe he’s gay and kinky. A gay, kinky ethics professor would be cool, don’t you think?’
Penny got to the Grand Auditorium early and saved seats in the front row for
Christopher and Sarah. By the time they arrived the hall was half-filled.
‘Look who’s at the back,’ Penny hissed.
Sarah twisted in her seat. At the very highest tier there were half a dozen profs, four women and two men. ‘They’re curious to see the new guy perform,’ she said.
‘Fans, I bet,’ Penny whispered. ‘Hoover’s gay and old Loretta’s after anything in pants. That’s two of them at least who are interested in more than Professor Trelawney’s style of lecturing.’
The auditorium fell quiet. A tall figure in a tweed jacket with leather patches at its elbows strode to the centre of the stage. He wrote on the board, ‘Ontology recapitulates phylogeny. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.
Sarah sank down in her seat. John – Jonathon. Her John, her dream john, had really been a ‘Jon’ and here he was, her prof, the man whose marking she was relying on to get her degree; the man she’d been fantasizing about in her dreams. The man who’d …
Thank goodness she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with no make-up. Maybe he wouldn’t recognise her? For an entire semester? Who was she kidding!
He turned to face his audience. Sarah lifted her notebook to half obscure her crimson face.
He started, ‘First, I would like to thank my learned colleagues at the back for showing up to support me during my first lecture at Seneca.’
Christopher nudged Sarah. ‘Gay, def-in-ite-ly gay.’
She elbowed him back, harder than was necessary.
Penny whispered, ‘Doesn’t that accent simply make you tingle?’
Professor Trelawney continued, ‘For the rest of you, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, I don’t give a damn about attendance. Many renowned scholars achieved academic success without ever attending a lecture. Can anyone name one?’
Christopher’s hand shot up, drawing Jonathon’s unwelcome attention to the area that Sarah sat in.
‘Yes, young man?’
‘You, sir?’
Jonathon grinned. ‘Thank you for that unsubtle sycophancy, but I was thinking of such luminaries as T E Lawrence – Lawrence of Arabia – and Sir Richard Francis Burton – translator of The Arabian Nights, among other things.’
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