by T. M. Logan
‘You know why,’ Sarah replied.
‘Doesn’t give him the right to grope you and harass you. If he was my boss I’d report him to HR so fast he wouldn’t know what fucking day it was.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t always work like that at the uni.’
Laura turned away from her chopping for a moment and gestured with the knife, a long black-handled blade that tapered to a wicked point.
‘It bloody should work like that,’ Laura said. ‘It’s like you’re working in the 1950s.’
Sarah smiled. Her friend swore and drank more than anyone she knew, and had an ingrained Yorkshire habit of speaking her mind without any thought of the consequences. Sarah loved her for it. Laura took absolutely no shit from anyone.
They had met at antenatal classes when Sarah was pregnant with Grace and Laura with her twins, Jack and Holly. At first Sarah had been a bit taken aback by Laura’s directness – and her assertion that she wanted all of the drugs available for childbirth, preferably from a week before labour started – but it turned out they had a lot in common. They’d both studied English at Durham, they lived in the same north London neighbourhood and were both keen to get on at work. Laura was head of digital content for a large high street retailer.
Friday night sleepovers had become a monthly feature in their diaries. The four kids all got along well and played endless dressing-up games, even if Harry, as the youngest and smallest, usually seemed to be cast in supporting roles, as a servant, baddie or farmyard animal. He didn’t seem to mind too much, as long as he was included.
They were tucked up in bed now. Laura’s husband Chris was at the pub with mates from his five-a-side football team. Sarah sat at the large kitchen table while her friend busied herself preparing a stir-fry for the two of them. The air was rich with the smell of beansprouts, cashews and chicken already sizzling in the wok.
‘I know it should work like that, Loz, but it doesn’t. It just depends who’s getting accused. In any case, it’s been tried before.’
‘And?’ Laura took a swig of red wine from her glass.
‘And nothing. He’s still there. That’s why they call him the bulletproof prof. And why I have to play the long game, until I get a permanent contract.’
‘Bulletproof prof,’ Laura repeated. ‘What genius came up with that one? Makes him sound like some kind of fucking superhero.’
‘It’s been his nickname for years, long before I got there. Unofficial, of course.’
‘Someone has shopped him before, though?’
‘It’s all whispers in corridors. No one talks about what’s happened openly, it’s all very hush-hush.’
‘Have you talked to any of them? To whoever reported him to HR before?’
Sarah shook her head and took a sip of wine.
‘God no, they’re gone. Long gone.’
‘Shit, really? Gone as in fired, asked to leave? Or gone voluntarily?
Sarah shrugged.
‘It was before my time, but I don’t think most of them are even in academia anymore. There have been a variety of students as well, over the years.’
‘People know, then?’
‘The thing is, Loz, there are two sides to Alan Lovelock. There is the famous Cambridge-educated TV academic, charming and charismatic and incredibly clever, next in line for a knighthood. That’s the public side, the one on display to people most of the time. It’s only when you’re unlucky enough to be a woman on her own with him that you see the other side.’
‘So how many notches on his bedpost have been students and members of staff?’
‘I’m hoping I’m never in a position to see his bedpost.’
Laura snorted and refilled her glass from the nearly empty bottle of red. She was already a glass ahead of Sarah.
‘I don’t get it, though. Why don’t HR just come down on him like a ton of shite? Surely he’s in their sights?’
‘Hmm. I’ll try to explain: imagine the crappest thing you can think of.’
Laura leaned on the countertop, facing her friend.
‘OK. I’m thinking . . . Southern Rail?’
‘Now multiply its crapness by a factor of ten: that’s how effective our HR department is. At best, they’ll give him a slap on the wrist and “Guidance training on appropriate behaviour”. At worst, they’ll say it’s his word against mine and nothing will happen except I’ll find that the next time my contract could be made permanent – in three days’ time – instead it will be Oh sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. Bye-bye contract. Bye-bye job. And either way my career, in my field of expertise, will basically be buggered.’
‘I can’t believe the university still lets him work there. Should have been sacked years ago.’
‘He’s smart. Double first from Cambridge. Never does it where there are witnesses, so it’s always your word against his. There’s never any hard evidence, so the university hierarchy end up giving him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Someone should record him. Catch him in the act.’
‘Except if he catches you doing it you can kiss goodbye to a permanent contract.’
‘Getting him on record would at least give you a fighting chance.’
Sarah indicated the wall-mounted TV, a muted news bulletin showing Donald Trump holding court on the White House lawn.
‘Right – because being caught on tape boasting about harassing women really scuppered his ambitions, didn’t it?’
Laura pulled a face.
‘Ugh. Don’t even get me started on that one.’
She grabbed the remote and flicked to BBC2. Professor Alan Lovelock filled the screen, standing amid medieval ruins and gesticulating at the camera.
‘Jesus,’ she muttered, switching to a film channel, ‘can’t get away from the lanky bastard.’
Sarah sighed and took a sip of her wine.
‘Anyway, the university has a lot of reasons to want to keep him. Nine point six million reasons, to be precise.’
‘So he can do what he likes?’ Laura said. ‘Because of the money?’
There was no question that Professor Alan Lovelock was an outstanding scholar and a gifted researcher – he was one of the best in the world, in his specialist area. That was what had drawn Sarah to his department at Queen Anne University in the first place. But what made him untouchable was that he had landed one of the biggest grants given out to an English department ever: a seven-year grant from an Australian philanthropist worth £9.6m.
‘It’s a massive grant – more than the whole faculty got for the last five years put together. Queen Anne’s top brass are petrified that if life gets uncomfortable here, he’ll just take his grant, and set up somewhere else. And that will blow a massive hole in our research profile, we’ll drop in the league tables, they won’t be able to go on every five minutes about having this famous professor who has his own BBC2 series. Every so often he’ll drop a hint to the dean that Edinburgh and Belfast universities have been sniffing around, just to make it clear that he might walk if he feels like it.’
‘It’s a shame he doesn’t walk off a cliff,’ Laura said and Sarah smiled, but it faded quickly.
‘You know what really gets to me?’
‘Apart from the groping and harassment and discrimination and all the rest of the crap?’
‘What really gets me is that I’ve got an MA and a PhD, a full-time job and a mortgage; I’m married, I’ve got two children, and yet he still calls me “the clever girl” in meetings like I’m the fourteen-year-old work experience kid. I don’t know why I let it wind me up but it’s just maddening. I’m thirty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. He wouldn’t dream of calling any of his young male colleagues something like that.’
‘You won’t change your mind about going elsewhere?’
‘Where would I go? There are only three universities in the UK that have specialist centres on Christopher Marlowe: Belfast, Edinburgh, and us. And Lovelock’s not just one of them, he’s the best, wi
th the biggest grant, the biggest team, the biggest reputation. Switching disciplines now would be like going back to zero and starting again.’
‘I don’t see why you should bloody move, anyway,’ Laura said. ‘You’ve worked hard for this, you love what you do and you haven’t done anything wrong. It would be taking your kids out of good schools to move hundreds of miles away; away from your dad, too. Bugger that.’
‘Quite. Anyway, while we’re on the subject, I’m hoping that there might finally be some good news around the corner.’
Laura raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘How so?’
Sarah reached for her handbag and found the expensive cream envelope that Lovelock had given her in the taxi two nights previously. She handed it to her friend.
‘Bet you can’t guess what that is.’
‘No idea, love,’ Laura said, turning the envelope over in her hands. ‘You’re going to have to give me a few clues.’
‘Open it.’
Laura reached into the envelope and took out the thick embossed card, giving a low whistle.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ She looked up, the smile fading from her face. ‘But you’re not seriously thinking about going to this, are you?’
Sarah nodded.
‘Yes. I think I am.’
4
Laura was incredulous.
‘You are kidding me. Have you gone mad?’
‘I have to show my face. He holds this party every year, on his birthday, but it’s the first time I’ve been invited in two years of working at the university.’
Laura held up the creamy white card and read from the text inside in her best Downton Abbey voice.
‘You are cordially invited to Professor and Mrs Alan Lovelock’s annual charity gala on Saturday 11th November.’
‘His parties are legendary in the faculty. He uses them to raise money for his foundation.’
‘His what?’
‘He has this charitable trust called the Lovelock Foundation. Does lots of fundraising for disadvantaged kids, scholarships, bursaries, all that kind of stuff. And this year he’s also celebrating the publishing deal for his new book. There’s a tie-in with his BBC show so it’s bound to be massive.’
Laura frowned, tossing the invitation onto the kitchen table.
‘But after everything we just talked about, you’re still going to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have gone mad. A few days ago he was putting his hands on you in a taxi and chasing you into your hotel. From what you’ve told me, he’s acted like a massive lecherous pervert for as long as you’ve worked there. And now you’re going to accept an invitation to his party, at his house, like that’s all OK?’
Sarah shifted uneasily in her chair. She desperately wanted her friend to understand why she was doing this. To see the thread of cold, clear logic that ran through everything. If she couldn’t convince her best friend, she couldn’t convince anyone.
‘It’s not OK. That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘It’s like . . . like a test, Loz. A rite of passage. You get senior professors who basically do their utmost to make you feel like shit as you’re coming through the ranks, especially if you’re a woman. It’s like they’re flexing their muscles, showing you your place for a while so you can learn the hierarchy. They want you to be blooded. But now it feels like I’m finally coming out the other side.’
‘You’re justifying it.’
‘I’m not saying it’s right, it’s just how it is. He holds all the cards. But this party is normally only for other professors and associate professors, all the senior staff – never the temporary contract people like me. It’s normally off-limits to us little people.’
‘Thank Christ for small mercies, I would have thought. That’s a blessing, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you want to move your career forward. Play along to get along, as they say.’
‘Even when the person in question is a complete and utter shitweasel with absolutely no redeeming features?’
‘Especially then. This invitation – I think it’s a sign.’
‘A sign that he still wants to get into your knickers?’ She held her hands up. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Actually, I did. Because he clearly does.’
‘A good sign.’
‘You sure you’re not reading too much into this?’
‘He’s never invited me before! The promotions committee is due to meet on Monday, three days from now. And I’ve just had my first invitation to his big, swish, annual fundraising party. Think about it. It can’t be a coincidence – it’s like he’s welcoming me into the inner circle, or something.’
‘Well, it’s about bloody time. But you deserve it, lady.’
‘Thanks, Loz, it feels like it might finally be happening.’
‘Just don’t get carried away before you’ve got the contract, signed, sealed and delivered. OK? We’ve been here before, haven’t we? Last year.’
‘I know. But last year was different. I’ve got a really good feeling about this. This party invitation is basically him telling me that I’ve got the permanent contract.’
‘Tell me you’re not going to go on your own, though? I don’t like the idea of you flying solo when he’s anywhere nearby.’
‘It’s a plus-one invite, but obviously I can’t go with Nick, so . . . ’
She tailed off, raising the wine glass to her lips. She still found it hard to talk about her husband without emotion getting the better of her. Anger and love and despair and hope, all mixed up in a toxic cocktail that tasted as bitter now as when he’d first left.
Laura gave her a sympathetic smile.
‘Has he been in touch this week?’
‘Not since last weekend. That text.’
‘How long is it now?’
‘Four weeks on Monday. Almost a month already. And the kids still ask about him every day.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Every sodding day.’
‘Come here.’ Laura held out her arms and enfolded her friend in a hug. ‘You poor thing. He’ll be back, you’ll see.’
Sarah nodded into her friend’s shoulder but said nothing, tears welling up.
She’d fallen in love with Nick when she was twenty, fallen for the handsome, charming dreamer who did everything so well, so effortlessly, that it was impossible not to be swept along by his enthusiasm. It was impossible not to believe in his dreams of acting on stage and screen – not when he always had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand. But the breakthrough had never quite happened for him. He had had roles here and there, touring productions and stage plays, even the odd bit of TV, but his acting career had never really taken off. And after a dozen years of trying, one day he had just upped and left – gone to ‘find himself’, he said. What a cliché. It was the second time he’d left in eighteen months.
She had no idea when he was going to be back this time. If he was going to be back.
‘He’s still in Bristol?’ Laura asked gently. ‘With what’s-her-name?’
‘Arabella. Yes, I think so.’
‘He always was a daft sod.’
Sarah nodded. It was true enough.
‘Hey,’ Laura said finally, disengaging from the embrace, ‘I could go with you to the party, if you want? Although I’d probably throw a drink in Lovelock’s face in the first five minutes.’
‘You think you’d last five minutes, do you?’
She shrugged and smiled.
‘Maybe five would be pushing it a bit.’
Sarah sniffed and wiped her eyes on a tissue.
‘I appreciate the offer, Loz. But I’ve asked Marie to be my wingman. She’s seen first-hand how he operates. We’ll stick to The Rules, stay together, make sure neither of us are caught alone with him.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure about this?’
Sarah took a breath then looked her in the eyes.
‘It’s something I have to d
o.’
5
Professor Alan Lovelock lived in Cropwell Bassett, a neat little south Hertfordshire village forty minutes from the Queen Anne University campus, in a sprawling, late Victorian six-bedroom pile tucked away at the end of a tree-lined gravel drive. Two saloon cars – a large black Mercedes and a white BMW convertible – were parked in front of a triple garage away from the main house.
‘I had another Midnight Mail last night,’ Marie said as they crunched up the gravel driveway. ‘My third this week.’
Midnight Mail was a trademark of Lovelock’s management style. So-called because it usually arrived in the recipient’s inbox between midnight and 1 a.m. Almost always critical – if in a slightly oblique way – frequently impenetrable, and usually copying in three or four colleagues to increase the embarrassment factor for the recipient. Everyone in the department dreaded waking up to them: a lurking Midnight Mail had the potential to ruin your entire day.
‘What was this one about?’ Sarah said.
‘The research council visit. He slated me publicly a few days ago for not having the arrangements in place, told me to use my initiative and just get on with organising it. Then last night he picked apart what I’d done in forensic detail, explaining how I’d got it wrong and asking if I’d like Webber-Smythe to take over.’
‘Webber-Smythe couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Just tell Lovelock you’re sorry and you’re happy to carry on with it.’
Marie snorted.
‘Should I curtsy and call him sir, as well?’
‘You know what I mean. Just play the game, like we all do. He’s half-drunk when he sends them, apparently – not that it’s any consolation.’
‘He’ll be drunk tonight.’ She gestured to the grand house looming in front of them. ‘Anyway, how does he afford this? Surely it’s too posh for a prof’s salary?’
‘Family money. His dad was an earl, or a baronet or something.’
‘He’s kept that pretty quiet, hasn’t he?’
‘And he’s made a squillion pounds from his TV series and books and everything else.’
‘Smile,’ Marie said, gesturing to a small CCTV lens mounted discreetly above the front door.
