Monday,’ he says gently.
‘No.’ My heart is twisting painfully. ‘I can’t... I can’t... This is not good.’ I move away from him, back into the kitchen. I sip my wine and then turn away from him, staring out of the window at the view I have of a brick wall, sprayed liberally with bright graffiti. It is a fascinating contrast—jagged and sharp, somehow beautiful, too.
There is loveliness in the defacement. Hope in the ruins.
* * *
Olivia’s shoulders shift gently. Her back is to me but I know she’s fighting tears and my organs squeeze up, tightening in my body, hard.
There is a reason these relationships are prohibited. There’s the inherent power mismatch that comes from sleeping with someone over whom you hold a position of strength. There’s a loss of perspective that makes it impossible to carry out your normal functioning.
And this is a perfect example of that.
Would I have even noticed that the group assignment was all Olivia’s handiwork if her words hadn’t drifted into my brain and filled it with her voice? If I hadn’t learned, intimately, how she views life and crime, and how she expresses those views?
And if I hadn’t learned how her beautiful brain works, I wouldn’t have picked this up. And even if I had somehow miraculously guessed that this assignment reflected only Olivia’s work, would I have cared if we weren’t sleeping together?
Would I have bothered to bring it up?
Or would I have laughed at the predicament she found herself in—so much brighter and more motivated than the classmates she’d been grouped with?
Relationships like this, teachers and students, are banned on so many levels. They are problematic in myriad ways. Could someone in my role offer better grades in exchange for sex? Teachers have done it in the past. There was a famous case at another prestigious law school about ten years ago where a professor did just that. She slept with around a dozen students—that went public—male and female. She upped their grades in the initial infatuation period and then burned them once they broke up.
There is an imbalance of power between us. I’m ten years older than she is and in terms of life experience it may as well be twenty. I have accumulated a fat fortune, garnered professional success, and I’m her teacher. And now I’m bringing grades into the equation.
Her shoulders move and I know now she is actually crying. I’m frozen to the spot, my gut twisting painfully.
Why do I even care about the damned group assignment? I’m only lecturing for the summer term. I’m not invested in the school; I’m not really a part of the faculty. Surely I can let this slide? Olivia deserves a distinction. Any other teacher would have awarded the group the mark without questioning it.
So aren’t I the one in the wrong? Because I’m applying knowledge I’ve gained only by virtue of the fact that we have a completely prohibited sexual relationship?
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I hear the words come from my mouth gruffly. ‘Let’s just...ignore it.’
I CAN’T IGNORE IT, THOUGH. Connor’s words hang between us and I continue to stare out of the window, looking at the bridge, biting my lip, hating that tears are running down my cheeks.
I don’t want to cry.
But this is everything I should have known to be afraid of when we started this. The muddying of the academic waters we both swim in.
Waters that I desperately need to remain clear for the rest of the term, before I graduate.
But now that Connor has brought this up, I am uncertain. He can’t change his behaviour because we’ve fucked. And I can’t ask him to.
I lift a hand and subtly wipe my cheeks, pull in a deep breath and then turn to face him. He’s staring at me hard, so that I’m almost knocked off balance when our eyes meet. I swallow.
‘I can’t ask you to change your mind. You have to do whatever you’d do regardless of the fact we’ve...been intimate.’
His lips twist at my turn of phrase. ‘It’s impossible to know what I’d do if we weren’t sleeping together, Olivia. I probably wouldn’t give much of a toss about who wrote the assignment.’ He grimaces. ‘I don’t like the idea of anyone taking advantage of the fact you’re smart and hardworking. That’s going to happen to you a lot if you’re not careful.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘I told you—I wanted to do this.’
‘Because you cared more than they did.’
‘Because I knew I could do it easily,’ I correct. ‘But we shouldn’t talk about school here. If you want to discuss this, then organise for my group to come to your office and involve the others. You can’t let what we are affect how you teach.’
His eyes narrow and he stands, stalking around the bench and into the kitchen. He lifts me easily, parking my butt on the countertop, and he stands between my legs, as I was his a moment ago. ‘This...’ he drops his mouth to mine and kisses me gently; my breath speeds up ‘...affects everything.’
I nod, knowing he’s right. Knowing we are in a perfect conundrum. We can’t act as if our relationship doesn’t make this impossible.
It’s like the reality of this is something I can’t ever get to grips with. Every time I think I have a handle on it, some new realisation detonates. ‘I’ve worked so hard since I’ve been at university. Even getting in. I’m not... I’m not as naturally academic as my sisters and brother.’ I don’t meet his eyes. ‘It’s never been...easy for me.’
He frowns. ‘You’re incredibly bright.’
‘Thinking laterally and having a clear perspective is different to being academic. I have to work hard to get the grades I do. I have studied overtime, I have read and reread every text, I have met with lecturers for additional support.’ My eyes meet his. ‘And if anyone finds out about this, people are going to assume you’re not the first. People are going to wonder if maybe I didn’t sleep with my teachers pro-forma, to get ahead. Aren’t they?’
His eyes pierce me with their intensity and then he jerks his head. ‘There is a risk of that.’
‘God.’ I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘We have got to be so careful, Connor.’
He nods again.
‘I would never do that.’
‘I know.’ He braces my body with his strong hands on either side. ‘I know that.’
‘This is different. I didn’t want to want you...’
‘Believe me, that’s mutual.’ He strokes my hair. ‘I came to London to clear my head and you are definitely not helping.’
My heart turns over and I hear the vulnerabilities deep beneath his confession. ‘Why did you need to clear your head?’
