sat up. “If you got your hair layeredback like I was saying, and wore a tiny bit of lipstick, very pale—”
“I hate the taste of lipstick. No, I think I’ll leave you your train of admirers.”
Yvonne relapsed into gloom. “I don’t actually fancy any of them except Pete, and he doesn’t seem too serious about me.”
“Give him time.” The orange sweatshirt had disappeared. “Come on, it’s ten past already.”
The lecturer was in full flow, projecting images of monstrous canvases onto the screen. “Get an eyeful of that,” hissed Yvonne as they slid into the back row. “Didn’t know they had lezzie orgies in the seventeenth century.”
“It’s the
Rape of the Sabine Women
, twit. They’re clinging together for moral support.”
“Immoral, more like.” Yvonne slapped four different-colored markers down on her refill pad and turned to the main business of the day. “So, you fancy anyone yet?”
Maria rolled her eyes, then wrote out a neat header for her notes:
Baroque War Scenes—Dr. Quentin—October 19
.
Lowering her voice suggestively, Yvonne continued. “Romantically interested in any male humanoids at this point in time?”
“Lay off.”
Yvonne sighed. “You’re so self-reliant, I really respect that.” She began neatening her cuticles with the cap of her pen.
Maria didn’t dare look. She knew he was down eleven rows on her right, and if she cast a single glance in his direction, Yvonne would go on red alert. No doubt she would shudder at Maria’s taste; one was meant to fall for a long-limbed med student whose daddy had a BMW, or be obsessed with the firm jaw of a Law Soc smoothie. One was meant to aim higher than a bearded knowall in one’s own tutorial.
It was only three days ago that she’d noticed Damien at all. As he knotted himself into an argument with the tutor about aesthetic theory, she sat back and stared. When the hour was up he shoved his books into a battered briefcase and stalked off through the crowded corridor, eyes on his feet. She always kept an eye out for his lank braid at lectures after that. He never stooped to taking notes; beside a swarm of girls transcribing all the lecturer’s mediocrities, he sat like Julius Caesar.
After a glance at Yvonne, who was still preoccupied with her nails, Maria let her eyes slew down to him. Only the back of his head was visible, and one arm. Hold on, he did seem to be taking notes today—scribbling something on a pad. “Go on without me,” she told Yvonne when the lecture limped to a close. “I better finish taking down that structural diagram from the board.” Hunched over her notes, she watched Damien through her hair. He was scrunching up his page and flicking it round the desk. She hung around for several minutes after his departure until the theatre had cleared, then ran down the steps and pounced on the document. It was a crudely executed sketch of a suckling sow.
She kept it, neatly labeled with the date and lecture theatre. Maria liked to label the detritus of the past. It scared her that in ten years’ time she might be a mother of four in a suburban semi, unable to remember anything.
“It’s going to boil over, I swear. Look at those bubbles.”
Ruth shot her arm under Maria’s to get at the switch. “All you had to do was turn it down.”
“But you said I wasn’t to stop stirring till the lumps disappeared,” Maria insisted. She dropped the wooden spoon for a second to scratch her forehead, and a drop of scalding milk splashed her wrist.
Hearing her yelp, Ruth took over. “Gimme, I’ll finish the white sauce. You could be greasing the dish.”
Maria yawned as she rolled down the sleeves of her cardigan. “Sorry to be useless. I don’t know how you can stand the stress of juggling pans.”
“Practice.”
She couldn’t see Ruth’s expression; steam clouded the features. “Are you pissed off with me?”
“Not at all.” The warm eyes turned on Maria. “Now don’t do your forlorn
“I hate the taste of lipstick. No, I think I’ll leave you your train of admirers.”
Yvonne relapsed into gloom. “I don’t actually fancy any of them except Pete, and he doesn’t seem too serious about me.”
“Give him time.” The orange sweatshirt had disappeared. “Come on, it’s ten past already.”
The lecturer was in full flow, projecting images of monstrous canvases onto the screen. “Get an eyeful of that,” hissed Yvonne as they slid into the back row. “Didn’t know they had lezzie orgies in the seventeenth century.”
“It’s the
Rape of the Sabine Women
, twit. They’re clinging together for moral support.”
“Immoral, more like.” Yvonne slapped four different-colored markers down on her refill pad and turned to the main business of the day. “So, you fancy anyone yet?”
Maria rolled her eyes, then wrote out a neat header for her notes:
Baroque War Scenes—Dr. Quentin—October 19
.
Lowering her voice suggestively, Yvonne continued. “Romantically interested in any male humanoids at this point in time?”
“Lay off.”
Yvonne sighed. “You’re so self-reliant, I really respect that.” She began neatening her cuticles with the cap of her pen.
Maria didn’t dare look. She knew he was down eleven rows on her right, and if she cast a single glance in his direction, Yvonne would go on red alert. No doubt she would shudder at Maria’s taste; one was meant to fall for a long-limbed med student whose daddy had a BMW, or be obsessed with the firm jaw of a Law Soc smoothie. One was meant to aim higher than a bearded knowall in one’s own tutorial.
It was only three days ago that she’d noticed Damien at all. As he knotted himself into an argument with the tutor about aesthetic theory, she sat back and stared. When the hour was up he shoved his books into a battered briefcase and stalked off through the crowded corridor, eyes on his feet. She always kept an eye out for his lank braid at lectures after that. He never stooped to taking notes; beside a swarm of girls transcribing all the lecturer’s mediocrities, he sat like Julius Caesar.
After a glance at Yvonne, who was still preoccupied with her nails, Maria let her eyes slew down to him. Only the back of his head was visible, and one arm. Hold on, he did seem to be taking notes today—scribbling something on a pad. “Go on without me,” she told Yvonne when the lecture limped to a close. “I better finish taking down that structural diagram from the board.” Hunched over her notes, she watched Damien through her hair. He was scrunching up his page and flicking it round the desk. She hung around for several minutes after his departure until the theatre had cleared, then ran down the steps and pounced on the document. It was a crudely executed sketch of a suckling sow.
She kept it, neatly labeled with the date and lecture theatre. Maria liked to label the detritus of the past. It scared her that in ten years’ time she might be a mother of four in a suburban semi, unable to remember anything.
“It’s going to boil over, I swear. Look at those bubbles.”
Ruth shot her arm under Maria’s to get at the switch. “All you had to do was turn it down.”
“But you said I wasn’t to stop stirring till the lumps disappeared,” Maria insisted. She dropped the wooden spoon for a second to scratch her forehead, and a drop of scalding milk splashed her wrist.
Hearing her yelp, Ruth took over. “Gimme, I’ll finish the white sauce. You could be greasing the dish.”
Maria yawned as she rolled down the sleeves of her cardigan. “Sorry to be useless. I don’t know how you can stand the stress of juggling pans.”
“Practice.”
She couldn’t see Ruth’s expression; steam clouded the features. “Are you pissed off with me?”
“Not at all.” The warm eyes turned on Maria. “Now don’t do your forlorn
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