Significance (7 page)

But he wouldn't say any of that. Would not drop everything and come haring over the Channel to be with her. Instead he would be angry. So she would not phone him. She would not make the first move towards reconciliation. Would not say sorry.

It was stupid to even think of it. Thom could go to hell. He was probably screwing some other woman right now. One of his students maybe, he had never had any qualms about political correctness, nor about college rules. Though actually now she came to really think about it, it would be just like him to come after her students.

She remembered how keen he had been to help her out that night she gave her third
-
year seminar group a party. She'd had the idea to invite the third years around to her place for a sort of pep talk at the beginning of their spring term when they were about to launch themselves into their dissertations and final exhibition. The party was a sort of acknowledgement that they were almost there, were changing from mere undergraduates to fully
-
fledged artists. Equals who could be trusted in her home, who could stand about with glasses of wine and have intelligent conversations, instead of drinking too much and throwing up in the punch bowl.

She'd invested a lot in the party, cooking an array of different foods from scratch – fried prawns in batter, anchovy toast, miniature goat's cheese tarts, Thai fish cakes, quail's eggs, the best olives, the best cheeses.

And Thom, when she'd told him about her plan, had not, as she thought he might, told her she was wasting her time or showing off. He got it straight away and insisted on coming around earlier in the day to help. Then it was only natural that he'd stay for the party.

Thirteen of her sixteen students had shown up, including Laura Smith and Rebecca White, a pair of young women who were like supermodels or goddesses and would strike fear into any woman's heart. Especially a woman of twenty
-
nine who was slightly doubtful about her current partner's ongoing interest in her.

Having Laura and Rebecca there was a bit like having a couple of exotic birds strutting about the room, everyone had to keep looking at them from the corner of their eyes, as if they couldn't quite believe they were real.

But Thom avoided Laura and Rebecca; he barely gave them a second glance. Instead he spent quite some time talking to a number of the male students about big subjects, politics, philosophy and history.

Then after a quiet moment with Lucy in the kitchen – he was washing the limited supply of side plates so that Lucy could sort out the desserts she'd made – he mentioned Imogen Carter. Imogen was a quiet girl who, while she was not unattractive, wore her disquiet and social unease like a second skin that acted to repel anyone who tried to get close to her – man, woman or child. Imogen had spent most of the evening sitting at the far end of the room with her plate on her knees and a glass in her hand, saying nothing and trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to look relaxed.

With Lucy's blessing, Thom had promised to try to make Imogen feel a bit more at ease.

For the rest of the evening every time Lucy looked in the direction of Imogen's chair she saw that Thom was next to her, at first standing casually in Imogen's vicinity, then sitting on the armchair at right angles from her, then finally sitting on the floor at her feet. And Lucy saw that it was working, Imogen was no longer sitting bolt upright on the edge of the seat, she'd tucked her legs up under her and was leaning with one elbow on the armrest and talking.

Lucy had felt so proud of Thom then, and proud of herself for having succeeded in acquiring such a wonderful, mature and generous man.

‘You are so good,' she'd said to him later, after everyone had gone home.

‘Who, me?' he'd said, pointing at his chest and wearing an expression of mock surprise.

‘Yeah, you. I'm just so amazed that you saw that Imogen had problems, and you just stuck with it. I don't think I've ever seen her laugh before. No, seriously, I think you might have made an impact on that girl, made her feel for the first time that she matters.'

‘Really? Well, I didn't do much.'

‘What did you talk about?'

‘Oh, families mostly. She's had one hell of a life you know. Did you know about her mother?'

‘What about her mother?'

‘God, you don't know? It was a huge story in the papers, what, ten years ago? And you know Imogen looks a lot like her mother. I had a feeling I'd seen that face before…'

‘What story? What happened?'

‘So you honestly don't know? Weird. I thought it might have been in her personal records. But then I guess they'd keep the lid on it, you know, give her a clean slate.'

‘Oh, I feel terrible for not knowing. I mean, I sensed she had problems, but nothing big. So what was it?'

This conversation had taken place as Lucy and Thom lay together on the big couch, under the window. Ten minutes before they'd been making love, and twenty minutes before that they'd been waving as the last of the students headed off for a taxi.

Around the room was the debris of the party, the smeared plates and empty glasses, the discarded paper napkins, wine bottles and ashtrays. The Nick Drake CD had just finished playing. The silence was palpable. Thom ran his fingers over Lucy's bare shoulder.

‘You know what,' he said.

‘What?'

‘I don't think I should tell you what Imogen told me. I mean ethically it wouldn't be right. She's chosen to keep it to herself and I don't think it's my place to share it with you. It's a question of trust, isn't it? So Lucy, I'm not going to break that trust. I'm sorry if that seems strange – what with her being your student – but that's my decision.'

‘But…'

‘Really. I've said enough. If you must know then I suggest you do some research. The surname's the same – Carter isn't it – and it's in the public domain. So.'

‘But you're contradicting what you just said. If it's in the public domain, then you may as well just tell me.'

‘The point though, is not the information itself. The point is me, my ethics, my morals, the trust she has placed in me. I can't tell you because of how that would make me feel. You see.'

‘Yes, I see. Okay.'

They lay together a few minutes longer. Lucy's mind was racing. If he hadn't been there she'd have switched on the computer straight away, Googled the name Carter, searched online copies of the
Guardian
and the
Independent
for some horror story regarding a woman with a nine or ten
-
year
-
old daughter, and satisfied the hornets' nest of curiosity he'd stirred up in her. Not that she would admit to curiosity; the urge to vicariously delve into the terrors of another's tragedy, she would only allow that she was motivated by a professional interest in the girl and a deepening sense of shame for not trying harder, for accepting the young woman at face value, as a rather dull girl with no social skills, who seemed to want to remain private and got what she wished for.

The next morning Lucy brought up the subject of Imogen again. She had woken with this feeling of guilt, but it was unnamed and its source was unclear. She was also overtaken by this new vision of Thom. Thom as an upright, all
-
knowing, moral being. Someone better than her. It was like suddenly realising she'd been dating a saint for the last three years and hadn't even known it until now. Someone wiser and purer than her.

‘What we talked about last night…' she began.

‘We talked about a lot of stuff.'

‘You know what I mean – Imogen Carter.'

‘Oh, that. Look, I haven't changed my mind. I don't think it would be right.'

‘I realise that. I wasn't going to ask, but tell me, do you think I should try to find out? I mean, as you said, it was a big news story and so I probably could find out what it is easily enough. But would that be the correct thing to do? Would I be able to help her more if I knew?'

‘Well, you couldn't tell her, could you? You couldn't bring it up without her thinking that I'd told you.'

‘I guess not, but what if I knew and didn't mention it directly? I'm supervising her dissertation and she's doing it on fairly emotionally charged subjects – performance art, the body and self
-
mutilation – and so maybe I need to know.'

Thom thought about this for a little time before speaking, then he said, ‘I'm sorry I told you as much as I did. The more I think about it the more I regret it. Don't go digging around. Forget I ever said anything. I think that's the only way to go. And just so you know, I gave her my number – told her to ring if she wanted to talk, and I have a feeling she will call, so let me see what I can do. Maybe it's easier for me as I'm at a remove – you know, I'm not going to be marking her essays or judging her work in any way – there's no power relationship here – no judgement, no pity.'

‘Okay. I see what you mean. I won't pry, but if something happens, if she's – oh, I don't know – suicidal or something – you'll let me know.'

‘Promise.'

‘Alright. Well, I won't mention her again. I won't try to find out. Maybe sometime you'll feel it's okay to tell me.'

‘Maybe.'

Why was Lucy remembering all of this now, why did she imagine poor Imogen of all people, having an affair with Thom? Maybe it was because Lucy understood Freud's theories about how people fell in love with their therapists and why the therapist was a saviour, a love object. She still cringed remembering her own feelings about Doctor Skinner, of how she'd confessed her love to him. How he was kind and patient when he quite correctly informed her that she was mistaken about her feelings, and allowed her to read a few pages in one of his books which outlined the nature of such confused emotions clearly. At first it had felt as if she were a star
-
struck kid being told that she had a crush, that what she experienced as unique and special was actually just a common phase that all girls went through.

So she could imagine Imogen falling for Thom quite easily – but Thom himself? The man had feet of clay. She did not feel she had ever really known him.

And Imogen's secret? Lucy, as she'd promised, never tried to find out, and the girl was doing okay and was, Lucy supposed, busy getting on with life, and as happy as she might ever be. But some day, some day quite soon, Lucy planned to find out once and for all. But it would only be to satisfy her curiosity, to satisfy it and put some ghosts to rest.

And now all she needed was a cigarette. A cigarette and maybe a night cap, something short and sweet and warming. Not coffee though, not now.

The Golden Boy

Scott was relieved when glancing in the mirror behind the bar he saw the young woman finally get up from her chair. She seemed reluctant at first, hesitating as she fussed with her bag and the empty carafe on the table, but then, with her head held high, her pretty little nose aimed up in the direction of the stars, she'd walked away.

He had sensed in her a rather disturbing edge. The day before when he happened to look through the bedroom window and saw her talking to Aaron on the street, he'd taken her for some sort of mental health professional or social worker. Their family had had plenty of dealings with those folk in Canada. Lately they had suggested that Aaron could not continue to live with his ageing parents; they'd said that the house was too isolated, that it was dangerous on account of the wood
-
burning stove and its accompanying block and axe in the backyard. One of the assistant social workers, a Mrs Patel, had been frightened by the sight of Aaron after he'd come around to the front of the house with the axe in his hand when she'd rung the doorbell. They'd cited Aaron's father's health – he'd had thyroid and liver problems since he was relatively young. And his mother's – mainly as she'd told them she was getting forgetful lately. But Aaron enjoyed chopping wood; it was one of the few things that seemed to give him a sense of purpose. And their father had always had sallow skin, though it sure looked worse when he wore those god
-
awful bright emerald and orange and red sweaters that his mother knitted. And as for his mother's forgetfulness? Well, she always prided herself on her good memory and would worry about memory loss if she couldn't remember the names of every single teacher she'd had in grade school and the lines of poetry and prose she'd learnt by rote aged nine. It was absurd, the whole thing.

The social worker had put forward three choices to Scott; one, that Aaron be moved to a residential home eighty miles away, two, that Aaron should within the next year move in with Scott and his partner or three, that Scott should move back home to live with his parents in order to help with Aaron.

Scott had not told either of his parents or Marilyn about this. He did not see the point of spreading worry and misery amongst his family with the problem and was certain he could disabuse the social workers of these ideas by proving to them that Aaron was happy and cared for, and that his parents, despite appearances, would be able to cope for another good ten to twenty years at least.