The Child(5)

“I said we’re almost out of toilet paper.”

I can’t concentrate. Something about paper. Oh God, has he read it?

“What?” I say, too loudly.

“Toilet paper, Emma,” he says quietly. “Just reminding you, that’s all.”

“Right, right. Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You get yourself ready for work while I finish my coffee.”

He smiles at me, kisses me as he passes, and rustles around in his study for ten minutes while I throw away my breakfast and wipe the surfaces. I find myself cleaning more lately. Out damned spot.

“Right,” he says at the kitchen door. “Are you sure you are all right? You still look very pale.”

“I’m fine,” I say and get up. Come on, Paul. Just go, I think.

“Have a good day, darling. Remember to be nice to the head of department. You know it makes sense,” I say, brushing some fluff off the shoulder of his overcoat.

He sighs and picks up his briefcase.

“I’ll try. Look, I can call in sick and stay with you,” he says.

“Don’t be silly, Paul. I’ll have an easy day. Promise.”

“Okay, but I’ll ring at lunchtime. Love you,” he says.

I wave from the window, as I always do. He closes the gate and turns away, then I sink to my knees on the carpet. It’s the first time I have been alone since I read the story, and pretending that everything is fine has been shattering. The headline from the paper is like a neon sign everywhere I look. I just need five minutes to pull myself together. And I cry. Frightening crying. Uncontrollable. Not like English crying, where you fight it and try to swallow it. It goes on until there is nothing left and I sit quietly on the floor.

When the phone rings, I realize an hour has passed and my legs are cramped and tingle with pins and needles when I try to pull myself up. I must’ve drifted off. I love the image that creates in my head, of lying in a boat and being carried by the current. Like Ophelia in the painting. But she was mad or dead. Stop it. Answer the phone.

“Hello, Emma. It’s Lynda. Are you busy? Can I come for coffee?”

I want to say no to the appalling Lynda but yes comes out instead. Ingrained politeness wins out again.

“Lovely. Be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” I hear myself say, as if I am in a play.

I rub my knees to get the feeling back and get a hairbrush out of my bag. Must look presentable or she’ll know.

Lynda’s husband teaches at the same university as Paul—different departments but our two men often catch the same train in the morning. That, apparently, makes Lynda and me sisters under the skin.

But I don’t like her. She has those teeth that slope backwards, like a shark, and an insistent manner.

She and the other WOTAs—Wives of the Academics, as I christened them when I joined their ranks—gossip about me. I know they do. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Ignore them. Keep Calm and Carry On.

Lynda breezes in as soon as I open the door. High energy this morning. Must be good news about Derek. I want her to leave immediately.

“You look tired, Emma. Didn’t you have a good night?” she says, my attempt at grooming totally wasted, and takes over the coffee-making process. She leaves me standing like a spare part in my own kitchen.

“Hmm. Tossed and turned a bit. Trying to work out a difficult bit in the book I’m editing,” I say.

She bristles. She hates the fact that I have a job. Sees it as a personal insult if I mention it. Lynda doesn’t work. “I have too much to do at home to need a job,” she says when asked. Usually accompanied by a brittle laugh.

Anyway, she decides to ignore the implied slight and plunges in with her news. Derek is getting a new title—with brackets, apparently. It will mean more importance and a bit of extra money. She is thrilled, the self-satisfaction coming off her in waves.

“The HoD wants him to take on more responsibility. He’ll be Assistant Director of Student Welfare (Undergraduate) from next term,” she says as if reading from a press release.

“Student Welfare? Goodness, he’ll be knee-deep in drugs and sexually transmitted diseases,” I say, relishing the idea of Derek, the most pompous man on earth, dealing with condom machines.

She stiffens at the mention of sex and I disguise my enjoyment of this tiny triumph.

“That’s great, Lynda,” I say. “The milk’s already out—on the draining board.”

We sit at the kitchen table and I listen to her chatter about the goings-on in the department. I know she will eventually broach the subject of Paul’s “little difficulty”—his clashes with the head of department—but I’m not going to help her get there. I keep going off on tangents—world news, train delays, the price of coffee—in the hope it will exhaust her. But she is, apparently, inexhaustible.

“So, is Paul getting on any better with the HoD?” she says, trying to smile kindly.

“Oh, it’s a bit of a storm in a teacup,” I say.

“Oh? I heard Dr. Beecham was taking it to the next level,” she says.

“It’s all a bit silly. Dr. Beecham wants to cut Paul’s most popular courses to make way for one of his own. He’s being a bit of an arse, to be honest.”

Lynda’s eyes widen at the word. Clearly not what she calls the HoD.