The Lost Swimmer (6 page)

‘I'm just concerned with some of the changes taking place. I don't think they're good academically or for the welfare of the staff.' I wished I could ask if she was having an affair with my husband. When I'd questioned Stephen after the party he claimed he couldn't even remember talking to Priscilla, that he was drunk and had probably just been civil because she was Patrick's guest.

‘It seems that you're deeply unnerved by change. And change is inevitable, I'm afraid,' said Priscilla coolly. ‘If you want to continue at Coastal and thrive, I think we need to analyse why you feel defensive rather than excited by the possibilities the future holds.'

‘The thought of sacking people unnerves me and I hope it always will.'
Who are you sleeping with, Priscilla?

‘Change management involves tough decisions. Perhaps you're not ready for that level of responsibility. Where would we be if no one was prepared to act decisively for the best interests of the university? Back in the dark ages and falling off the league tables rather than steadily rising through the ranks.'

‘But surely it's possible to take staff on the journey with us as willing companions, not scared for their lives?'
If you're sleeping with Stephen I will kill you.

‘Melodramatic. See what I mean, Vincent?' said Priscilla. And she hadn't even heard my thoughts.

O'Shannessy shifted in his chair.

‘And people have lives,' I continued. ‘Not everyone can publish at full capacity every year. Particularly those who are pregnant or have young families.'

‘They make those decisions. I chose not to have children. That's a choice free to anyone. People are mollycoddled these days. How tough did you find it when you were young?'

‘Okay, so it was hard.' Had Priscilla really decided not to have children or was it because of her perennial relationship troubles?
You'd better not be sleeping with Stephen.

‘Academics shouldn't expect an easy ride. And you shouldn't be so busy wanting everyone to be your friend,' Priscilla said evenly.

‘I just seek to be fair.'

‘You're not fair to me.'

I sighed. ‘I'm just trying to look after my staff.'

‘Well, you're not succeeding. Lisa Clements, for one, is very discontented.'

Lisa Clements was an ambitious and very average military historian who never had a good word to say about anyone.

‘It's hard when you protect the dead wood while others are working their hearts out,' said Priscilla.

‘That's the last thing I'm trying to do!'

‘You need to think about that.'

‘It would help if there was more transparency. If you could show me and the School Executive Committee a detailed budget we might understand why you need to make so many cuts.'

‘I've given you all that material.'

‘Could you go through with me line by line, then?'

Priscilla burst out with a startling, coquettish laugh. ‘Darling, I haven't the time. I'll get Alison to assist you.' She gave me a piercing look, which made my heart beat a little faster.

‘Is there anything else you'd like to add while we're talking budgets?' Priscilla said, and O'Shannessy sat forward.

I sat back. ‘No. Not today.'

A flicker passed between them and I weighed up if I should raise the Athens misunderstanding. But before I could, Priscilla was talking again, and she spent the rest of the session giving a charming rendition of the importance of flexibility and the nature of responsibility. I focused on her blue and white sandals, intrigued by their colour: the cornflower blue of her eyes but with a tinge of mauve.

I said nothing more, except to agree I would meet with them next month.

•  •  •

The glossy travel brochure shimmered in the sunset, my large gin and tonic fizzing as I eased into a deck chair and sent the tart, juniper-berry liquid slipping down my throat. Flicking through pictures of glamorous hotels and sparkling Amalfi coastline I had a surge of longing. I'd been invited as keynote speaker to a conference in Venice and Stephen had been asked to give a paper at a finance conference on Capri. We were planning to combine a magnificent European holiday around our engagements.

We'd fly to Athens – Stephen's first visit – where I'd spend two days taking him around my special places before we'd head to Crete, for a night, for me to catch up with friends. Then we would move on to Italy for a week to relax like Jackie Kennedy and the sixties jetset by the clear waters of Positano, where I had a date with destiny: to conquer a painful memory of an awful, snaking road hanging high above the ocean – a road my mother had been too afraid to drive when, with my younger brother John, we went on holiday trying to escape the horror of Dad's drowning. I was a teenager at the time, fifteen and miserable. I had always intended to return, drawn to succeed where my mother failed – in some small way it would pay homage to my father, who had always encouraged me to never be beaten by anything.

From the Amalfi coast we would ferry over to Capri and spend three days at Stephen's conference; then back through Naples where we'd catch the train to Florence for a couple of nights in a city full of happy memories we had created over several visits. Finally, we'd arrive in Venice where I'd speak on the gold of Macedon and the jewellery of the Minoans and Etruscans at a prestigious cultural archaeology conference.

Our duties complete, we would fly to Paris and spend eight days in Stephen's favourite city, one we knew well and never tired of visiting.

And then we'd come home, having reignited our love in the most romantic places on earth. I felt queasy as I thought again of the possibility of Stephen having an affair. Perhaps I should confront him when we were overseas, far away from her? Although if it was Priscilla, she'd sent an email to the Faculty stating she'd be in Paris doing research on semester break and our time there overlapped. I hoped it was only coincidence – she was a French historian after all. And I still couldn't believe Stephen was seeing someone else. I knew that I could have an overactive imagination.

In the brochure I came to the pages on the Veneto region and the Serenissima. There was the Grand Canal: I could still remember emerging exhausted from the railway station on a hot summer's day when the kids were young, for our family to be met by a shimmering expanse of pale green water filled with frenetic activity, beneath a golden haze. Large vaporetto churning the tourist masses to their accommodations, sleek water-taxis plying their trade with gleaming wood and plush upholstery, the only noise a seafaring purr and clunk and splash. We had all fallen madly and exquisitely in love.

Returning in a steady rhythm of years I had manoeuvred my way onto the advisory board of an elegant glass museum on the island of Murano. I knew Latin well and could understand Italian. My spoken skills were less confident, not much better at first than my schoolgirl French, but after a while I became fluent enough to get by. My task was to help verify the age of the ancient exhibits through an analysis of their chemical properties, assisted by state-of-the-art equipment. Over time I made friends with the local glassblowers, whose arms were as thick as trunks from keeping aloft the long pipes through which they exhaled their creations; their appetite for food and wine and company was of Olympic proportions. As often as possible, Stephen would accompany me; we'd try to squeeze in a visit between conferences or research trips, and we'd take the kids when we could. I yearned to see my friends again and to escape the daily dramas of Coastal.

When I finally tore myself from the enchanted images I had the energy to work on my paper. Writing about jewellery and arranging a PowerPoint presentation of luscious photographs absorbed me. Big Boy padded into the study and stretched at my feet.

‘Careful or I'll squash you.' He paid no attention.

The last streaks of pink faded from the vast orb of sky outside my window. I kept writing feverishly. It was a welcome distraction from the humiliation and frustration of my first mediation session. Surely what I was doing now was the point of my job, not kowtowing to Priscilla's mad obsession to slash and burn and crush? I made a mental note to set up a time with her to explain the Athens expenditure. Safer to clear it up than let it fester.

As the night wore on, Big Boy sauntered away and I heard him crunching on his biscuits. An owl hooted forlornly in the distance and two tawny frogmouths swooped from the nearby telegraph wire to catch insects in the glistening air. The ocean throbbed softly, echoing around the hills; there was a low-hanging mist, dulling the sharper sounds and lending an impressionist quality to the landscape, a trickster light, one that could hide a myriad of ill-begotten deeds.

Suddenly a hand grasped my shoulder and I jumped.

‘It's only me,' Stephen said. ‘Sorry I'm so late. I presume you ate already?'

‘You'll give me a heart attack. No, I've been working.' With surprise I noticed it was eleven o'clock. ‘Where have you been?'

‘I got caught up at a seminar. We went for drinks and it turned into dinner. I meant to ring . . . but clearly I wasn't missed.'

His dark hair was dishevelled and he seemed hot.

‘Who was at the dinner?' I asked.

‘Just my PhD students.'

I looked at him, trying to decide if that was the truth. His eyes were calm and friendly.

‘Can I tell you about my hideous session with Priscilla?' I said.

‘Can't it wait? I'm exhausted and I have a dawn meeting.' Stephen planted a quick kiss on my cheek. ‘Promise I'll hear all about it tomorrow night.' He kissed me again. ‘You look so pretty when you research,' he said and headed into the bedroom.

I went back to work and tried to fend off my disappointment that Stephen hadn't phoned. He'd been like that when we'd first met at university. He'd say he'd turn up somewhere and then would completely forget. In the first year of our marriage I'd sat waiting night after night, dinners going cold in the oven, finally forcing mine down. I'd worried he'd been in an accident and I'd never see him again. I could still remember my fury towards him for treating me that way and towards myself for being so weak. Before Stephen, I'd been independent; after marrying him I'd transformed into a useless appendage. Later, I realised some of my feelings were hormonal when I discovered I was pregnant. And with the arrival of James, things had changed – so many nights Stephen was the one who'd get up to settle him or bring him in for a feed. He'd put up with the exhaustion and helped me get as much rest as I could. By the time we had Erin, Stephen was the best father I knew, a complete partner: fun, reliable, my best friend, my confidante.

And now I was mistrusting him, setting myself on a difficult, painful path. I'd never suspected him of being unfaithful before, so why start now? Outside, a kangaroo thumped through the grass on the hill high above. I rose stiffly and went to the bedroom, where Stephen was already asleep. I turned off the light, plunging the room into black ink, and returned to the study, battling a swift injection of fear that I might no longer be the most important woman in his life.

I worked until dawn.

T
he second mediation session was in progress and O'Shannessy was observing proceedings with a distinct lack of interest. I was growing to detest the man, who today had slipped tight leather espadrilles over bare feet and was dressed in fawn trousers and a cream shirt. By the way he was looking at Priscilla when she wasn't watching, I gathered he was developing a crush.

‘I've dropped morning tea to save money, Priscilla,' I said.

‘Morning tea was disbanded years ago in most departments,' she snapped back.

‘The Fellows liked it and as you know, they can be very good donors.' I didn't mention I was planning to instigate an informal lunch with them instead.

‘See how she has an answer for everything?' Priscilla turned to O'Shannessy.

‘Hmm,' he mumbled, ‘go on,' flicking an approving glance at Priscilla.

‘And your research?' Priscilla seemed genuinely interested. ‘How's that coming along?'

‘Fine. Thanks.'

‘How are you finding the time to write?' Said with a flirtatious lilt of amazement for the benefit of O'Shannessy, who gave her a little smile and chuckled.

‘How does anyone?' he asked.

‘It's harder since we have to fit in these sessions, actually,' I replied.

‘Does that make you feel angry?'

‘What if it did? It doesn't interfere with how I run the School.'

‘Lisa Clements tells me your mood's been rather dark of late and that you've snapped at several people.'

‘Then Lisa's wrong.'

‘How so?' Priscilla's head tipped to one side like a budgerigar, her blue eyes genuinely concerned.

‘It's been busy with Melinda away, and the admin staff are having to adjust. Perhaps that's what Lisa's referring to?'

Priscilla shrugged. ‘Put it this way, if you are having problems, here's the place to air them. In a supportive and sympathetic environment.'

I had to wipe the smirk off my face.

‘I saw that. Immature.'

‘Oh for God's sake, Priscilla.'

‘That's better. Let's really talk. Until we do, these sessions will just go on and on.'

‘Is that why every Head is still in mediation?'

‘Have you spoken to them? You know that's forbidden.'

‘No.' Although goodness knows I'd tried. They were all terrified into obedience.

‘So, let's get back to your research. You're writing a paper on the gold of Macedon?'

‘I'm focusing on the Late Classical and Early Hellenistic periods.'

‘And why gold? Is it wealth that interests you?'

‘It's the uses of gold and the meaning in all facets of society I'm exploring. The period of Alexander the Great when Macedonian soldiers brought back spoils from the East.'