Needlemouse

by Jane O'Connor

  But I couldn’t say any of this to Millie, of course. I picked up my bag and said we’d miss the beginning of the film if we didn’t get a move on and she made a slightly barbed comment, which I ignored, about being surprised I was so keen to see George Clooney; it’s not like her to be sarcastic.

  The film was better than I had expected and I tried to enjoy it, but my mind kept flitting back to Lola. Every time a woman came on screen I saw something to remind me of Lola’s hair, or eyes or voice. I got an unpleasant, uncomfortable feeling when I recalled the way she’d sat talking to Prof, so animated and passionate about her research and I hadn’t liked the way he’d looked at her. I kept going over it in my head, trying to work out whether his enthusiasm was purely to do with her thesis or whether it was about her as a person.

  No! I know I am being silly. I must stop this. She is not his type physically at all, far too buxom and earthy. But she does have an attractive face with those wide, high cheekbones and those ice-blue eyes. She reminds me of a Scandinavian milkmaid, if there is such a thing, and a saucy one at that. Certainly not an academic in any shape or form. She is also probably married or in a relationship, and she definitely has at least one child. I think long blonde hair simply triggers an unconscious response in men and they are attracted to the woman without any real reason. These days, with extensions and colourists and so on, anyone can have hair like that. My goodness, how often have I seen the most slender, beautifully dressed women with manes of perfect long blonde hair walking ahead of me in the richer parts of London, turning heads from passing men, only to catch a glance of their face and realise with a shock that they are in their sixties or even seventies. It’s the hair that does it. Imagine Lola bald or with a crewcut: Prof wouldn’t give her the time of day.

  All this ruminating over hair meant that I lost the thread of the film halfway through and then had the uncomfortable reality check of realising I was sitting in a large dark room full of strangers, watching a made-up story. The suspension of disbelief should not be taken for granted.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Millie asked, cocking her head to one side as we stood waiting for our buses afterwards ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so spikey, Sylvia, I’m only asking because I care about you. You seem a bit distracted tonight, that’s all. Do you want to come back to ours and Kamal can drop you home later?’

  Absolutely not! I don’t want Kamal within a hundred yards of me. He makes my skin crawl, was what I wanted to say. But I sufficed with a small smile and reassured her I’d be fine, but thanks anyway, just tired.

  ‘I’m sorry about the Neil thing, darling. I did think you might like each other.’ She put her hand on my arm and I shrugged it off and stared at the pavement.

  Millie’s bus came first and as she stepped on she turned around and shoved a book into my bag. ‘I wanted to give you this, it might help,’ she blustered as she tried to give me a hug.

  The bus had pulled away by the time I had retrieved it. It was a flimsy paperback with a dumpy middle-aged woman on the front holding a flower, entitled You and the Menopause: Surviving the Change. Typical of my sister to assume she knows me better than I know myself. I hastily shoved it back in my bag before anyone else at the bus stop saw it. That change happened relatively smoothly several years ago and I certainly didn’t need a book to help me survive it. The only change I am interested in at the moment is getting Lola out of Prof’s life and out of mine. Permanently.

  Tuesday 20 October

  I have been searching through Lola’s personnel and academic files trying to get a handle on who exactly she is and what she’s about. Basic information: she is a thirty-three-year-old single mother of an eight-year-old boy. She has very good undergraduate and Master’s degrees in Sociology from a prestigious university back in her native Ireland. She is currently working part-time as a lecturer at a local sixth form college and is enrolled on the PhD here with Prof as her supervisor. Because of her ‘amazing’ MA dissertation she has got a bursary from the university to do the PhD and this pays her fees and some travel and living expenses too, but obviously not enough for her to give up her job. Her next of kin is her mother, so no partner on the scene. She doesn’t have any disabilities or special needs, but she is allergic to nuts and keeps an epi-pen with her at all times. We are also required to keep one in the office for health and safety reasons. She dropped it in yesterday, looking flustered and embarrassed. She had her little boy with her as it was some sort of teaching training day at his school – he is called Ned and is rather cute with glasses and messy brown hair. He stood at the corner of my desk, munching his way through a bag of jelly babies, watching me eat my quinoa salad with concern.

  ‘Is that all you have for lunch?’ he asked me. Then he offered me one of his sweets, which I politely declined.

  I noticed Lola reach into her bag and stuff a chocolate biscuit into her mouth as she was leaving, saying to Ned that she was starving. She really could do with losing a bit of weight. She is not fat as such, but she is definitely curvy, with big wobbly boobs that seem constantly on the verge of falling out of her top. It annoys me when women just eat whatever they want and don’t try to stay slim and elegant. I have spent most of my adult life controlling and limiting what I eat to ensure that I don’t go over a size eight. Eating too much has been a constant source of anxiety to me, not to the extent of having an eating disorder, but enough to be aware of everything I eat and how many calories it contains and never allowing myself to go over 1300 calories a day. Ever. Additionally, two days a week I only eat 500 calories and once a month I do a weekend juice fast.

  Jonas finds my eating habits perplexing. For him food, the sweeter the better, is to be enjoyed as often as possible. In all the years I have volunteered at that sanctuary never once have I eaten a biscuit, cake, scone or toffee but that doesn’t stop him from offering me at least one of those items every time I go there and then looking surprised when I decline. Paula was just as rotund and used to show her love by baking for him, I gather, so it doesn’t take much to work out why he comfort eats.

  But I know Prof loves skinny women, so I don’t mind sacrificing food for being slender. It’s part of how I show that I love him, demonstrates my commitment to him. If I ever feel hungry or start to crave sweet things or crisps I think of him and enjoy the denial. I suppose that’s what is meant by ‘love is suffering’, and I am happy to suffer for him. Martha is a stick insect. Prof adored her edgy look; he had photos of her all over his office until this most final split, and for a while I thought about trying to emulate it. I even got my hair cut into a bob, but I looked like an ageing schoolgirl, so I wore it in a bun until it had grown shoulder-length again. Clothes-wise, I can’t carry off high fashion and killer heels. I have my own subtle but expensive way of dressing, with silk blouses and cashmere cardigans and knee-length skirts or well-cut suits in muted blues and greys, which I feel is much more becoming to my role and personality. I always wear matching underwear as well, even though Prof doesn’t see it. At the weekends, I’m more relaxed about how I dress; I’ve even been known to spend the weekend in my pyjamas after I get back from the sanctuary, reading old articles and books by Prof. But for work, for Prof, I love to make the effort.

  Like today, for example. It was the monthly departmental finance meeting so I dressed carefully in my pale-pink silk blouse and plum suit, with a string of pearls round my neck for an elegant touch. I always feel a responsibility to turn out nicely for these events as my appearance and demeanour reflect on Prof. I am, after all, his personal assistant, and if I look shabby, colleagues may assume we aren’t running a tight ship over in Darwin building, and that would never do. I love to see Prof suited and booted for these formal gatherings. He usually wears his charcoal grey Italian single-breasted suit with a sharp white shirt (he gets them professionally laundered) and a cerise or silver and black striped tie. Today, however, he was dressed in a double-breaste
d navy suit that I hadn’t seen before, a light-blue shirt and a dark-red tie. He looked divine and I had the absolute pleasure of sitting next to him. It was a 9 a.m. meeting and he still smelled of his morning shower gel, a lemony, minty scent that I will try and remember and track down to buy for myself. His hair was slicked back with wax, giving it a slightly damp look, and his cheeks were flushed pink from his morning shave. I breathed him in as I organised my notebook and pen, ready to take the minutes.

  ‘Coffee, is there coffee?’ Prof craned his neck irritably to look round the room and creased his brow in displeasure as he realised the vital drink was missing. I jumped up, rushed out the door and down the corridor to the kitchen. The catering girl was leaning against the counter in the narrow galley texting on her phone, her mouth chewing steadily on gum, a tray of cups beside her on the side. She looked up lazily as I strode in and then back to her phone.

  ‘Where is the tea and coffee for the meeting room? Is it ready? There should be pastries too.’ It was my fault, really, as it’s my responsibility to ensure everything in the room is ready before the faculty arrives. I didn’t know how I had overlooked this. I had been so focused on making sure I had copied the agenda and the relevant paperwork for everyone that I had forgotten to check the catering had been delivered.

  ‘Yeah, it’s all on the side, I was just going to bring it.’ She still couldn’t draw her eyes away from the screen and I could feel my anger rising.

  ‘They have already started. It needs to be there by ten to. This is completely unacceptable.’ My voice trembled with fury.

  ‘All right, love, wind your neck in, I’m just coming.’ She sniffed loudly, not even slightly perturbed by my tone. ‘I just need to send this text.’

  I snatched the phone off her and it was as if I had flicked an invisible switch, changing her mood from bored insolence to pure rage. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, you stupid old cow?’ She grabbed for the phone and I held it out of her reach, forcing her to take a step towards me. She was so close now I could see the pale roots of her dyed black hair, the sloppily covered spots on her reddening face, and smell her greasy body odour.

  ‘Get the catering delivered to the meeting room immediately.’ My voice shook as I tried to assert my authority, realising with a fearful start that I may have picked a fight with someone with vastly different personal boundaries of behaviour than myself. She lunged towards me and I gave a little yelp as I stepped back, bumping into a large, solid person behind me.

  ‘What on earth is going on in here?’ It was Prof, filling the doorway of the little kitchen, a look of exasperation on his face. ‘Sylvia?’

  I hastily gave the girl back her phone and she stood glowering at me.

  ‘She’s a nutcase, that woman. She stole my phone!’ She held the item right up to Prof’s face as if he needed clarification of what she was referring to.

  ‘Sylvia?’ he said again in confusion.

  ‘She was texting, we needed the coffee, she is totally incompetent at her job, lazy and rude …’ She lunged for me again and Prof put his arm between us.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what is going on here but I need to get back to the meeting. I will speak to you about this later, Sylvia. And … what’s your name?’ He noticed her identity badge. ‘Janine, I will be speaking to your manager. Sue, isn’t it?’ Janine nodded meekly, used to a man in authority taking control, looking for all the world like the naughty schoolgirl she undoubtedly used to be.

  ‘Now, can we have this damn coffee and get on?’ He picked up the tray himself and stormed off down the corridor. I shot the now deflated Janine a poisonous look, grabbed the platter of mini Danish pastries and trotted after him, mentally constructing my defence as I went.

  Prof, consummate professional that he is, showed no indication that the fracas in the kitchen had perturbed him at all and chaired the meeting with his usual combination of efficiency, diplomacy and humour. I kept my head down and took the minutes diligently, not daring to look in his direction. The last item on the agenda concerned funding for PhD students to go to international conferences. The recurrence and subsequent rejection of this issue that came up at every finance meeting was something of a long-standing joke and I waited with pen poised to note the latest reason for vetoing this possibility before we moved on to any other business and the close of the meeting. Mine was not the only head to shoot up in surprise when Prof announced that we would be welcoming a student representative to put forward the case for such funding and then there would follow a vote on whether to take it forward.

  ‘Could you go and fetch Miss Maguire, please, Sylvia. She should be waiting outside.’ I got up like an automaton and walked across the room. I could see her blonde hair through the glass in the door and, as I opened it, the whiff of her musky perfume caused a wave of nausea that I had to swallow down.

  ‘Come in, Lola,’ I said and she flounced past me without saying thank you.

  I closed the door and went to go back to my seat then realised that Lola had already sat herself down in it. I glanced urgently at Prof. Surely he wouldn’t allow that? He must have seen that I was still there. But he said nothing and instead launched into a fawning introduction of Lola as an ‘outstanding doctoral student’ and a complicated explanation of why her research needed to be presented at the upcoming conference in Rome. I stood awkwardly by the door, waiting for his proposal to be rejected by the faculty members, but some were already nodding earnestly, Dr Bastow and Dr Kofi staring at Lola’s cleavage in the inappropriately low-cut top she had chosen to wear this morning.

  ‘Can we hear from Ms Maguire, please?’ I could have cheered for Professor Scott with her grey bun and half-moon specs who was clearly not ready to acquiesce solely on the basis of Lola’s physical appearance.

  Prof waved his hand theatrically in Lola’s direction and Lola widened her eyes and cleared her throat before addressing the room, hesitantly at first and then, with frequent glances at Prof for reassurance, with more confidence.

  ‘The conference in Rome is about social class and education. It is a large conference with people, erm, I mean, delegates from all over the world.’ She paused and then added unnecessarily, ‘It’s an international conference.’

  ‘Yes, most are,’ Professor Scott said, not unkindly. ‘Could you please explain to us why it is important that you attend.’ She picked up her pen expectantly, smiled, and looked at Lola over the rim of her glasses.

  ‘It’s, erm, I mean, my research is in that area.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I am exploring how the use of language in the home impacts on the educational attainment of children in the English school system and comparing this to a similar cohort in Germany.’

  ‘And do you speak German, Ms Maguire?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Lola was gaining momentum now. ‘My mother is German, so I speak it fluently and I think it is important to compare the educational experiences of children in different countries.’ Professor Scott raised her eyes in anticipation of further elucidation. ‘In relation to restricted codes – that is, the limited vocabulary and literacy levels some children start school with and how this may affect their final exam results when they leave school.’

  She had pressed the right button with Imogen Scott by mentioning young children and she beamed at Lola.

  ‘Yes, literacy in the early years is vitally important. What an interesting project. I can see why this will be of relevance to the conference. Professor Lomax,’ she said, turning to Prof, ‘I assume you will also be attending? We don’t want one of our new academics all at sea; an accompanying mentor would be most helpful.’

  ‘Most certainly, Imogen. I will hold her hand all the way.’

  Everyone laughed, Lola loudest of all, and I looked on with dismay as the table agreed unanimously that if her paper was accepted then Lola should be funded to attend the Rome conference with Prof, and started to gather their papers together ready for the end of the meeting.

  ‘
But … but …’

  ‘Yes, Sylvia?’ Imogen turned towards me.

  ‘We have never done this before … I mean, there is no form for this funding.’ I tailed off, realising how pathetic I sounded.

  ‘Well, let’s not allow the lack of a form to stand in the way of sharing significant research with the international academic community, eh Sylvia?’ Dr Bastow said, as he stood and reached for his coat, his eyes glued to Lola’s cleavage.

  There were a few quiet guffaws at that and I felt my cheeks redden as I gathered up the paperwork. The temptation to note on the minutes that Lola’s request for funding had been rejected was strong, but I knew it was a fait accompli. This wasn’t a decision that could get forgotten in a pile of papers or lose its way en route to the finance office. Prof was expecting Lola to accompany him to Rome and accompany him she would. To add to the sting, it would be my job to book her place at the conference and organise her travel and hotel arrangements.

  ‘Lola, once we know that your paper has definitely been accepted by the conference committee, Sylvia will sort everything out for you.’ Myself, Prof and Lola were the last people in the room and they were glowing with their success. ‘Just tell her when you want to travel and so on. Well done. You presented your case articulately and you deserve this opportunity.’ He patted her on the shoulder and they held what seemed to be an inappropriately long and happy look.

  As Lola gathered her things and left, I was caught between wanting to linger and spend a few moments alone with Prof and being anxious that he would reprimand me about the earlier squabble with the tea girl.