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Bill
2000
At 6.13pm on 4 July 2000, a glass of fizz in one hand and a cheese-and-chive blini in the other, there was little to suggest that this would be the Graduation Day that would stick in Dr Bill Scattergood’s mind. After nearly two decades in academia, they had all congealed into an indistinct gobbet of recollection, a nebulous blur of mortar and charcuterie boards. He vaguely recalled watching the first cohort he had taught cross the stage nearly twenty years ago, feeling like a proud father – or at least how he imagined one might feel. But the others could have been two or twelve years ago. And these days, Dr Bill Scattergood struggled to summon up a discernible fuck about any of them.
But this one was destined to make its mark.
Bill sipped his champagne – and it actually was champagne, the exclusive Bathory College didn’t cut corners with Kwik Cava prosecco – and surveyed the throngs of giddy students and their proud parents before him. Anyone who believed in the unique existential spark that differentiated all humans had never worked in the cyclical word of education – you soon realised that the same archetypes appeared time and time again. The Class of 2000 boasted all the usual suspects: The Jock (Ed Fortescue-Smythe), The Nerd (Ryan Connors), The Bimbo (Tillie Huntingdon), The Bad Boy ( Jared Dysart), The Oddball (Marty Jenkins), The Nice Guy (Rob Collins), The Musician (Laurence Taylor), The Singer (Diana Douglas), The Actress (Lilah Douglas) . . . He’d seen them all before – and would see them many times again. Or so, at that moment, he had the luxury of thinking.
The festivities always followed the same format – the late-afternoon graduation ceremony in the amphitheatre (mercifully to be moved to the new theatre the following year – the outdoor stone seating inspired little but piles), followed by drinks with the parents and family members in the grandiose splendour of the ballroom from 5.30pm. At 7pm, the Bathory gong sounded, signalling it was time for the hangers-on to leave, allowing the students and faculty one final night of debauchery. And as a young, hotshot lecturer in his mid-twenties, Bill had gladly debauched. Back then, he was barely older than the students he taught and had drunk with them all day and partied with them all night. Bathory College, one of the nation’s few remaining private universities, might not have proven the hotbed of intellectual rigour to which he had aspired. But, with this much money sloshing about, it sure knew how to throw a party.
Officially freed from such scant ethical considerations as existed in the eighties, he had been able to respond to the advances of students who had been variously batting their eyelids – or more forthright anatomy – for the previous three years. In years gone by, he’d kissed Faye, Sunitra, Amie S and Jurgen (seemed fitting for an expert in intertextual sexuality to test his own hypothesis – the results were inconclusive), slept with Annie and Caroline and even entered into a brief and ill-considered cohabitation with Anna. But, like all doomed liaisons, Love arrived with roses and left with the toaster. After his relationship with Anna imploded, Bill made a conscious and considered choice never to become involved with a student again. It was far too complicated and he was far too old. Matters of the heart – or more forthright anatomy – had hitherto remained a mystery to Bill in midlife.
But that was before Mags.
Bill found himself looking around the reception for his undisputed favourite student. Lecturers weren’t supposed to have favourites, although that hadn’t stopped anyone he had worked with for the past twenty years. Mags Howell was The Mature Student of the Class of 2000. Mature students always followed one of two trajectories: they either left the youngsters in the dust or quit in the first six months when they remembered why they never went to university in the first place. Mags incontrovertibly belonged in Column A. She was possessed of a lacerating intelligence and analytical rigour that he rarely discovered in his colleagues, let alone his students, and it was electrifying to be around. She had enrolled at Bathory as a response to entering her forties and exiting her marriage. It had been a privilege to watch her shed the skins of her previous life as the three-year programme had progressed, to see her blossom and metamorphose into the confident, self-possessed, ambitious woman she should always have been.
And Bill absolutely fancied the living crap out of her.
He scanned the ballroom again and a wave from the other side caught his eye. It was Rob Collins, one of his finest students. Rob manually signalled they should have a drink later and Bill returned a thumbs-up. But where was Mags . . . ?
‘Hi, Bill.’
The breathy tones of Tillie Huntingdon put the lecturer on high alert. After so many years in the business, Bill had developed an instinct for a female student with a crush. And he knew better these days than to encourage it.
‘Hello, Matilda,’ he replied formally. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here today.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Doc,’ Tillie giggled, twirling a strand of blonde hair round her finger playfully. ‘I’m not going to let a teeny thing like not actually getting my degree get in the way of a jolly good party! There are so many other ways to celebrate . . .’
She parted her lips and licked her upper teeth in a brazen act of invitation. Bill smiled politely at Tillie and took both a sip of champagne and a step away.
‘Hey, Doc!’ came an exuberant voice behind him. He turned and smiled at the vibrant young woman in front of him, sporting, as was her custom, an ornate pair of pink glasses and an elaborate . . . something in her hair. A fascinator, was it? Fashion was not Bill’s strong suit.
‘Hi, Lilah,’ he said warmly. ‘Congratulations on the Brontë Medal. Your family must be so . . .’
Bill winced at his own stupidity – Lilah Douglas and her twin sister Diana had been orphaned as younger teens when their gambling tycoon father crashed the helicopter he had insisted upon flying, obliterating their mother with him. Now twenty-one and possessed of their trust funds, the Douglas twins were wealthy young heiresses. But days like these, surrounded by students and their gushing parents, must surely have left them feeling impoverished indeed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said gently, resisting the urge to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m an idiot . . .’
‘You’re certainly not that, Doc,’ Lilah laughed kindly. ‘And I appreciate the sentiment. No one was more surprised than me . . . except maybe Diana. Between you and I, I think she was hoping for the Brontë – anything to get her hands on Josiah’s Cock. She snatched it straight off me after the ceremony.’
Bill couldn’t help sharing his student’s naughty smile. Winning the medal had afforded Lilah the honour of leading the graduation procession, holding the phallic totem of Bathory College, the ceremonial mace named for the institution’s founder. Legend had it that Josiah Stitchwell’s ashes were contained in the bulbous end of the mace. Which was fitting, as the puritanical, misogynist, religious zealot who built Bathory was, indeed, a proper cock.
‘Your sister’s essay was excellent,’ Bill replied, ‘but yours was incandescently brilliant. You walked away with the prize.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Lilah said modestly. She was a sweet kid.
‘So, tell me, what are your plans for next year?’ he enquired of the class Actress. ‘Are you off to tread the boards?’
‘Ah – I wish,’ Lilah grimaced. ‘I applied to all the drama schools, but . . .’
She shrugged, the brief disappointment that had coloured her face eradicated by a luminous smile.
‘Their great loss,’ said Bill gently.
‘Sure it is,’ she said with forced joviality. ‘I’m thinking about doing the English Lit Masters at St Mary’s. But I hear it’s ferociously competitive . . .’
Bill’s duty of care to his students had ended earlier that day. But something about Lilah made him want to help her. She’d lost her parents, was struggling with her dreams. He rarely felt like a force for good in the exalted Bathory environs. Perhaps now was his moment?
‘Listen . . . Delilah,’ he said. ‘My friend Jim runs the MA at St Mary’s. You’re right – their programme is highly competitive – but on the strength of that dissertation, I’d fancy your chances. I would be delighted to propose you – and I think just a few tweaks to your essay would give you an outstanding application. I would be more than happy to work on it with you if you’d . . . ?’
He stopped himself. He needed to be very mindful about his manner around female students. It was all too easy for them to get the wrong idea.
‘Why would you do that?’ Lilah asked with genuine surprise.
Bill didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. This time he did put a gentle hand on Lilah’s shoulder.
‘Because I want to,’ he said softly.
Lilah glanced at his hand and Bill quickly withdrew it. You couldn’t be too careful. Every conversation was a disciplinary waiting to happen. One of his colleagues had been hauled up before the executive team for commenting on a student’s haircut. He couldn’t be cautious enough. Especially with promotion within his grasp . . .
Bill tried to quell the excitement at the thought of the professorship which must surely be coming his way. He’d paid his dues, and his teaching and research credentials were unparalleled in the department – there was no logical reason why the post shouldn’t be his. But academia could be curiously illogical. And Bill would reserve celebration until his promotion was signed on the dotted line.
‘That’s so kind of you, Doc,’ Lilah said, a slight blush colouring her face as her boyfriend came over to join them. ‘I don’t know what to—’
‘There you are, beautiful. Here’s your drink. And I can’t go another moment without kissing you,’ said Ed with a hard smile, coming up behind Lilah and grabbing his girlfriend round the waist for a clinch. Ed Fortescue-Smythe didn’t hold or embrace. He clutched and pawed. Lilah was an accomplished and – not that Bill would dare to venture the opinion out loud – beautiful young woman. Ed had no chin. Love was a mystery indeed. ‘So what’s going on here, then? This man giving you trouble?’
It was said as a joke, but not meant as one. That was very much Ed’s milieu. A Skid Row thug in a Savile Row suit. A thug that, if Bill wasn’t mistaken, was sporting a slightly fat lip . . .
‘Not at all, darling,’ Lilah laughed, giving her beau a reassuring kiss, thereby missing his licentious gaze over Tillie Huntingdon’s passing curves. ‘I was just boring the good doctor silly with my career plans . . .’
‘You were doing no such thing,’ Bill reassured her. ‘It’s always a pleasure to . . .’
‘How much of a pleasure?’ Ed said, the smile hardening further.
‘We were just discussing the MA I told you about,’ Lilah said softly. ‘It was entirely—’
Lilah was interrupted by a hard knock from a passing student. Bill watched Ed’s hackles rise as Lilah stumbled forward . . . But, unusually, Ed backed down once he registered the cause of the disruption.
‘Sorry, m’lady,’ said Jared Dysart with a lascivious wink at Lilah. ‘Surprised you didn’t see me coming. Although it can be arranged . . .’
Bill could feel the tension ratchet up. Anyone else who spoke to Lilah like that would already be on their way to Rington A&E. But this was Jared Dysart. And even Ed Fortescue-Smythe wouldn’t mess with him.
‘Mind your manners,’ Lilah snapped back, apparently sharing none of her boyfriend’s caution. ‘And watch where you’re going.’
‘Apologies, m’lady,’ said J.D. with a mocking bow. ‘And if I’m gonna watch something, I’d better make it worth my while, yeah?’
He swept Lilah’s body with a look of undisguised lust, which was met by mocking scorn from Lilah and a cowardly eye-deflection from Ed. J.D. sauntered off into the crowd.
‘Er . . . sorry, Dr Scattergood. For that and my dad earlier,’ came the stuttering apology from Ryan Connors as he gently brushed past Bill’s arm. Ryan was the techno-wiz of the cohort, making his decision to study English a total mystery. He was a nice kid, too nice for this world, perhaps, and, judging by the look he gave Ed, something not nice had recently passed between them.
‘No apology necessary on either score, Ryan,’ Bill said kindly, but the charming nerd had already dissolved into the crowd. Ryan did that. He blended – perhaps a little too easily.
‘Right, Diana’s doing her turn in a minute and I should get near the front,’ Lilah said cheerily, dragging Ed away. ‘You coming, Doc?’
‘Er, thank you, but no. I . . .’
He searched again for Mags. Where was she?
A few tinkling chords from the piano brought the crowd to an anticipatory hush as Laurence Taylor and Diana Douglas took to the stage. They were a regular double act at Bathory, although only musically as far as Bill was aware. Bill knew little of music, but, from what he could tell, Laurence was an accomplished pianist, his fingers performing effortless acrobatics up and down the keys as he played the tune by heart, with Diana’s enchanting voice making them a fine duet. Diana looked over at Bill and smiled nervously. Bill had suspected the other Douglas sister was also sweet on him, although she had been rather more subtle about it than Tillie. Diana was the quieter of the Douglas twins and he could have mistaken her reserve for coquettishness . . . but, as he regularly did for the avoidance of any doubt, Bill had reallocated both young women to female supervisors. As Bill watched Laurence gazing adoringly at Diana, he could recognise a boy who was smitten. And he knew something of that.
Diana began to sing, softly cupping the microphone as she delivered the opening line to ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ in a near perfect imitation of Ella Fitzgerald. Diana Douglas was The Singer of the year group and had an uncanny ability to mould her voice to sing like anyone from Liza Minnelli to Leonard Cohen. This talent also made her an irksomely good mimic. Many of Bill’s seminars had been brought to a hysterical halt as she perfectly intoned his voice and made outlandish comments about his colleagues on the faculty – often with terrifying apercu.
Diana’s voice lilted over the crowd as she told the timeless tale of looking for that certain someone.
‘Aren’t we all?’ came the most welcome whisper in his ear.
Bill felt a smile warm from his core. She’d found him. ‘Might I remind you, Margaret,’ Bill whispered back, ‘about the stringent campus guidelines regarding sexual harassment?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mags whipped back with an impish wink. ‘I’ll try to live up to them.’
His smile migrated urgently south. This wasn’t merely a physical attraction – Bill had seen enough pert, pretty young things totter in and out of his classes over the years not to have his head turned at forty-five years old. Indeed, not that he had any objectivity on the subject any more, but Mags perhaps wasn’t an objectively beautiful woman – she certainly hadn’t stood out to him at first. But she had . . . a quality. She was gregarious without being obnoxious, fun while always remaining classy and had somehow managed to teeter on the edge of suggestion for three years without ever crossing the line.
When Bill had been assigned as her dissertation supervisor, he treasured their weekly meetings, the chance to spend an hour – usually two – alone in her company conversing, debating, laughing . . . Every minute felt more substantial with her, as though it carried more heft than the flimsy others that filled his days. It had been on the skin of his lips any number of times to ask if she wanted to continue their meetings – which were always the shortest hours of his week – at a local pub or restaurant afterwards, to tease the comfort of their academic relationship into the real world, where he was as sure as he could be that they had a future beyond Bathory. He felt a guilty twinge – perhaps he had been a little too focused on Mags and not enough on her dissertation. As the unassailably top student in the year, Mags’s high-scoring first had not been a surprise. Her slightly lacklustre final essay, which never lived up to the promise of their tutorials together, had been. Bill would have laid money on the prestigious Brontë Medal going her way. But even Bill had to admit that Lilah was the more deserving recipient. However reluctantly.
As Diana crooned on stage, Mags’s fingers brushed the back of Bill’s hand. Was that deliberate? Whether it was or not, he felt an electrifying jolt run through him. Touch was a curious thing. From a mere fraction of one hand, the lightest of touches could elicit more eroticism than the whole of another body. He wanted Mags so much. Could he . . . ? Should he . . . ?
He turned to look at his now former student and her dancing blue eyes told him everything he needed to know. A wicked half-smile flavoured her lips. This was their night. And they both knew it.
Age and a litany of disastrous sexual collisions had taught Bill the crucial distinction between chemistry and compatibility. Chemistry was just that – a reaction between two elements that could either create a lasting compound or burn out in a flash. Compatibility was a different matter. Compatibility was the rack that held the test tube – rather more functional and considerably less exciting, but essential for the reaction to take place. Chemistry was all well and good, but not if you had no way of holding it up. He and Anna had chemistry, but no compatibility. He and Jurgen had compatibility – mostly around their shared enthusiasm for Real Madrid – but no chemistry. But he and Mags? They felt like two elements who could burn brightly for years.
Diana’s performance started to build towards its impassioned climax. Ella wanted her someone. And so did Bill.
He took a breath. It was time. He wasn’t sure how he was going to ask it. Or even if he should. But he had to. He just needed to see what words came out when he opened his . . .
‘Meet me at the gazebo at nine,’ Mags whispered before he could. ‘I’ve got something I need . . . Just meet me at nine.’
Bill scrutinised the rest of the smile as it illuminated Mags’s face. He wasn’t one for romantic folly – that belonged in the pages of a novel.
But, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, he had fallen in love.
The English Lit lecturer scanned his vast databanks of romantic verse for a suitable response.
‘Okay,’ he whispered back as Mags took her smile to the other side of the room, Diana’s final note barely escaping her lips before the room delivered a rapturous round of applause.
Bill clapped politely before doing the rounds, managing that quick drink with Rob and another brief flirt with Mags before starting to surreptitiously make his way towards the back of the ballroom. He was just congratulating himself on making it outside unnoticed, when he felt himself back into a solid mass of human.
‘I-I’m so sorry,’ he stuttered – and that was before he realised he had run into J.D., Bathory’s own one-man crime wave and the prodigal son of one of the area’s largest and most nefarious dynasties.
He waited a moment. There was no great physical presence to J.D. Indeed, he was rather a slight young man. But he had . . . an aura. One with which Bill already regretted colliding. J.D. and his labyrinthine felonious connections could cause anyone any manner of trouble.
‘No drama, Doc,’ he said slowly, his laconic voice dripping with what Bill believed the youngsters called ‘street’. ‘And I wanted to have a word with you, yeah.’
‘You did?’ Bill said, tensing again. If campus lore was to be believed, J.D. preferred to let his fists to do the talking. He was riven with dichotomy – a devoutly Christian delinquent, an academically gifted gangster, the sworn defender of Rob Collins, the straightest arrow in the year . . . Bill would have been fascinated by Jared.
If he hadn’t been quite so entirely shit scared of him.
‘I did,’ J.D. continued. ‘Lotta people round here won’t gimme the time of day. Think I’m rough. Think I’m scum. It ain’t nice, Doc. It ain’t nice at all.’
‘I would think not,’ Bill replied cautiously. ‘But you,’ said Jared, pointing a heavily ringed finger at his lecturer, ‘you helped me, Doc. You believed. I thank God for your teachings, yeah. You got a friend in me.’
He held out his hand and Bill took it – although failed to understand the elaborate handshake that ensued.
‘Well, Jared, honestly, it’s really been my—’
J.D. suddenly grabbed Bill’s hand and yanked him close. Regardless of his rendezvous with Mags, Bill would certainly now be requiring new trousers.
‘And anyone give you beef, Doc,’ he said in a deep whisper, ‘you just let me know, yeah. I’ll make it disappear. Like that.’
He clicked his fingers and Bill jumped.
‘That’s very kind of you, Jared,’ he said slowly. ‘And congratulations on your first. You’ve been a great student.’
‘Had a great teacher, innit,’ said J.D., with something approaching a smile. ‘Go with God, brother. Blessings to you and yours, yeah.’
‘Er . . . g-good . . . blessings . . . to you too,’ Bill stuttered, stumbling further across the lawn, where he allowed himself to actually breathe. He’d survived three years of Jared Dysart. And he suspected there were few who could claim that.
‘Early bath, Doc?’ came a voice through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘You really can’t commit to anything these days, can you . . . ?’
Bill steeled himself before turning to face his undisputed least-favourite student. J.D. might have scared him. But Ed Fortescue-Smythe most certainly did not.
‘Forgive me if I don’t take commitment advice from the student with a lower attendance record than Lord Lucan,’ he replied with no attempt to disguise his contempt. Since the provost had inexplicably handed Ed his degree this afternoon, Bill had been off the clock. He didn’t have to be nice to this prick any more. Ed’s hard smile returned and he stepped closer.
‘You should choose your words more carefully, Doc,’ Ed whispered, rakish mockery in his tone. ‘The wrong ones can cause all kinds of trouble.’
‘Which is why I take extra care to choose them correctly,’ Bill interjected calmly. ‘Despite enthusiastic and repeated attempts to the contrary. As well you know. Edward.’
They held each other’s gaze. In this conversation, at least, Bill knew he had the power. And, failing that, there was always J.D.’s offer of assistance.
‘Relax, Doc!’ said Ed with a hearty, yet heartless laugh, slapping several of Bill’s vertebrae out of line. ‘Like you say. No one’s done anything wrong. So no one has anything to worry about. Do we.’
It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Not at all,’ Bill replied. ‘And I suggest we both look forward to a long and happy future with precisely nothing to do with each other.’
Ed nodded with a grim smile. ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘Good luck. Doctor Scattergood.’
He swaggered away. Ed always swaggered. He could afford to.
Bill quickly put it from his mind and started determinedly back towards his flat in the grounds.
Although had he not, perhaps he might have dwelt a little longer on why Ed Fortescue-Smythe had felt any need to wish him luck.
Despite being somewhat limited in his sartorial options – he was an academic, his kind were hardly celebrated for their dress sense – Bill still found himself in an unprecedented dither about what to wear for his rendezvous with Mags. The jacket and tie he’d been wearing all day felt too formal, jeans not formal enough. He briefly flirted with a combination of the two – but mercifully pulled himself back from the brink when he realised that it wasn’t 1987 and he wasn’t Magnum, P. I.
The dress code for the prom was black tie – but Bill hadn’t frequented that part of the evening for some years and wasn’t about to now. Watching a group of twenty-somethings make terrible choices about alcohol consumption and worse ones about sexual health was a younger man’s game. Although didn’t women have a thing about tuxedoes? He guessed Mags wasn’t planning to stay long either given the time she’d picked for their . . . And there lay another issue. What was this? He had assumed from the whispered suggestion that this was a romantic liaison . . . but what if he’d grabbed the wrong end of the stick? What if she was just whispering because Diana was singing? What if she merely wanted a reference? What if she wasn’t happy about something?
But the logical – or, at least, hopeful – part of his brain dismissed all three scenarios out of hand. Mags could have grasped plenty of opportunities for any of those more formal conversations. Why choose a secluded gazebo under the cover of darkness? No. He was as sure as he could be – bolstered by twenty years’ experience of scrutinising the words of others for sexual subtext at his elbow – that this was a romantic assignation. And he needed to look really hot.
The process – or at least the attempt – didn’t absorb as much time as Bill had hoped. The lengthy shower, considered hair styling and forensic nose-hair extraction had taken up well over an hour. But it was all still insufficient to fill the gaping void of minutes between being alone and being together – please God, being together – with the woman he loved. It was strange to consider it. But Bill Scattergood realised that these could be his last hours as a single man. If this went as he hoped – and as it should – he and Mags were going to declare their hands and hearts tonight. And somehow Bill just knew, in the core of his being, that this would be it for him. His destination. In Mags, Bill had found his Elizabeth Bennet, his Catherine Earnshaw, his Juliet, his Beatrice. Sure, she might have to brush up on her knowledge of Real Madrid’s back three and he’d certainly have to familiarise himself with the oeuvre of Destiny’s Child. But they had a lifetime to work out the kinks.
With more time to spare than he could possibly use, Bill headed back out of the grace-and-favour apartment that came with the job and made his way towards the gazebo.
‘Hi, Marty,’ he said to the student on a bench he passed. ‘Enjoying the celebrations?’
‘I am not,’ Marty slurred. ‘I’ve decided to obliterate my consciousness with alcohol, just as the government wants. It’s the only reason it’s not been banned. The politicians are hoping we’ll all be too drunk to notice what’s really going on.’
‘Oh well, have fun,’ Bill replied, not stopping. Marty was a nice enough kid, but, as the year’s resident conspiracy theorist, he marched to the beat of a slightly different drum. And tonight Bill wasn’t in the mood for his nonsense. But Marty did remind him to return to his flat and collect the champagne and glasses he thought would be a classy touch.
He could hear the prom festivities in full swing in the ballroom – something elicited a gigantic cheer – and he wished them well. Bill felt good about the world in general tonight. He was about to find his happy. He was glad that others were too.
The giddy lecturer was just passing the building site for what would become the new theatre when he heard his name being called. It was Professor Alan Florington. The vice chancellor. His boss. Bill winced. He had more time than he needed – he was still half an hour early – but he didn’t have enough time to get bogged down in a work conversation with Alan.
‘Leaving the youngsters to it, eh?’ said Alan, his words and his walk slightly less steady than usual. He’d had a few drinks. Many few, it appeared.
‘Absolutely,’ said Bill, putting the champagne bottle behind his back, not that Alan appeared to have noticed. ‘Every year that passes, I feel more like a father at a school dance. Time to bow out, methinks.’
Alan laughed uproariously, although Bill wasn’t sure why. But he did sense an opportunity. It wasn’t entirely professional. But, given that he was about to declare his love to a woman who had only ceased being a student five hours previously, workplace ethics weren’t uppermost in his mind. And so, after far too many minutes of tedious shop talk, Bill seized his moment.
‘Speaking of next year,’ Bill began, even though they hadn’t been, ‘I was wondering when we’re going to find out about the professorship? It would be great to get ahead of the game in the summer . . .’
‘Bloody good for you,’ Alan slurred. ‘And I’m sure Katherine will appreciate you putting your best foot forward . . .’
‘Katherine?’ Bill interrupted, his heart frosting over. ‘Katherine Watts? From Easthampton Uni?’
‘That’s the gal,’ Alan slurred. ‘Seems a bright cookie.’
‘Unquestionably,’ said Bill sharply. ‘Although that’s a big step up from senior lecturer. She can’t be much more than thirty-five.’
‘Well, between you, me and the gatepost, I couldn’t agree more,’ Alan slurred, the gin on his breath invading Bill’s nostrils. ‘But you know what it’s like these days. We’ve got to give the girls their turn and so on. You understand. And it was felt in certain quarters that a woman might attract less of . . . Well, you of all people know . . .’
‘Know what?’ Bill snapped again, his heart now beneath absolute zero. ‘Well . . . it’s these PC times we live in,’ Alan droned on. ‘You can’t say anything any more without it being taken the wrong way. All it takes is one silly girl to say one silly thing and that’s your lot.’
‘Someone . . . someone’s said something?’ Bill pushed nervously. ‘About . . . me?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Billy-boy. No one took it very seriously,’ Alan continued. ‘Especially not with that one. Between us boys, she’s got trouble written through her like a stick of rock. But we’ve got to be seen to be doing the right thing. You understand.’
Bill didn’t understand. Not at all. He didn’t understand what he could have done that had elicited a complaint. Sure, he had a bit of banter with some of the female students. But nothing that could be misconstrued . . . could it? He certainly didn’t understand why a relative academic embryo had been massively over-promoted above him. And he seriously didn’t understand why he’d wasted nearly twenty years at an institution that didn’t value him. Crushed as he was, at least now he had some clarity about next year.
And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be spent in this antediluvian shithole. ‘Well, thank you, Professor Florington – I hope you enjoy your summer,’ he said after another unbearable deluge of Alan’s waffle, storming off toward the gazebo without waiting for a pleasantry in return.
He checked his watch. 8.54. He had to say this for devastating professional blows.
They certainly passed the time.
He reached the secluded stone structure, which overlooked the fields beyond the river that bordered the Bathory estate, and settled himself on the bench. There was some kind of fracas nearby, but Bill paid it no mind. He was raw and he was hurt. Only the knowledge that Mags would soon be there salved his internal wounds. And, if he’d been allowed to pick just one good thing to happen that night, he was certain of his choice.
By 8.57 he’d decided that perhaps this was actually for the best. He was getting bogged down here. Sure, it was a sweet gig – but it wasn’t doing his career any good – everyone knew that Bathory was little more than a nursery for thick rich kids. He had graduated top of his class from Edinburgh. He could do so much better somewhere else.
By 8.58, Bill had made the decision to hand in his notice that very night. He and Mags had a new life to build together. What better time to start it than right now? Mags would surely go on to postgraduate study; he’d simply follow her. London? Oxford? Paris? They could go anywhere they wanted. He’d send the email tonight. While Mags was sleeping in his bed . . .
By 8.59, the rest of his life was mapped out ahead of him. He and Mags had already known each other for three years and had enjoyed hours together in that time. Their relationship could skip straight past the dating and wondering and figuring out – they could go straight to knowing this was forever.
By 9.04, Bill was so full of plans that he had to stop himself from shouting them into the night. He was excited. He was energised. He hadn’t felt like this for so long . . .
But by 9.11, his euphoria was clouding over with concern. Where was Mags? Was she okay?
By 9.17, he was convinced she’d had an accident.
By 9.18, he was convinced she was dead.
So at 9.21, he headed back towards the main house, wondering if she’d lost track of time in the social whirl.
But at 9.26, he got his answer.
When he saw Mags getting into the back of a taxi.
With Laurence Taylor.
Without knowing why, nor caring who heard, he shouted out to her. ‘Mags!’
At 9.27, the name rang across the oval like a gunshot. Mags automatically turned to discover its source. They locked eyes for a moment. And that’s when Bill knew.
Mags didn’t love him.
Because at 9.28, she got in the cab anyway.
Bill watched the car drive away down Bathory’s long driveway. He’d never had any time for florid descriptions of the devastation of love gone wrong, but that was because he’d never experienced it. And, it transpired, they were all true. The earth opened beneath him. The sky fell down. His heart sank into his stomach. She didn’t want him. Hell – if that look was anything to go by, she didn’t even like him. He returned to the gazebo, pulled the cork from the bottle of champagne and proceeded over the next hour to drink it, sporadically returning to the bar to wash it down with several shots, each return visit getting a little blurrier.
On his first return trip, maybe he saw Diana running towards the house?
On his second he might have seen J.D. helping a drunken Lilah back to the dorms?
On his third – he didn’t have a clue.
And by the time he decided it might be a good idea to wobble back towards his own flat, Bill wasn’t entirely sure what he saw or thought about anything whatsoever.
But he knew what he heard.
It was the unmistakable scream of someone who had seen something they never should have seen.
And with it came the unintelligible but undeniable sense that this graduation day was going to stick in Bill Scattergood’s mind forever.
