Merriment in the Museum - Book One in the Rock My Socks Off Trilogy (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

The man in theimpeccable, walnut-coloured suit and severe hipster glasses was, if possible, even more officious than the curator of the LMARH had been. He had certainly landed himself a position of officiousness at a higher level of visibility, thought Jacob. He was also considerably taller, which helped him to be not only officious, but supercilious as well. He was brandishing a clipboard – always a bad sign.

‘So you are Dr Stephens,’ he said, indicating Normandie without looking at her. ‘And where is Dr Normandie?’ The man looked around, as if expecting another scholar to be paraded out for him, with appropriate fanfare.

‘I’m Normandie,’ she clarified. ‘Dr Normandie Stephens.’

‘Oh no, that isn’t satisfactory at all,’ replied the staffer. ‘Our schedule shows a Dr Stephens
and
a Dr Normandie, appearing together, discussing exciting developments in gastronomy.’

‘Astronomy,’ said Jacob, with surprise.

‘Yes, yes, fine,’ said the man irritably. ‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have
two
guest chairs on the set, and we must have two guests to occupy them.’

‘But what do you expect us to do about that? Clearly, someone on your staff has just made a mistake.’ Normandie’s nerves were showing – a rare occurrence, but one that Rhone Preston’s staffer had successfully brought about.

The man looked even more condescending than he had before. ‘The fact that
someone
made a mistake’ – he looked accusingly at Normandie and Jacob, as though it was obvious for all the world to see that they must, somehow, be responsible for the error – ‘is beside the point. I need two of you out there, and that’s the bottom line.’

‘But who?’ said Normandie, her annoyance giving way to incredulity.

‘Oh, I don’t care,’ the man whined, as if Normandie were taking up an inordinate amount of his time with trivia. ‘
Him,
for instance.’ He turned to Jacob. ‘You have something to do with gastronomy, too, don’t you?’

‘I –’ began Jacob, but Normandie cut him off, a glint in her eye communicating to him that she had regained control of the situation.

‘Yes,’ she said fiercely, tapping the staffer’s clipboard with a note of finality. ‘All right. I’m sure
Dr Jacobs
here will be glad to discuss
astronomy
with me on the programme.’

Without even waiting for Jacob to confirm this, the man spun on his heel and, with an air of efficient satisfaction, disappeared.

‘That was easy,’ Jacob said without enthusiasm. ‘Why bother with six years of grad school, when evidently all you really need to become a professor is for someone to switch your first name to your last name?’

‘Sorry, darling, but we don’t have time for dry wit just now. We need to think. What’s your
new
first name, for example?’

‘Uh … I don’t know. How about Ernie?’

‘That’ll do. And where are you from?’

‘Hmm … Des Moines?’ He had always liked the sound of that.

‘No, we need the name of a
university
– a non-existent one, so nobody can check on you. And it may be hard coming up with a name for a fictitious university, because chances are there will actually
be
a university by that name, somewhere.’

‘Unless the name is really silly,’ Jacob said helpfully. ‘You know, like “Noodlenoggin College” in Ohio.’

‘It’s real, only it’s in Virginia. Excellent astrophysics group there, as it happens.’

‘Oh,’ said Jacob. ‘Damn. I really wanted to be from Noodlenoggin College.’

‘Please don’t sulk, Jacob. It looks bad on television. Maybe you can be from Noodlenoggin College for your next birthday. For tonight, I think we have to take the opposite approach: we should choose a name that’s so common that the precise institution that employs you will be for ever obscure.’

He saw what she was getting at. ‘You mean like “Mountain College” or something.’

‘Perfect! There’s probably a Mountain College in Colorado and a Mountain College in Vermont, and a Mountain University somewhere else … and maybe a University of the Mountains and – well, you get the idea. If one college declines to own you, everyone will just think you came from one of the others. You’ll be like someone who crashes a large party, relying on the fact that every guest will assume he came with somebody else. You’ll be like a rhubarb pie that nobody wants, or an odd golf ball that doesn’t match anyone’s brand, or –’

‘OK, OK. No more metaphors, please. I don’t think my ego can survive it.’

‘Anyway, great thinking. This solves everything.’

‘I’m afraid I must quibble with your definition of “everything”. You seem to be overlooking several factors, such as (a) the fact that someone might recognise me, (b) the fact that I don’t know anything about astronomy, and (c) the fact that the show will be starting very soon.’ He glanced nervously at a digital clock that was, he thought under the circumstances, much larger than it had a right to be.

But Normandie was impressively quick at dismissing his various concerns, counting them off on her agile fingers. ‘A. You’re a writer, not a movie star. Yes, your personal friends might recognise you, but if you can’t trust your personal friends to keep quiet, who
can
you trust? B. If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d take the time to be insulted that you can claim not to know anything about astronomy after having interviewed me on the subject. Just parrot back some of what I told you, for Pete’s sake. And C. –’

The insufferable assistant was at their collective elbow. ‘We need to get make-up on the two of you. Now.’

The host was affable, charismatic, and all those other television-hosty things. Not only did Jacob feel nervous as hell, but he felt sort of bad that he was about to sit here and lie a blue streak to this guy.

‘Dr Jacobs,’ said Rhone, ‘how long have you been studying the stars?’

‘Thirty-seven years,’ Jacob said. He had automatically fallen back on his lucky number, without realising that this put him in front of a telescope three years prior to his own birth.

‘Really!’ said Rhone. ‘That’s, um, quite some time,’ he added pointedly.

Jacob coughed. ‘Yes. I’m what you might call the “old guard”.’

‘You look awfully young for the “old guard”.’ Rhone got a laugh from the audience, which he acknowledged with a wink to the camera.

‘I’m the
young
old guard.’ Another laugh, this time for Jacob. ‘It’s all relative, you know.’ The laugh died down, which was the audience’s way of telling Jacob that he should have quit while he was ahead and foregone the corollary quip.

‘In a minute, we’re going to hear about Dr Stephens’ work, which has been getting so much attention. But first, tell us about your own research.’

Jacob cleared his throat. ‘Well … there’s a lot of stuff out there in space. So I’ve spent a great deal of time looking it over. Uh … a lot of it is quite nice. I think you’d like it, Rhone.’ Somewhere Jacob had read that if one is ever on a talk show, one should use the host’s name a lot.

He realised that more was expected of him, so he forced himself to keep going. ‘Personally … now, personally, um, I have a weakness for those pinkish nebulas – I mean,
nebulae.
I think it’s because although I love flowers, I’ve always been a terrible gardener. So outer space is my garden.’ He stole a glance at Normandie, who sat beyond their host in the other guest chair, smiling enchantingly but gripping her armrests as if on a rollercoaster ride.

‘That’s beautiful, Dr Jacobs,’ said Rhone, pretending to wipe away a tear. ‘And what have you learned out there in the garden of space?’

Jacob let out a long, low whistle. ‘Ooh … where to even begin.’ He sensed that he was not performing well.
Just parrot back some of what I told you,
he remembered Normandie saying. ‘I suppose I should mention,’ he said, ‘that the third quadrant of the E997 galaxy cluster is noteworthy for both its asymptotical orientation with respect to the plane of deep space, and its high concentration of neutron-poor gases.’ Jacob looked to Normandie for approval, but she seemed unwilling to make eye contact with him.

Rhone succeeded in looking engaged; but that, after all, was his job. And he wasted no time now in shuffling things into Normandie’s court, which was a relief to Jacob.

‘Now I’m going to talk to Dr Normandie Stephens,’ said the host to the audience. ‘
Normandie
– that’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is –
Rhone.
’ The audience laughed. But given how charming Normandie was, Jacob thought they probably would have laughed even if she’d been doing knock-knock jokes.

‘If I’m not mistaken, Dr Stephens, you’ve discovered a new galaxy.’

Jacob wondered what idiot had prepared such blatantly inaccurate notes for the poor host.

‘No,’ began Normandie, ‘that’s not –’ She stopped in mid-sentence, and Jacob saw something maniacal come over her face. ‘That’s
not
a mistake,’ she said slowly and confidently, to Jacob’s amazement. ‘I have indeed discovered a new galaxy. Brand new!’ She practically sang the last phrase, in a Julie Andrews sort of voice.

‘Excellent,’ said Rhone, who looked personally gratified.

Jacob could not decide whether he was appalled or delighted. In either case, there was nothing for him to do but stay put and watch her game play out.

‘Can you describe your new galaxy? What’s special about it?’

Jacob saw Normandie’s brow furrow in concentration as she prepared to launch into a repertoire of dry, scholarly information – fabricated but plausible. Then, just as her mouth opened, he again saw something flash across her face – something bright, and intense, and wonderfully mischievous.

‘It’s funny you should ask that, Rhone.’ She touched the host’s hand, and for the first time Jacob saw the polished showbiz face waver – presumably from the thrill of feeling her electricity. ‘In the eyes of astronomers, there are various special – but rather complicated – things that set this galaxy apart. But what’s really interesting about it – and this is something everyone can easily appreciate – is that it looks remarkably like a
rocking horse
.’

‘A … rocking horse,’ said Rhone.

Jacob struggled to keep from laughing.

‘Yes. You may have heard of the Horsehead Nebula, or the Crab Nebula … and of course there are many constellations that people have named after the animals and figures they resemble … Well, this galaxy is shaped like a rocking horse.’ She folded her hands in her lap.

‘But why do you say a rocking horse, and not just a horse?’

‘Because, silly, a regular horse doesn’t have wooden runners.’ She had just addressed Rhone Preston as ‘silly’ on his own programme. And it looked to Jacob, from the honest-to-goodness smile the man was sporting and the hint of an honest-to-goodness bulge he thought he spied in the host’s honest-to-goodness trousers, that Rhone liked it.

‘Are you telling us that you’ve discovered a galaxy with wooden runners?’ the host was asking.

‘They’re really just clouds of gas, but, yes, they look like wooden runners. Isn’t it fun? Mind you, in a few million years they might look like something else. So I say we enjoy them while we can.’

* * *

‘
There’s a lot of stuff out there in space
?’ Normandie teased. She was visibly keyed up after their TV appearance, and she was shifting from one foot to the other out of sheer excess energy. She and Jacob were indulging in a post-mortem, standing by the bar at Kate’s favourite martini mecca. Kate was on her way to join them.

‘Hey, there
is
. Isn’t there?’

‘That’s not what we astronomers are paid to discover.’

‘I’m sorry. Remember,
my
payslip doesn’t say “astronomer”,’ Jacob said, taking a sip of his butterscotch martini. ‘I think it says “jackass”.’

Normandie bopped an inch closer and patted his cheek, as Kate sidled up to the bar.

‘
There’s a lot of stuff out there in space
?’

‘Shh!’ giggled Normandie. ‘We did that already.’

‘I’m pleased to know that you own a television,’ said Jacob drily.

‘At any rate,’ said Normandie proudly, ‘my bit ought to make America happy.’

‘A galaxy that’s shaped like a rocking horse?’ said Jacob.

‘Exactly. I told you they were cute.’

‘But you just made the whole thing up,’ he protested.

‘Of course she made it up,’ Kate chimed in. ‘And even if she hadn’t, it would be totally inconsequential, from a scientific point of view. Do you really think scholars get all excited about cosmic phenomena based on how
cute
their shapes are?’

‘Well, my mother was an art historian, and she always said that …’

Kate waved a hand, a gesture that served not only to cut Jacob off in mid-sentence but also to summon the bartender. ‘That’s fine arts. Art is allowed to be cute. Science isn’t cute. It’s often beautiful, but never cute.’

‘What about the biology of wombats and baby koalas and so forth?’

‘Why are you arguing with me, Jacob? Do you really want to stand against a streamlined chrome bar debating baby animals at two in the morning? Personally, I think we should focus on drinking, so I can pay for these martinis and you can take Normandie home and give her a nice Wednesday-night shagging.’ She turned to Normandie. ‘Or do I mean Thursday-night shagging? I always lose track of what day it is around this time of the week.’

‘Sorry,’ said Jacob.

‘The point is, if the seduction of the Bay area television-watching public by the merest hint, delivered in Normandie’s breathless, toothpaste-selling voice, that there may be a massive amalgamation of stars 40 million light-years from here that, to our warped minds, suggests a rocking horse … where was I?’ She took a restorative gulp from her recently delivered martini. ‘Oh, yes. If that hint is going to translate into federal funding for my programme and salaries for the top-notch scholars I wish to retain’ – here she gave Normandie a friendly, unacademic slap on the pert behind of her I’m-going-on-television skirt – ‘then I say, “Bring on the rocking horse galaxies.”’