full of stories I tell myself I don’t want to share, even as they press against the seams of my skin.
But he exposed it for what it is:
A ridiculous sham, created by a coward.
Even after all of that I still try to pull the wool over his eyes. I take him the tamest story I have, full of hints instead of flesh-and-blood descriptions and characters hiding behind high collars. There is nothing graphic or full-bodied about this one – though I somehow convince myself that he will like it anyway. That this one is better, tighter, cleaner.
It’s almost a shock when he lashes me with a sharp look, two minutes into reading. He hasn’t even gotten to page three. There are twenty more to go, but he stops, one eyebrow quirking up at the very outer edges, a certain sort of feigned confusion all over his face.
‘Would you mind explaining what this is?’
‘You said to bring you a story. So I brought you one.’
‘I think you will find that what you have brought me here is a slice of white bread. And saying that, quite frankly, is an insult to bread.’
‘I thought you’d like it more than the other one.’
‘Now you’re just intentionally lying to me.’
‘I’m honestly not. This one just seemed less inappropriate.’
‘I see. And what did you think was inappropriate about the first one?’
‘You know what was inappropriate about the first one.’
‘I am afraid I don’t. Please feel free to elaborate for me.’
The worst part about him saying that is not the words themselves. It’s the gestures that accompany it. The way he sits back in his chair, as though settling in for this imaginary show. One hand poised on the arm as though holding a non-existent marking pen, the other spreading and splaying in a sort of flourish that almost seems familiar now.
I’ve seen him do it before, at least. He does it when he wants a student to make an utter arse of themselves – which I am absolutely not going to do. I take a deep breath and grit my teeth, then just lay it all out for him in as clear and practical terms as possible. No obfuscation. No fluttering. Straightforward and firm, as though I am a different person who understands the word ‘poise’ and the word ‘practical’.
‘All right. All right. I would just really rather not hear you say “penis”. I feel mortified that I even said “penis” in front of you. I can barely call you anything but Professor and you refer to me as Miss Hayridge. Every time we talk it feels like we’re meeting for the first time at the Netherfield ball, which just makes penises seem really, really not OK to discuss.’
I sit back, satisfied that I’ve made my point.
Only he has this other one to raise, that I didn’t even think of.
‘Did you just reference Pride and Prejudice in a conversation about penises?’
‘What? What do you –’
‘Netherfield, from Pride and Prejudice.’
‘It was just the first olde-timey event that came to mind.’ I pause then, suddenly very aware that I have to make this seem like the height of reason, instead of what it is already becoming in my head. We made a pass at him, somehow, my mind whispers frantically, and I am not sure I can call my mind wrong. I can only cover it all over, with another rushed and probably ill-advised comment. ‘I could have used something less romantic like the one from The Way We Live Now, but I think Felix Carbury snogs Marie Melmotte there so that probably seems just as bad.’
‘You believe Carbury’s false overtures to Marie are as bad. That somehow his opportunistic greed and lazy attempts at winning her are on the same romantic level as the greatest love story in the English language.’
I don’t know what flummoxes me more. His astonishingly perfect deadpan or the fact that he admitted something was a great love story. Before today I wouldn’t have thought he knew what love was. I definitely would not have believed he would see it in Austen’s work. He’s supposed to call it ironic. He should talk about it like he did Remains of the Day – though then again those thoughts were just lies.
Who knows what else he makes up on a daily basis?
‘I like the way he woos her, even though it’s all just pretend.’
‘And you honestly tried to argue that duty is more important than passion?’
‘In hindsight that was completely ridiculous of me.’
‘No more ridiculous than thinking I cannot handle a penis,’ he says, and then I have to stop for a second. Aside from the fact that I’m sweating and sort of breathless in a way people only usually get after being swept into someone’s arms, he just said that.
And he said it pointedly, too, in a way that makes me wonder if…
‘Oh. Oh. I had no idea, Professor, I thought –’
‘Lord, I was not admitting my homosexuality, Miss Hayridge. Please refrain from sharing that theory around the canteen – people do that enough as it is.’
‘People share things about you around the canteen?’
‘The latest, I believe, is that I have an insane ex-wife locked in my attic, despite having neither an ex-wife nor indeed an attic.’
‘So you have never been married then.’
Now it’s his turn to look startled.
Only slightly, of course. One side of his mouth twitches, and his eyelashes sort of flicker in a way that could be read as a tiny widening. But the thing is, slight twitches and tiny eyelash flickers are enough, for someone with a granite face.
‘I am not sure what relevance that has.’
‘No relevance at all. I was just curious.’
‘And you think being curious about my dull life will serve you well.’
‘Considering this is the first time I ever dared ask anyone so terrifying such a direct question about anything I’m going to say yes.’
‘You find me terrifying, Miss Hayridge?’ he asks, and I honestly can’t tell.
Is he sincerely wondering, or just messing with me?
His slightly raised right eyebrow suggests the former.
But the strange new glint in his eye suggests something else.
‘You’re seventeen feet tall with a chest that could probably deflect bullets and a voice that might be capable of commanding the winds. You know everything about everything – including things about me that I barely even realised myself. And when you get angry, your anger lies in wait like a cobra, then strikes someone dead before they even know there is any danger. Yes, you are terrifying, Professor. But I should probably also say that no one has ever made me feel more like I’m worth something
