Commencement (3 page)

“Bad form, Claremont! Bad form!” His shouts and laughter rose muffled from under the towel.

“Just a second,” I called. “Just one second.”

“You’re not getting dressed, are you?” he said, his tone laced with horror.

I pulled lace panties, a short night shirt and a pair of knee-high striped socks from a dresser drawer and whipped them on in a flash. Then I darted to the laptop and freed the Professor from his terry cloth prison.

“Oh no,” he sighed when he saw me. “Wait.” He leaned into the camera. “Are those stripy socks?”

“Yes, they are.” I popped my foot up onto the chair and leaned over to my ankle, dragging my fingers up my leg as I smiled.

“Oh, those are hideous—” he said.

“Hey! I love my rainbow socks.”

“And yet,” he said, staying my objections with a raised hand, “bewilderingly arousing.”

I danced back from the camera, and did a little twirl, showing off my unicorn nightshirt and stripy socks to their best effect.

“Oh God, you are awakening every adolescent fantasy I’ve ever forgotten, ” he said, sighing heavily and leaning his chin on his fist.

“Ooo, how fun,” I cooed. Turning my back to the camera I lifted the hem of my night shirt and bent over, flashing him a peek of lacey panties. When I turned back around, his eyes were wide and the smile on his face even wider.

“Hey,” he said, a gleam in his eye, “let’s have a slumber party.”

“
A
lright
, Professor.” I grinned at him. “I’m game. Put on your jammies, grab your teddy bear, a bottle of whiskey, and a shot glass. Meet me back here in five.”

“I don’t have a teddy bear.” He grimaced with feigned offense.

“Whatever—get moving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and disappeared from my screen.

I picked up my laptop and grabbed a blanket from the foot of my bed, then headed to the living room, stopping by my mother’s liquor cabinet on the way, for a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a shot glass. The Professor popped back up on my screen as I was setting the laptop up on the coffee table.

“Alright, what’s the whiskey for?” he asked.

“
Downton Abbey
drinking game. No proper sleepover is complete without a drinking game.”

“Oh no,” he said, clutching a bottle of Jameson to his chest. “You’re not going to make me go through that trauma again, are you?”

“Of course I am! You cheated; you fast forwarded to the end. You didn’t go through the same agonizing emotional build-up that the rest of us did. As broken as you are, it’s nothing compared to how devastated you will be after we watch the full Christmas episode, in all its glory, combined with the depressing effects of far too much alcohol. Now man-up and get out your shot glass.”

He loped off screen and returned with a shot glass, a bag of chips and a blue blanket draped over his shoulders. The edge of the blanket bore some writing and I knelt next to the coffee table, leaning into the laptop screen, trying to make it out.

“P..O…L…Oh my God. Is that a
Doctor Who
blanket?”

“No.” He rolled his eyes at me and huffed in offense. “It’s a TARDIS blanket, thank you very much.”

“You know what I meant!” I protested. “So you don’t have a teddy bear, but you do have a TARDIS blanket.”

“Guilty.’

“That is seriously adorable.”

“Adorable enough that we’ll be swapping a replay of Cousin Matthew’s demise, for a few hours, with The Doctor?”

“Nope, not tonight.”

“You are heartless.”

“Definitely”

“Which is your favorite Doctor?” he asked, opening the bag of chips. “I bet you’re strictly NewWho. Am I right? Ten’s your favorite, I bet, or Eleven?”

“Now that is just insulting. I had PBS growing up; I’ve seen classic Who.”

“Aha!” he yelled, pointing at me through the screen, “but you didn’t say you watched it, or that you like it, just that you’ve seen it.’

“Alright, I admit, I didn’t really get into the show for real until they started casting a little eye candy.”

“Eye candy? Oh that seals it, you’re a Ten fan. I knew it!”

I laughed and picked the TV remote up from the coffee table. “Guilty as charged. Yes, I’m a devoted fan of the tenth Doctor. He’s my first love.”

“Well, you know what they say?” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me, and popping a chip into his mouth.

“What’s that?”

“You never forget your first Doctor.” He grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Har, har, har,” I said, groaning at his joke even as I felt my cheeks flush hot and pink.

“Alright, enough stalling, we’ve got some serious drinking ahead of us.” I stood in front of the television and fired up the Blu-ray. “Cue up the episode on your TV and wait for my mark to start it so that we are synced up properly.”

“Right, got it. Cue, sync, etcetera.”

“Now, the rules of the game,” I began and then stopped when the Professor raised his hand. “Yes?” I asked.

“I’d just like to go on record again as a fan of your jim-jams.”

“Noted, moving on,” I said, throwing him a smirk. “Drink, one shot, every time the following happens…” I ticked off the list on my fingers. “When the Dowager calls Tom ‘Branson’, instead of Tom.”

“Oh yeah, she does that a lot.”

“When Robert is ridiculously out of touch about something and makes that fuddy-duddy face.”

“Right, Robert being dense—got it.”

“When Mrs. Hughes and Carson eye-fuck each other.”

“Eye-fuck?”

“You know that whole unrequited, prim and proper,
Remains of the Day
, love affair thing they’ve got going on.”

“Oh yes, yes, I see what you mean.”

“Drink every time O’Brien looks like she’s about to do something evil.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then again when she does it.”

“Good Lord, we’ll be drunk in the first ten minutes of the show.”

“Drink when,” I said, ignoring him, “Edith looks sad.”

“Well that’s always.”

“And lastly, drink every time Mary is mean.”

“So the first person to expire from alcohol poisoning wins?”

“Exactly. Ready?”

“Allons-y!”

***

“
O
h my God
.” I grimaced through a smile and raised a hand to my head. “We’re both going to be a wreck in the morning. How many shots was that?”

“I lost count somewhere after the eighth time O’Brien glowered at that other maid.” The Professor smirked at me while massaging his temples. “That was brutal. Who knew British costume dramas were the gateway to a life of indulgence and sin?”

“I know, right?” I said, “We’d better stop here for the night, or we’re liable to end up in the streets, begging for biscuits and tea.”

“But dressed elegantly, mind you. Tails and tasteful gowns. Aristocratic beggars must maintain higher standards of course, lest they become the target of gossip and vicious speculation.” He smiled at me, and winked. But there was something in his expression, some hint of discomfort around the edges of his eyes, that struck me.

“You sound as if you speak from experience,” I prompted, curious what was on his mind.

“A little.” He nodded. “My family isn’t nobility but I come from a version of that life. Private schools and dressing for dinner, chauffeurs, and polo and entertaining dignitaries.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Not entirely.”

“Aw, you don’t like entertaining dignitaries?” I teased.

“No, not particularly. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been very fortunate. But I’d much rather succeed or fail in this life on my own merits, and not those of my…. ”

“Your father?” I said, finishing the sentence for him.

“Yes.” He nodded, his mouth twisting into a cynical smirk.

“But you have succeeded on your own merits. You’re a respected scholar with a doctorate in your field.”

“Ah, but you see,” he said, reaching for the bottle of Jameson, “that worthy accomplishment is about to be usurped.”

“That bad, huh?” I asked as I watched him fill the shot glass.

“Worse,” he said, tossing it back.

The quality of his voice was lower now, and a little slurred. “My father was made a baronet this year. An honor bestowed upon him by a grateful queen.”

“Wow.”
Why exactly is that bad?
I wondered. “What was she grateful for?”

“My father,” he said, pouring another shot, “is the foremost importer and manufacturer of luxury furniture and textiles in all of Great Britain. The houses of the aristocracy are full of his wares.” He stretched his arms, gesturing wildly. “The queen’s houses are full of his wares.”

“Wow,” I said again, stunned. “Grayson Interiors? That’s your family?”

“You know it,” he said blandly.

“I do,” I said, and shifting in my seat, I lifted the laptop so he could catch a glimpse of the ornate cherry side-table next to the sofa.

“Oh dear God, it isn’t.”

“It’s a Grayson,” I said. “Mind you I only know this because my parents fought over it during their divorce. Apparently they bought it on their honeymoon.”

“Your mother should consider it cursed and throw it in the fireplace.”

“Never happen; she loves it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, waving a hand in surrender. “My great-great-great-grandfather was the one who started the company you know. Imports. Tea, textiles, gems.” He filled his shot glass yet again.

“Easy there, tiger, you’re working on a world-class hangover.”

“My great-grandfather,” he continued, ignoring my warning, “was the one who had the idea to start manufacturing furniture. But my father,” —he raised the shot glass in mock salute— “my illustrious father, he is the one who expanded the business, made it a worldwide brand, and raised the family fortune into the billions.”

“Billions?” I said.

“Billions.” He slammed the shot back and set the glass down hard, then swiped a hand across his mouth. “Not that that has ever mattered to dear old Dad,” he muttered, and I noticed that he was massaging his right hand distractedly with the other. His fingers traced the dark line of the tattoo that circled his wrist, raising a flush in the skin. “Because what my father really wants is power. And to him a title is just more power. It’s fucking stupid, meaningless nonsense. But you can be sure he’ll bandy it about as if a simple ‘Sir’ in front of his name suddenly infuses the entire family bloodline with magic and respectability. As if it erases every sin he’s ever committed. As if anything could.”

“I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. He was on a tear, exorcising a few demons, and I had no idea what to say.

“Thank you,” he said, his sad liquid eyes growing large and haunted. “Thank you. It’s sad you know. I’ve worked so hard for everything I have, to separate myself from him, to become my own man. And now, it hardly matters, because the minute that bastard dies, his title goes to me.”

“Oh,” I said. “And that’s bad?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes, it’s bad! A title bestowed by the sovereign precedes a title begotten from any other source, no matter how hard earned. Goodbye Dr. Thomas Grayson, hello Sir Thomas Grayson of Pelham Bt.”

“Oh, that sucks. Will you have to use that title all the time? I mean, you’ll still be Dr. Grayson at your university, right?”

“No, I won’t. Northbrook is a small school. A baronet on the letterhead is far too tempting. Hell, they’ll probably throw a bloody party.” He took off his glasses and set them down, rubbed his eyes with his hands and then stopped, his face resting in his palms.

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly.
Boy, that escalated quickly
, I thought, wondering how I could redirect this conversation.

“Actually, don’t be.” He lifted his head and put his glasses back on, then looked me in the eye. “I apologize. I just heard myself. I just heard how that sounded out loud, and I am repulsed.”

“What?”

“I’ve been very fortunate in my life, very privileged. And now I’m waxing maudlin about unwanted titles and having too much money.” He laughed cynically, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. “It’s obnoxious, and disgusting, and I think I may be drunk.” He lifted a hand to his head, wobbling a little.

“Oh I think you’re a bit past drunk, my friend. You’re full-on blotto.”

“Good God, I am. Let me get a cup of tea,” he said, rising from the computer. “And when I come back I want you to share something ridiculous with me.”

“Like what?” I said.

“I don’t know. Anything, as long as it’s equally embarrassing as my horrific ramblings.” He disappeared from my screen presumably to his kitchen, for tea.

M
y stomach flipped
, from whiskey or from nerves, I wasn’t sure.

Something embarrassing,
I thought.
Great. What? How embarrassing?

My stomach answered with another flip flop, so this was definitely nerves. But why was I nervous? I stood up, put away my mother’s liquor, got myself a glass of water from the kitchen, then carried it and the laptop to my bedroom.

“Just waiting for the kettle,” the Professor called from somewhere off-screen.

“Take your time,” I called back as I set the glass of water on my bed stand. I plugged the laptop in, then slid into bed and settled in with a stack of pillows behind me, and the computer in my lap.

Let’s be honest, by embarrassing what he really means, whether he knows it or not, is vulnerable. And you don’t do vulnerable well, Jane. Vulnerable makes you itch, it makes you run. It makes you hide.
And we are getting too old for that shit.

I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled slowly, my sister’s words echoing in my head, amplifying the anxiety that was building in my chest.

“Oh, Janie, be careful,” she’d said. “I don’t want you to get hurt again. Like last time.”

But this time was nothing like “last time”. Was it? When I’d met the Professor I was definitely not looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right-now-with-a-big-cock was the only thing on my mind. Well, it was all that
had
been on my mind. But that was changing, wasn’t it? The more I got to know him, the more I craved his company. And I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. If I was honest with myself, I knew there was more going on here than just chemistry, more than just sexual attraction.