The lecture theatre was half empty when Helen entered, just a smattering of unusually prompt students already in their place. She moved to the lectern, arranged her papers and ran through the slides one final time. By nine thirty she was ready and as the last stragglers slipped into their seats Helen dimmed the theatre lights, cleared her throat and began.
‘The Iliad. Of all Homer’s orations, this one is perhaps the most celebrated, the most popular. And at its centre, at the very heart of the tragedy lies one woman: Helen of Troy. Daughter. Sister. Wife. Adulteress. Victim . . . or perhaps . . . villain?’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘She has been called many things over the centuries . . .’
Helen looked out across the room. In the dim half-light a number of students had begun to scribble furiously in notepads. She could see one or two others leaning back in their chairs, arms folded, their eyes on the screen overhead. To the far right she saw another student with his head resting upon the desk, clearly settled in for an hour’s sleep. She pressed her clicker and flashed up a series of images, details of Helen taken from frescoes and vases, pausing on a slide showing Evelyn de Morgan’s famous nineteenth-century portrait.
‘Undoubtedly she is one of the most alluring women of ancient mythology. She was the face that infamously launched a thousand ships, and yet even before we meet her in The Iliad, she has experienced a life of tragedy and controversy.’
Out of the corner of her eye Helen saw the door to the lecture theatre open. For just a moment the figure of a man stood backlit in the doorway. He slid quietly towards the nearest empty chair and the door swung shut again, returning the room to darkness once more. The surprise entrance only took a second or two, but it was long enough for Helen to recognise the unmistakable silhouette of her uninvited guest.
‘We . . . we know . . . er, we know, of course, that Helen was a great beauty.’
Helen struggled to maintain her composure. Focus on the lecture. Focus on the lecture. She glanced back to the slide on the screen, swallowed back her discomfort and then continued. ‘But you have to delve deep into the text to really understand the essence of Helen and what it was she stood for. If we look at Euripides’ play Helen, which he wrote in the fifth century BC, we find a very different portrayal of the woman. In the opening scene Helen stands . . .’
She had soon forgotten the presence of her unexpected guest as she lost herself in the lecture and before long Helen found herself opening up the floor to questions. As usual the undergraduates were reluctant to step into the spotlight, but then, miraculously, one student stuck up her hand. Helen nearly keeled over with surprise. ‘Yes, Jenny, you have a question?’
‘Um, yes, I wanted to ask if there is any chance of an extension for our final essays?’
Helen’s heart sank. She’d been hoping for something a little more pertinent to the lecture. ‘Essays are due in the first day back next term. You’ll need to come and speak to me in person if you have a problem meeting the deadline. Does anyone else have a question?’ She was just about to wish them all a happy holiday when a deep baritone broke the silence.
‘I do.’
Helen’s heart sank. ‘Er, yes, Mr . . .’ She feigned ignorance.
‘Grey. Tobias Grey, Artist in Residence here at the university. I hope you don’t mind me sitting in on your lecture today. I found it fascinating.’
‘Thank you, Mr Grey,’ Helen replied formally. ‘You have a question?’
‘Yes. I was interested to hear you talking about the tension between duty and desire that Helen faces,’ he continued. ‘What do you think Homer was saying about her dilemma? Was it a warning to women of the follies of adultery? Or is he saying Helen was right to abscond with Paris to Troy? To follow her heart?’
Helen took a deep breath. She felt the beady eyes of her students gazing up at her. ‘Well, you raise a good point, Mr Grey. That very tension is one of the themes I’ve asked the students to explore in their papers.’ She forced herself to turn away from the heat of his gaze and look around the room. ‘I believe it’s more complicated than a simple “right or wrong”. There are other factors at play in Helen’s life, and other forces at work in the tragedy as a whole. Helen is a complex woman in a precarious situation and so, without giving too much away right now, let me just say I’m really looking forward to reading my students’ interpretations of her dilemma in more detail next term.’ There was an audible groan as the few still listening realised they weren’t going to be privy to Helen’s own theories. No easy pickings for their essays. ‘Now, does anyone else have a question?’
Nothing. Just the shuffle of papers and bags as students began to pack up their belongings.
‘Well, then. I hope you all have a wonderful break and I look forward to seeing some of you in my module next year on Sexuality and Gender in the Ancient World.’
There was a rush for the door and the room suddenly swelled with the babble of students, energised and excited by their impending freedom. Helen shook her head and gathered her belongings. She’d never understand undergraduates. She was certain they had been more responsive and interested in her day.
‘Wow.’ Tobias was bounding up the aisle towards her. ‘That was great, Helen.’
‘Hello.’ She was mortified to find herself blushing. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d be busy finishing up your own classes today.’
‘I finished yesterday. I just came in to tidy up my office and decided, on a whim, to come and check out what was happening in the Classics department. You didn’t mind did you?’
‘No. I just hope you didn’t find it too boring?’ She knew she was fishing for compliments, but his approval was important to her.
‘It was fascinating. You’re a natural up there, you know. Those kids were riveted.’
‘Ha ha! I don’t think so. Didn’t you see Kim Winslow fast asleep in the back row?’
Tobias shook his head with a smile. ‘You’re too hard on yourself. From what I know of Kim it’s a miracle she even turned up.’
Helen grinned and they fell into an awkward silence.
He cleared his throat. ‘Listen, do you fancy lunch today – a last hurrah before the holiday? I’m buying.’ She felt his eyes boring into hers and she turned back to the lectern, distracting herself with a stack of papers. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘I don’t have to write your essay; you can tell me more about Helen’s conflict between duty and desire.’
She knew he was flirting with her. It wasn’t the first time either; but this was the first time he had invited her out. She felt the hairs on her arms prickle with excitement. ‘The faculty has an end of term lunch,’ she said, ruffling her papers.
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ Tobias looked crestfallen. ‘I know the perfect little place . . . Another time then.’
Helen felt a terrible panic wash over her. ‘I suppose I could try to get out of it . . .’ She’d blurted the words before she could stop herself.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It’s only the old fogies from the department. There will be plenty more lunches.’
‘That’s great, Helen. If you’re sure?’
Helen thought for a moment. ‘I’ll have to feign a headache, and then we can slip away once they’ve all gone. They might take it a bit personally, you see.’
‘Very sensible.’ He grinned at her, his eyes crinkling attractively, and she felt a flush of heat radiate from her very core.
‘Why don’t I call you when they’ve all left? We can head off then, if that suits you?’
‘Absolutely. You won’t regret it, Helen. This place is great; they do the best crab linguine.’
She smiled. ‘Sounds delicious.’
For the rest of the morning the minute hand on Helen’s watch seemed to be stuck in slow motion. She tried to busy herself with filing notes and reshelving reference books, but nothing could distract her from thoughts of Tobias.
It was a long time ago – over three years – that she had first stumbled into his gallery to take refug
e from the driving rain outside. She’d fled the house that day in a terrible rage after yet another furious argument with Richard, driving into Bridport just to escape the confines of the house. She’d wandered the streets aimlessly until a sudden downpour had forced her to seek shelter and she’d entered the little artist’s studio with no intention other than drying off for a few minutes.
The gallery had been empty as she entered so she’d leaned her dripping umbrella against the wall by the door and then turned to view the paintings hanging from the walls. She’d been spellbound from the start.
They were dark oil paintings of the Dorset coast, real and graphic in their depiction of nature unleashing its full force on the landscape. She’d wandered through the exhibition space, eyeing each one carefully, feeling a surge of excitement at the sight of them. They perfectly captured the storm of emotion she felt raging within her, ever since they had moved to the coast. She knew she had stumbled upon something, or perhaps someone wonderful.
‘Can I help you?’ A young man had appeared from out the back. He was tall and muscular with broad shoulders and a head of close-cropped dark hair. His face was strong and tanned, with startling brown eyes and attractive laughter lines etched either side of his mouth. He was dressed simply in jeans and a paint-splattered pale blue shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal a Celtic-style band tattooed around the smooth skin of his biceps. ‘Did you want some help?’ he’d asked again, wiping his hands on a rag.
‘I’m just browsing. Is that OK?’ she’d asked. As he moved closer Helen felt something odd happen. Her stomach did a funny flip-flop and she had turned to look at the nearest painting, unable to meet his eye.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
She could feel him moving even closer but she kept her eyes fixed on the canvas. ‘Yes I do, very much.’
‘Nature; we’re at her mercy, right?’ He turned and nodded to the foul weather lashing at the window of his gallery. ‘That’s why you’re in here, I take it? Driven in by the rain?’
Helen was embarrassed but he just grinned back at her. ‘Don’t worry, I always get more visitors on rainy days. You don’t have to be polite. You’re my first today so I’m glad to see you.’
Helen nodded and gave a shy smile, suddenly self-conscious of her bedraggled appearance. He spoke with a Gaelic lilt, Irish perhaps, although she couldn’t quite place it. She was terrible with accents.
‘This is what I’m interested in.’ He turned to survey the painting again, a depiction of a tiny sailing boat dwarfed by a huge, roiling ocean. ‘The brutality of nature.’ He paused. ‘It’s awe inspiring, isn’t it?’
She realised she was still staring at him so she turned back to the painting and nodded. She wasn’t sure if he was talking about the weather, or about his work, but either way he was right. He moved closer and she felt the warm air shift around them.
‘Let me show you around,’ he offered with a sudden smile. ‘My name’s Tobias. Tobias Grey.’
‘I’m Helen,’ she said, shaking his outstretched hand and jumping back in alarm at the sudden bolt of electricity that seemed to shoot up her fingers as their skin touched.
His smile widened. ‘Come on, I’ve got loads more paintings upstairs.’
She’d spent an hour following him around the two levels of his studio as he explained his techniques and influences at great length, and was surprised to find herself standing out on the pavement at the end of the tour with a large canvas wrapped up in brown paper and string and a little card with his telephone number secreted into her pocket.
‘Just call me if it’s not right for the room,’ he’d urged as he’d shown her back out onto the street. ‘You can exchange it for something else. It’s important to me that you’re happy with it.’ He’d paused for a moment. ‘Or . . . you could just call me anyway?’ The mischievous look in his eyes had said it all.
She hadn’t been able to speak. She’d just blushed and turned on her heel, running away up the little side street without so much as a backwards glance.
Helen looked at her watch again. There were still twenty minutes or so to go before her department would begin to gather for their lunch. She closed her eyes, unable to even keep up the pretence of working now, and surrendered herself to her memories of Tobias.
She’d only realised exactly how good the painting was when she had got it home and taken off the wrapping. It was wonderful, and had looked perfect installed above the fireplace. She felt energised just looking at it; and it didn’t hurt that the canvas also reminded her of those deep brown eyes boring into hers. She’d sat there, turning the little card with his phone number on over and over through her fingers, convincing herself that she must never see him again.
She hadn’t. Instead, feeling the spark of something hot and insistent reignite in her belly, she had thrown herself at Richard and, surprised and delighted, he had responded in kind. Six weeks later she was staring at the thin blue line on the pregnancy test, scared and excited in equal measure.
Alfie. She only had to think of him to smile. He was her last pregnancy and an unexpected gift. Whenever she thought about that fuzz of straw-blond hair, his toothy lop-sided grin and the sound of his cheeky, infectious giggle she felt a little part of herself melt. He was utterly adorable. Everyone said so.
Of course there were moments. What family didn’t have them? Occasionally Alfie would tire of Dora’s dressing-up games, or resist his bedtime and a fierce tantrum would erupt. And there were Cassie’s histrionics whenever he invaded her bedroom or went through her stuff. More often than not Alfie would get into some kind of scrape or other, his curiosity pushing him through life like a little kamikaze missile, but then that’s what little boys were like; you couldn’t wrap them in cotton wool.
Yes, it had been Alfie who had pushed all early thoughts of Tobias into nothing but a pleasant, distant memory. Occasionally she had found herself staring at the painting above the fireplace and imagining what might have been, but it was a secret guilty pleasure; nothing more than a fantasy. It simply wasn’t meant to be.
Until nearly four years later when she arrived for a new term of lecturing at Exeter University, only to find the celebrated local artist, Tobias Grey, installed as Artist in Residence. It was then that she knew Fate had intervened, and that life was about to get complicated.
After a few interminable minutes spent clicking refresh on her email inbox and gazing out the window at the steady flow of students making their way towards the campus bar, there was a knock on her office door.
‘Come in!’ Helen called out in relief.
‘I just wanted to check if you were feeling any better?’ Joan White, the motherly department secretary asked, sticking her nose around the door.
Helen rubbed her temples. ‘Sorry, Joan, my head is still thumping. I think I’ll have to go home.’
‘Oh you poor thing. You do look a little flushed.’ The woman winced at her in sympathy. ‘Terrible timing for you, especially with the school holidays.’
‘Yes, typical, isn’t it?’ Helen said, trying to conjure up some semblance of regret. ‘I’m sorry to miss out. Have fun, won’t you? And have a wonderful summer . . .’
‘Yes, thank you, Helen, you too.’ Joan closed the door gently behind her and just a few moments later Helen heard the rest of the faculty leave the department. She waited until it was completely silent outside and then picked up the phone. He answered almost immediately.
‘They’ve gone. I’m a free woman.’
Tobias let out a low laugh. ‘You know, Helen, I really wish you were.’
It was the first time he had voiced his desire and she felt her breath catch in her throat. What was she doing? Was she mad? She was a married woman with three lovely children at home. Was she really prepared to risk it all for some wild flirtation with a man she barely knew? Besides, she’d heard on the university grapevine that Tobias was married too. What about his wife? Maybe she was reading this all wrong. Maybe he really did j
ust want to be friends. God, she was acting like a teenager. It was ridiculous.
She closed her eyes. It wasn’t too late. She could call it off now, before anyone got hurt. She could jump in her car and drive home and be back at Clifftops within the hour. Back to the stifling walls of the draughty old house; back staring at piles of dirty washing that had mounted up in the laundry; back wondering yet again what to cook Alfie for tea; back lying motionless next to the soft, snoring body of her husband as she watched her life spiral slowly away.
‘I’ll meet you in the car park in two minutes,’ she said, hanging up on him before she could change her mind.
They drove out of the city along the A30, Helen following Tobias in her own car, careful not to lose sight of the battered bumper of his old MG. She turned the radio up in an attempt to stop her brain churning over the mad recklessness of her actions. At each junction she willed herself to turn around, to go home, to put a stop to what she had started; but she couldn’t. Her whole body tingled with anticipation.
After a few more miles they turned off and drove through a pretty village, past picturesque cob houses and an old cider press, before pulling into the gravelled car park of the King’s Arms. They parked their cars next to each other and then stepped out into the sunshine, Tobias smiling a devilish grin at her. ‘I’m pleased you’re here. I had this funny feeling you might change your mind. I kept checking my rear-view mirror to see if you’d turned around.’
‘I wanted to,’ she admitted.
‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t. You can run away anytime you want, but we’ve come this far, so let’s at least have a drink before you flee?’
Helen nodded and they crunched their way across the gravel drive, Tobias putting a warm, steadying hand on her back as they entered the smoky interior of the pub.
They found a quiet booth in one corner and Tobias went to order drinks. As she settled herself into the velvet seat she looked around nervously. They were miles away from home, but she couldn’t help but feel conspicuous. One of the men propping up the bar appeared to be staring at her and for a horrible moment she wondered if he knew her, or Richard.
Secrets of the Tides Page 11
