Moth to the Flame

by Maxine Barry

  Steady.

  She was here now. She’d made it. Step one in her plans was accomplished and completed.

  Nothing was going to stop her now.

  The destruction of Gareth Lacey could begin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Principal of St Bede’s, Lord St John James, known simply as Sin-Jun to his friends, walked briskly towards the lodge. He was a well preserved man in his early sixties, and was looking forward to meeting their latest VIP. After arranging Honorary Fellowship status for Davina Granger for Hilary Term, he was the current darling of the English Department.

  When he stepped through the door into the small, office-like interior, however, he stopped abruptly. He’d expected the most famous and controversial modern woman poet of her generation to look . . . well, different. Like a female bulldog perhaps. Ready to chew him up and spit him out.

  ‘Hello. You must be Lord St James?’ The voice wasn’t what he’d been expecting either. Soft. Feminine. At total odds with the short, spiky, defiant hair cut, and level, challenging, but quite delightfully huge green eyes.

  ‘Er . . . humph, yes. Please, call me Sin-Jun. It’s a lot less work for the tongue.’

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me here this term,’ she said sweetly. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to being a part of a college like St Bede’s.’

  Sin-Jun beamed, utterly charmed. ‘The pleasure, and the privilege my dear, I assure you, are all ours. Well now, I’m sure you’d like to see your Rooms, and . . . er . . . freshen up, yes?’ he asked tentatively. The trouble with so-called liberated women, was that you never knew when you were going to get your head chewed off for saying something sexist. And since Sin-Jun hadn’t the least idea what constituted a sexist remark, he was naturally wary.

  Davina picked up her suitcase and smiled. ‘Thank you. That would be nice.’

  He began filling her in about some of Oxford’s traditions as they walked out into St Agnes Quad, and, much to her relief, past Webster. It meant she was in either Wolsey or Walton—just where she wanted to be.

  She was glad the Principal so obviously approved of her—it was vital that she get as many members of the college’s hierarchy eating out of her hand as quickly as possible. She was going to have to entrench herself quickly and deeply in college life, if she was to learn all the secrets, gossips, and weaknesses, of one Dr Gareth Lacey.

  ‘This is Wolsey,’ Sin-Jun said. ‘We’ve got a very nice set of rooms free here.’ As he talked, he opened a large door that led into a dark but charming hallway with a carved wooden staircase and big crystal chandelier.

  ‘You can almost smell the centuries in here,’ Davina murmured, instantly aware of the feeling of antiquity that assailed her. ‘I’m going to love it, I can tell.’

  And Walton was right across the gardens. Easy access to her enemy. But with just enough distance to provide her with a breathing space when she needed it. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Your rooms are on the first floor—a corner suite. It’ll be quite quiet because you don’t have noisy student neighbours on every side of you.’

  The rooms he led her to were some of the most elegant and interesting Davina had ever seen.

  The door opened on to the study, where a log fire already burned in the grate. Davina instantly walked towards it. ‘It’s lovely. But I’m not sure I’d know how to keep it going?’ she said, watching the flames as they hypnotically danced their way up the chimney.

  ‘Oh, the scouts will do that for you,’ Sin-Jun said quickly.

  Davina surmised that in Oxford scouts were the members of staff responsible for cleaning the rooms, serving the Fellows, and generally keeping the place running. She smiled. ‘I can see I’m going to be spoiled rotten.’

  She glanced round at the worn but comfortable sofa and large leather armchair. She walked towards the window, where the surface of an ancient desk caught the fading winter light. There were some undistinguished but genuine daubs from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries hanging on the walls, and faded but lovely green velvet curtains framed a view across the croquet lawns.

  ‘It’s wonderful—just what I need to inspire me in my work. I dare say I’ll spend a lot of my time in the libraries though. And,’ she added, oh-so-casually, ‘consulting various English Literature Fellows. St Bede’s has three, I understand? Of course, the man I need to see most of is the Fellow who specialises in Modern Poetry.’

  Sin-Jun’s face lit up. ‘Ah! Yes, that’ll be Gareth. Dr Gareth Lacey? You may have read his books?’

  Davina smiled. Like a tiger. ‘Oh yes. I’ve read every word Dr Lacey has ever written.’ She didn’t add that her interest in his books had only been recent. Very recent.

  Sin-Jun beamed. ‘He’s eager to meet you too, I assure you.’

  Davina smiled. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, her green eyes glowing like newly cut and polished emeralds.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to unpack,’ Sin-Jun rubbed his hands briskly. ‘Oh, there’s a cocktail party in the SCR—the Senior Common Room—at six this evening. I’ve invited several English Fellows from other colleges to come, and of course our own Scholars and Exhibitioners in English to join us. I’m sure they’ll give you a generous welcome,’ he added, before taking his leave.

  Inside her small domain, Davina made a brief tour. There was a large bedroom with a huge four-poster bed but rather inadequate wardrobe space, and a small kitchenette off the study. An antiquated bathroom completed the suite.

  She nodded in satisfaction. She couldn’t have asked for things to go better. Now, all she had to do was prepare for the cocktail party, and her first meeting with the enemy.

  She glanced at her watch. Nearly four. She hurried to the bathroom, and whilst the vast claw-footed tub was filling, quickly and methodically unpacked. She added gardenia bath oil, returned to her bedroom, stripped, and picked up her two hand weights. She’d learned to use them when she went to America, just after her seventeenth birthday, and had shared a flat near Muscle Beach.

  Since then she’d published six books of poetry, won every major prize going, and travelled all over the world, working in all kinds of weird and wonderful places, doing all kinds of weird and wonderful jobs to keep her head above financial water.

  She trained only in order to be fit, and gave her actual physical attractiveness very little thought at all. She wore her hair so short because it meant she didn’t have to bother with it. Spiky, because it was easier just to brush it than to try and decide which way to part it. The fact that men seemed to either love it or loathe it that way worried her not one whit.

  Never in her life had Davina actively sought to attract a man. Until now.

  She stopped pumping the weights and climbed into the bath. As she soaked, she thought about her campaign. She simply had to get close to Gareth Lacey. Had to ferret out his every weakness, his every dream, the way he thought, the way he lived, what made him tick. And the easiest way she knew to do that, was to get him interested in her.

  She hoped he wasn’t married. She closed her eyes briefly, appalled at the thought. She didn’t want any woman to suffer because of what she was doing. No. If he was married, she’d have to find another way. But she’d make it one of the first things she tried to find out at the cocktail party.

  She opened her eyes again, and took a deep steadying breath. OK. She was not going to compromise her principles, not even for Lacey. Especially not for Lacey.

  She sat up abruptly and reached for the shampoo. But as she did so, Davina began to cry. She wasn’t aware of it at first. Then a small drip hit the back of her hand and she raised it to her cheek, giving a small grimace as her hand came away wet with salty tears.

  Angrily she brushed the tears away.

  She’d cried for David when she read her mother’s letter, telling her that he was dead. (She’d been in Australia at the time, working on a sheep farm.) She’d cried for him on the plane over. She’d cried for him at his funeral. She’d cried f
or him as she re-read his letters about how unhappy he was at St Bede’s. Cried as she read how Dr Gareth Lacey was driving him to despair. Cried all those dark, lonely, bewildered nights after his funeral.

  It was time to stop crying now.

  She got out of the tub and rubbed herself vigorously, leaving her body glowing healthily all over. Next she rubbed her head vigorously with a hand towel, which was all her short hair needed to dry it, then walked into the bedroom. She slipped on a fresh pair of plain white panties, and walked to the wardrobe. There she reached in and drew out her favourite dress. It was pale lilac, shot through with silver thread, and had delicate spaghetti straps that left large portions of her shoulders and back bare. Since she’d not long returned from the Australian Outback, she still retained the last golden gleam of a light tan. Against such skin, the pale lilac and silver contrasted sharply. The dress had a definite nineteen-twenties’ style, with a fringe at the hem that swayed with every movement of her body. The simple neckline cunningly hugged her bra-less breasts, but the material was thick with silver thread only very subtly hinting at the nipples beneath. She reached for a comb and ran it though her hair, which was silky clean from the shampooing, smelt of gardenias, and gleamed a rich, deep, gold.

  Her face needed very little make-up, but she added a touch of blusher, just to accentuate her cheekbones and jawline. A hint of silver over her green eyes transformed them into silver-lined emeralds, and a touch of slightly plum coloured lip-gloss to her full lips provided a feast for male eyes. No man would know what to look at first.

  She smiled. Good. No jewellery. None was needed. All she had to do now was wait.

  * * *

  Sin-Jun met her in front of the green baize door of the SCR dead on time. As she slipped out of her coat, Davina heard him gulp. When he pushed open the door, the noise level hit her like a physical blow. She never had liked walking into a crowded room, even though, by now, she should be used to it. Most people seemed to think of her as a party animal.

  Slowly, bit by bit, the noise level dropped into dead silence. Sin-Jun beamed as the faces turned their way. ‘Ah, here we are . . . er . . . Miss Granger.’

  Davina glanced around the assembly. From her level-eyed gaze, not one of the people there would ever guess at the agonies of shyness she’d had to overcome in her teenage years.

  ‘This is Dr Fletcher, our Senior English Literature Fellow.’ Sin-Jun politely introduced her to the first of many, and suddenly the worst was over. The noise began to hum politely again. Davina smiled at a tall, ginger-haired man, who shook her hand, and raised an eyebrow at the firmness of her grip. ‘I’ve read all your work of course, but I’m a Metaphysical Poetry man myself,’ he smiled at her, instantly putting her on to more solid ground. She could talk poetry with anybody—even the best that Oxford had to offer.

  Davina smiled. ‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls . . .’ she murmured the famous quote from John Donne, which had been hijacked by Ernest Hemingway, with so much notable success.

  And so it began. Davina began to talk to Dr Fletcher about John Donne’s famous conversion to Catholicism. Others eavesdropped openly. People circulated. Drank. Nibbled canapés.

  Somehow, during that first conversation, she learned that the other English Lit. Fellow was currently away sick, and also that Dr Lacey was an avid fan of hers. From there, she learned that Dr Lacey was a widower of some years’ standing, and that he’d rowed for the Oxford Boat Race team, back in his student days. He’d been educated right there at St Bede’s, apparently, and had no current amour. ‘He’s right over there, talking to Rex Jimson-Clarke, a Theology Fellow,’ her helpful companion finished obligingly. Following the direction of Dr Fletcher’s pointing finger, Davina saw two men, holding the ubiquitous sherry glasses, talking under a massive reproduction of the St Bede’s coat of arms.

  One of them was tall, easily over six feet, with dark wings of hair that swept down across a high intelligent forehead. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. There was something about the way he stood, an air of allure about him, that had Davina’s skin itching. It was nearly a year since she’d broken up with Jax, her last boyfriend, and—she’d been celibate ever since. Now, something about the dark, handsome stranger had her body reminding itself of the fact.

  Resolutely she turned her attention to the man next to him. He was a good decade older, portly, beaming-of-face. A bit like a teddy bear. Davina’s lips twisted as she contemplated the enemy, then she quickly untwisted them. She simply couldn’t afford to give away her true feelings this early on in the game. She turned to smile up at Dr Fletcher. ‘I know it’s early days yet, but I’d really like a word with Dr Lacey. As the resident modern poetry expert, I was hoping . . .’

  But before she could achieve her goal, Sin-Jun chose that moment to tap his glass with a spoon. Amazing that that tiny ringing sound could stop the conversation of a roomful of people in mid-flow.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. As you know, we’re gathered together tonight to welcome our latest Honorary Fellow to St Bede’s.’ Everyone glanced her way, from the third-year Scholar in English, who was dying to ask Davina about a rather obscure line in one of her lesser-known poems, to the Emeritus Professor in Oriental Studies, who was soon to see his ninetieth birthday.

  ‘Davina Granger, one of our most celebrated modern poets, has been commissioned to edit an anthology of modern poetry. St Bede’s has been lucky enough to attract Miss Granger into our hallowed halls for the duration of Hilary Term, whilst she writes her foreword for this project, and selects her choices. I’m sure our excellent English section in the library will be seeing much of her.’

  There was a ripple of genuinely excited applause. Especially from the librarian, who was positively salivating.

  ‘I have no doubt her choices will be cosmopolitan, insightful and, I daresay, controversial.’ There was another ripple of even more excited applause.

  Davina smiled vaguely and wondered, cynically, how many of them were actually interested in the project, and how many of them just wanted to know if what the newspapers said about her affair with Jax Coulson was true.

  Jax Coulson was Hollywood’s current favourite, and he’d recently given a statement that his four-year-long relationship with the English Poetess Davina Granger had come to an end because she’d been too wild for him.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to propose a toast—to Davina Granger. Who, as I’m sure you know, has recently been shortlisted for the Nobel Prize for Literature.’

  There was a huge barrage of applause.

  Davina had heard she’d been short-listed for the most prestigious prize of all, on the day after David’s funeral, and had hardly taken it in. She’d had other things to think about. Like, why her brother had committed suicide . . . ?

  Besides, she didn’t rate her chances of actually winning the Prize as very high. She was still young. Still female. Still too controversial to be seriously considered. But, in an environment like this, she realised that it was regarded as a very real honour indeed. She’d have to remember to play it for all it was worth and use it dazzle Dr Gareth Lacey. She was willing to use any and every weapon at her disposal in order to destroy the man who’d destroyed David.

  As the applause died down, and a second-year Exhibitioner in English plucked up the courage to sidle up to her with a copy of her third book of poetry and a pen, she watched the portly, round figure of Dr Gareth Lacey as he talked to the tall, extremely good looking academic beside him. She signed the book, talked to the student about her desire to start a really meaningful literary magazine, and casually wandered over to her target. Long before she got to them, of course, both men stopped talking and turned to look at her. The staid surroundings of the SCR highlighted her unique and exotic beauty, and both men were openly dazzled.

  Surprisingly, it was the tall, handsome man beside Dr Lacey who first caught her attention. As she got closer, she could see that he had large, stormy-grey eyes, thick-lashed, and startling in one of
the most handsome faces she’d ever seen. A square chin beneath chiselled lips that looked wide and mobile and quite, quite sexy. She swallowed back a sudden pang of desire. Now was not the time for that. But the next instant she noticed that he had such long, sensitive hands, and had a sudden image of those hands on her body. Touching her. Caressing her. She blinked, surprised by the swiftness and intensity of the feeling. Her body actually tingled, where she imagined his fingers . . .

  Angrily she dragged her eyes from him. It was the other man she needed to concentrate on. The enemy. Fortunately for her, there was nothing the least sexually attractive about him. Round, red-faced, he looked like somebody’s idea of a human version of Winnie-the-Pooh.

  Funny how outward appearances could be so deceptive.

  She remembered David’s last despairing letter to her, describing this man as a monster in human form. A jealous, manipulative, sarcastic, spiteful presence in his life.

  She’d been disturbed by the sheer force of her usually placid brother’s prose. She’d written back, advising him to ask to be assigned to another tutor.

  Such realistic, prosaic advice. Such useless, inadequate, uncaring advice. If only she’d known how desperate David was. How desperate this man had made him.

  She was aware of Dr Fletcher’s ginger-haired appearance beside her and took a deep calming breath. She had to remember that she not only had to fool Dr Gareth Lacey himself, but also his contemporaries and colleagues. Nobody must realise she was Nemesis in their midst. A goddess of retribution.

  ‘Ah, Gareth, I’d like to introduce you . . .’ Just as they reached them, the round teddy-bear-like man moved slightly forward, revealing a dog collar. Davina blinked. What the hell . . . ? ‘Gareth, meet Davina Granger. She’s most anxious to talk to shop.’

  The tall, dark haired man moved a pace forward.