Exposure

by Avril Osborne

  “And thank God for that,” she thinks. “Susan’s current problems are quite enough for now.”

  No – as they sit, whilst Jane puts together a supper of pasta, asparagus and smoked salmon in a wine and cream sauce, and then eat it slowly with salad, parmesan and bread baked in the oven, the debates range with humour from fox hunting and animal rights to, almost inevitably, women’s safety and women’s rights. Linda listens to their views, sometimes serious, sometimes fervently held, sometimes stated with ribald swagger for effect. She contributes a little, enjoying the debate and becoming clearer about her own opinions on some of the issues as the meal progresses. She knows that these are all issues that she has thought about but that she ought to think about a great deal more. It is not the usual conversation of her own mixed sex dinner parties nor, definitely, of the staff lounge at the University.

  Nicola deplores animal cruelty but feels that there has to be experimentation for the purposes of human medicine; Jenny tells her that one is not possible without the other. Kate thinks that it is outrageous that the city’s society has descended to the level where it is now impossible for women to travel about at night except in the safety of a taxi. Jane, who has until recently lived in New York, sys that the American cities can be ten times worse than anything in this country. Her experience of being over here has, so far, been one of comparative safety. And, no, she responds to Jacky’s question, she does not think that she is being complacent. She is for Zero Tolerance where attacks on women are concerned. Kate thinks that city planners still have a lot to learn about environmental strategies on safety that can be brought in, at relatively low cost – street lighting, city underpass TV systems and so on.

  As if frustrated with the debate, Nicola comes in with the generalisation that none of them around the table will live long enough to see the true achievement of women’s equality in society. And if that is true in Western society, what chance for women in third world countries where anything from genital mutilation to genocide can and does happen?

  “Take the simple example of the glass ceiling in organisations,” she expounds. “Hold this conversation with a man present and you will be debating whether or not such a thing exists. Hold the same conversation with a woman and it’s an accepted fact. Look at all of us. With the exception of our new friend, Linda,” she says, but in such a way that she is not attacking Linda, “We are all professional women who have done no more than make it to our professions. We have not made it within them. We are all first rung people.”

  Kate comes in. “You obviously passed through the glass ceiling, Linda. How did you do it?”

  Linda thinks for a moment as all eyes turn to her.

  “I’m not sure that I would really see myself as through the glass. Yes, I am high in my profession, but the power in University terms is elsewhere. At least, that’s how it feels. I suppose,” she reflects, almost thinking aloud, “I suppose that I don’t threaten them. That’s how I get what I need for the Department. I argue with conviction.”

  “So, you use expertise and influence rather than expertise and authority?” This comes from Nicola.

  “I suppose so. That sounds pretty weak, doesn’t it?” Linda is not comfortable with the truth of what Nicola has just pinpointed. But Jane is coming to her rescue.

  “At least Linda has made it. The rest of us have only made it so far and some of us would like to go higher. I don’t suppose any of you would believe me if I said that I don’t want to go higher in terms of a hierarchy?”

  Jenny the artist believes her. She can see little attraction in not being simply and entirely one’s own person.

  The spotlight moves away from Linda as coffee is served and as people begin to talk to one another, neighbour to neighbour round the table. As she chats and listens, Linda learns more about each of the guests. Kate’s partner, James, is also an architect and they are renovating an old barn outside the city boundaries. Jenny is celebrating her recent divorce from someone called Timothy. Linda has the distinct impression from the way she describes him to Nicola that Jenny is an abused wife.

  The surprise of the evening for Linda comes as they are all ordering taxis to make their ways to different parts of the city. She simply had not seen that Nicola and Jacky are partners living together. Nothing has been said by anyone to indicate that this is the case. It has just not been an issue.

  Saying goodnight to Jane, she also realizes what an able hostess they have all had. As the others ask Linda to join them again, she knows that she has been entertained with ease, that Jane has kept the conversation flowing, talking very little about herself. Linda promises to invite Jane over to the Pilar household really soon, aware as she does so that she is intrigued to know more about her young friend and colleague.

  But it is Susan who dominates her thoughts as she makes her way home, weary at the thought that she still has computer work to do before the next day. Why would Susan, attractive and socially able, seduce Dave Ramsey, stranger and, by all accounts, social nerd? Why would anyone do that?

  Too weary to face her lecture preparation, and promising herself an early morning start, she slips in beside Ken and crashes into deep sleep. Somewhere in the small hours an erotic dream about an orgy that she is watching, an orgy in which she recognizes Susan, Dave, Jacky and Nicola, wakes her in a state of arousal. She knows even as she wakes Ken and initiates lovemaking, that she is doing so as a flight into safety.

  CHAPTER 8

  As she drove home after her conversation with Linda, she more or less determined that she would listen to the caution that Linda augured and that she would resist going to the hospital. For all that, the evening was long and tedious as she made a makeshift meal from the fridge and filled the rest of the time before bed with a hot bath and a late night film.

  At least now in the office this morning, her time and attention are absorbed elsewhere and she is genuinely looking forward to the studio TV debate, scheduled for tomorrow, about self-styled neo-Nazis and their infiltration into the pub culture of the disaffected youth of the country. It promises to be heated and just the challenge she needs. There was even a suggestion from her boss, Jonathon Whitley, that they might have a plain-clothed police presence in the studio.

  Towards twelve, she and the team pause their planning meeting for a quick lunch break. As she comes out of the conference room, an assistant passes her a note. She takes the paper slip, half expecting that it will be from Brenda. But it has Bill’s name on it, asking her to call him urgently.

  She rings, asking for Mr Nicolson. This is not like Bill, ringing her at work and interrupting his own office day.

  “Ah. Yes, Miss Blakely. Mr Nicolson asked me to put you straight through. One moment please.” Susan recognises the voice of Bill’s secretary. She has met Fiona once or twice when she has occasionally called at Bill’s office for an evening in the city after work.

  Bill comes on to the line almost immediately, saying it would be nice to meet for lunch after such a pleasant evening. He also says there is something he wants to mention. This sets an alarm bell ringing for Susan but she makes no comment. They agree to meet for a sandwich in one of the High Street’s pseudo French café bars. If they meet at twelve thirty, they will get a quiet table before the offices of the city disgorge their populations onto the streets and into the eating-houses around.

  She arrives first and when Bill comes in she thinks that he looks tired and slightly strained. Their greeting is warm, though, and ordinary, very much one of two intimates meeting up in public. She chats about her morning and about the latest city scandal that has hit the lunchtime billboards. The chairman of one of the city’s local authority committees has made false travel claims over a protracted period. The National Audit Body is to undertake a root and branch check of audit trails in local government.

  They order a cafetiere of coffee and savoury croissants filled with hot French Brie. Susan works at being as warm as she was last night. She asks him how his first day back at wor
k since the conference has gone and how he has found time to break into the day to see her. Even forewarned that he wants to discuss something, she simply has not anticipated what he says next.

  “Susan, I’ve received an anonymous letter – about you.”

  “What about me?” is all she asks. Her emotions freeze.

  “About you and that man Dave.”

  She looks at him, saying nothing, giving nothing away, and waits. This seems to have the psychological effect of loosening some sense of resolve in him. He hesitates and takes a moment to work out what to say next.

  “Susan, have you had a sexual involvement with this man? The letter says you have.”

  She looks at him, steady eyed. Her decision is instant.

  “No, Bill, I haven’t. Of course I haven’t. Why? What does the letter say? Can I see it?”

  They stare at each other in a silence that blocks out the buzz of the restaurant.

  “What does the letter say, Bill?” She asks again more forcefully now and looks straight at him, inviting an immediate answer. He takes it from his pocket and hands it to her in silence. She takes it. It is hand written in a style that she recognises immediately. It is Dave Ramsey’s handwriting.

  With a glance at Bill, she opens it and stares in horror at the sight of stick people drawn down each side of the tightly written script. She reads about a sexual liaison between herself and a minister of the church and a version of her seduction of this man three years ago on the island of Mull. It describes in detail what she did to the man on the first encounter and how she ‘whored’ herself. No one, the letter says, will ever know Susan Blakely like this man has. The stick people leave the reader in no doubt as to the sexual favours she bestowed, and had bestowed on her, that night.

  The letter ends by saying that Bill would be better off without Susan Blakely – she is a cheating tramp. The letter is signed from a well-wisher.

  Susan looks up and says, simply,

  “Oh, God.”

  “Is it true, Susan?” he asks for a second time, his face ashen now. She looks him directly in the eye.

  “No, Bill, it isn’t. Not like this,” she says, waving the letter. “I spent an evening with him, that’s all, in Mull a couple of years ago. Long before I knew you. Things got a bit out of hand, that’s all. I had to stop him that night, Bill, but nothing happened. Truly. He has pestered me on and off since. I know I shouldn’t have accepted the invitation but he seemed such an upstanding man. This must be his revenge for refusing him. The man is sick.” She pauses and challenges her partner. “Bill, do you believe me?”

  He looks at her and at that moment she feels that his answer is honest.

  “I suppose I do, Susan, but we can talk more about it later.”

  Then a thought occurs to her.

  “Bill, it’s four days since Dave Ramsey rang me and he went into the hospital. How did you receive this only this morning? I assume that Ramsey wrote this and that it’s not some other crank?”

  Bill takes the letter and reads it again, as if reading it again word for word, looking for clues with his solicitor’s mind; any evidence to tell him whether this is a joke or a crank’s work.

  “Well, I think that we can assume that Ramsey wrote it. It has actually been in the office for a day or two. I didn’t see it at first – it was in a file of papers marked ‘Personal’ and usually that file just holds those adverts that are made to look as if they are personal. So Fiona ignored it till I had time to clear my desk.”

  He looks at her again, his eyes almost pleading.

  “Susan, tell me that this is not true.” He lowers his voice “This is more than I can get my head round. The idea of you like that,” he gestures at the letter, “ It’s just not the way you are; not the way we are. I thought we had a satisfying sexual relationship, Susan. All morning, I’ve been wondering if this is true; if there’s a Susan Blakely that I don’t know. I can’t say what this morning has been like.” He looks almost broken as he sits there and Susan puts a hand out to reassure him.

  “Bill, I’ve told you the truth. Nothing happened. And I don’t behave like that.” Now she is pointing at the letter. “You should know that.” She watches him intently, waiting for his belief in what she is saying.

  He seems to come to from his own reverie and Susan sighs inwardly with relief. The moment passes and she is safe. She is a liar, but she is safe.

  As if some inner dilemma is over, Bill gets his professional mind to work now after a kiss across the table to her cheek.

  “The interpersonal politics of this are nasty, Susan.” He does not need to tell her this but she listens intently to his interpretation. “I have no intention of falling into this man’s agenda. Presumably he wants me to believe this and dump you. That would be some sort of punishment in his twisted mind for you not agreeing to a relationship with him.”

  “Precisely, Bill.” She hardly needs to say anything. She is on the homeward straight as far as her security with Bill is concerned. Bill has given her a prefect explanation for the letter.

  “But you could be in serious difficulty if this gets out into the public domain, I take it?”

  She nods as he goes on, warming to his theme.

  “A sexual liaison, allegedly, with a church minister who then goes on to attempt or commit suicide – that would make big press. We need to protect you, Susan. Let’s start by getting rid of this. And if there’s anything else, you have your friendship with me to cover you. I’ll look after you, my Darling Susan.” He is tearing the letter into tiny pieces and stuffing it into his empty cup as he speaks.

  “You are the one who is the darling, Bill,” Susan says, rising from the table and kissing him. “Thank you.”

  As she walks back to her office, Susan’s main thoughts are about the lies that she has just told. Linda’s advice to come clean with Bill is ringing in her head. She hated lying but how could she tell the truth in the face of the letter’s graphic pictures? She could not afford an outraged Bill, running loose with the sense of betrayal that he could only have felt. He would have left her – she is sure of it. In the circumstances, it was a justified lie. It caused least harm, as much to Bill as to her.

  The day drags past. But there is plenty to occupy her at work. She finally comes out into the early evening twilight at about six. It is the time of year when she becomes aware of the birds of the city singing. The promise of spring and summer ahead always lifts her spirits. But tonight, the spectre of Dave Ramsey in his hospital bed is all that comes to her, descending on to her shoulders like the darkness itself. Is he still alive?

  She eases her car from the studio car park into the evening traffic, gets to the first set of lights and sits, as they change to amber and then green. She turns right instead of left, as she normally would, and heads to the hospital. It is impulse but today she is working on impulse a lot.

  She makes her way to the nurses’ station, looking from there at the bed in the room opposite. Dave Ramsey is still there. Staff Nurse Jones is at the desk and to Susan’s question tells her that he is holding his own. The new drug seems to be having some effect. But he is still in and out of consciousness.

  Susan looks at the people around Dave’s bed. As well as Brenda, there appear to be two couples – she assumes that they must be Dave and Brenda’s parents. Brenda is sitting facing the door beside the woman whom Susan takes to be her mother. There is little conversation happening. Susan surmises that the serious talking has happened, and that waiting is all that there is to do now. The strain on the faces around the bed tells its own story. Brenda glances up as if sensing Susan’s presence and a weary smile momentarily lights her face. She indicates to Susan to come in but Susan does not want to be drawn into the family group and signs to Brenda that she will not intrude.

  Brenda comes out, watched by her mother, a pleasantly faced lady in her sixties, wearing a shabby overcoat and flat shoes.

  “How is he, Brenda? I didn’t want to interrupt but I was passing o
n my way home.”

  “It is looking a bit more hopeful, Miss Blakely. Susan, I mean. Doctor Semple says that we should know one way or the other by tomorrow.”

  “That’s reasonable news, Brenda Dear,” Susan says with a smile, doubting as she speaks whether it is, as far as she is concerned. “Has he said anything when he has been conscious?”

  “No. Just what he said before – that he made a mistake with the amount of pills. He won’t tell me or his Mum and Dad what it’s all about.” As she speaks, Brenda points towards the couple with their backs to them. They look from their attire to be country people, maybe a not-too-well-off gentleman farmer and his wife. How little she bothered to find out about this man, in her haste to be rid of him.

  “That’s your own Mum and Dad, is it?”

  “Yes. They’ve come in every day since the accident.”

  Susan hears the word ‘accident’ and realizes that this must be how the family are choosing to refer to the overdose. Euphemisms help at a time like this, she supposes.

  Brenda is still talking.

  “Mum’s a home help and Dad’s retired but he works part time as a traffic person for school children. They moved over here when Dave got the job at the Cathedral.”