Bill?’
‘Berlin’s the wrong man, Marion, and it would have been dishonest to say otherwise.’ He sounded weary, reluctant to debate the issue further.
‘You were in favour when we talked last week.’
‘I said he was an interesting candidate. I wasn’t unequivocal in my support. I remember telling you that I had some reservations about Berlin and I needed time to think before I reached a decision.’
That wasn’t her recollection but she wasn’t prepared to argue about it. She hesitated. Should she close it now, forget about it, or risk a quarrel? She’d already gone too far to withdraw.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind before the meeting? I’d been counting on your support. You could have telephoned me or left a message.’
‘My opposition can’t have surprised you, surely.’
‘It was a shock to hear you were against me.’ She noticed he had stopped undressing. ‘What have you got against Berlin? I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to him.’
‘I think his book was overrated.’
‘Oh, come on, Bill.’ Was this professional jealousy talking? Berlin’s achievement highlighted Bill’s failure to make anything of his academic career. ‘ Legacies of History got a wonderful reception, here and in the States. We can’t all be wrong.’
‘I can’t shake off this feeling that somehow he’s fooling us. He isn’t who he wants us to think he is. He’s a phoney.’
They argued then, bringing the unhappy debate of the previous day into the bedroom. She put on her glasses so she could see him properly. He sat hunched on the end of the bed, an exhausted, defeated figure. She felt a moment’s regret at her outburst. Then she saw that while they’d been talking Gant had put his shoes on again.
‘Bill, if you’d rather not.’
‘What?’
‘There’s no rule that says we have to make love. We can just have lunch if you’d prefer.’
‘Are you sure?’ The relief in his voice was undisguised. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you.’
She slid out of bed, wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. What kind of inhibition made her hide herself from him?
‘Go and see what’s in the fridge while I get dressed.’
She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Was that it, then? Was this how it was going to end? In the early weeks of their affair she had allowed herself to rewrite the truth about Bill Gant. His academic promise had fizzled out, she told herself, because the demands of his invalid wife were destroying him, and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t see what was happening to him. He needed rescuing and she had felt an overwhelming need to reinstate the man she believed still existed somewhere behind the exhausted mask he presented to the world. Ideas don’t die, she told herself, nor does real talent, and Bill had had ideas and talent when he was young. It is energy that fades, especially when drained away through impossible emotional demands, and with it that special self-confidence so necessary to sustain academic theory. Poor Bill.
She would restore his belief in himself by rebuilding him through love. She would make no demands on him, except that he make love to her once or twice a week. From that the relationship would grow. She would watch over his steady recovery. In time, they would write history together. They would make their reputations, and she would laugh at deriderslike Michael Scott, who claimed there was never any way back up the slippery slope of academic advancement once the downward slide had begun. They would build their lives together. That was her unspoken dream. She took Bill Gant in her arms once a week on Wednesday lunchtimes and tried to work her magic on him.
How she had longed for him in those first weeks of their affair last autumn, an intoxicating time when she had still believed her dreams were possible. Each Wednesday morning she’d had difficulty concentrating on her supervision. The moment her students had gone,
‘Berlin’s the wrong man, Marion, and it would have been dishonest to say otherwise.’ He sounded weary, reluctant to debate the issue further.
‘You were in favour when we talked last week.’
‘I said he was an interesting candidate. I wasn’t unequivocal in my support. I remember telling you that I had some reservations about Berlin and I needed time to think before I reached a decision.’
That wasn’t her recollection but she wasn’t prepared to argue about it. She hesitated. Should she close it now, forget about it, or risk a quarrel? She’d already gone too far to withdraw.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind before the meeting? I’d been counting on your support. You could have telephoned me or left a message.’
‘My opposition can’t have surprised you, surely.’
‘It was a shock to hear you were against me.’ She noticed he had stopped undressing. ‘What have you got against Berlin? I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to him.’
‘I think his book was overrated.’
‘Oh, come on, Bill.’ Was this professional jealousy talking? Berlin’s achievement highlighted Bill’s failure to make anything of his academic career. ‘ Legacies of History got a wonderful reception, here and in the States. We can’t all be wrong.’
‘I can’t shake off this feeling that somehow he’s fooling us. He isn’t who he wants us to think he is. He’s a phoney.’
They argued then, bringing the unhappy debate of the previous day into the bedroom. She put on her glasses so she could see him properly. He sat hunched on the end of the bed, an exhausted, defeated figure. She felt a moment’s regret at her outburst. Then she saw that while they’d been talking Gant had put his shoes on again.
‘Bill, if you’d rather not.’
‘What?’
‘There’s no rule that says we have to make love. We can just have lunch if you’d prefer.’
‘Are you sure?’ The relief in his voice was undisguised. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you.’
She slid out of bed, wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. What kind of inhibition made her hide herself from him?
‘Go and see what’s in the fridge while I get dressed.’
She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Was that it, then? Was this how it was going to end? In the early weeks of their affair she had allowed herself to rewrite the truth about Bill Gant. His academic promise had fizzled out, she told herself, because the demands of his invalid wife were destroying him, and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t see what was happening to him. He needed rescuing and she had felt an overwhelming need to reinstate the man she believed still existed somewhere behind the exhausted mask he presented to the world. Ideas don’t die, she told herself, nor does real talent, and Bill had had ideas and talent when he was young. It is energy that fades, especially when drained away through impossible emotional demands, and with it that special self-confidence so necessary to sustain academic theory. Poor Bill.
She would restore his belief in himself by rebuilding him through love. She would make no demands on him, except that he make love to her once or twice a week. From that the relationship would grow. She would watch over his steady recovery. In time, they would write history together. They would make their reputations, and she would laugh at deriderslike Michael Scott, who claimed there was never any way back up the slippery slope of academic advancement once the downward slide had begun. They would build their lives together. That was her unspoken dream. She took Bill Gant in her arms once a week on Wednesday lunchtimes and tried to work her magic on him.
How she had longed for him in those first weeks of their affair last autumn, an intoxicating time when she had still believed her dreams were possible. Each Wednesday morning she’d had difficulty concentrating on her supervision. The moment her students had gone,
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