Tim Connor Hits Trouble (9 page)

It turned out that Aisha lived quite close to Tim’s place. She suggested that he come in for a quick coffee before she dropped him off on her way to collect Ali. He was glad to agree. The meeting had left them both feeling deflated and looking for some support.

Aisha parked in the stone courtyard in front of the house, a detached, walled Georgian property. She led Tim straight through into a modern kitchen, big and pleasant enough to serve as an informal dining room as well.

Sat at a large walnut table watching Aisha brew up the coffee Tim was again struck by her calm self-possession as well as by her charm and slender beauty. Looking around he noticed a framed photograph of a man and young boy that he guessed were Aisha’s partner and son.

Catching the direction of his gaze Aisha commented, ‘That’s my son Ali and my husband, Waqar. We’ve been married fifteen years now but we only had Ali about four years ago.’

‘He’s a good-looking kid. But you must have been very young when you got married. You hardly look out of your twenties now.’

She smiled, mildly embarrassed but pleased. ‘Believe me I am and by a few years. We Asians keep our complexions well; the wrinkles don’t show up until we’re really ancient.’

She handed him a coffee and sat down at the opposite side of the table.

‘Please put sugar and milk in to your own taste.’

‘Thanks, I like it black.’

‘Fine,’ she hesitated a moment before pouring the coffee, ‘I… I’m a bit concerned about an area of my teaching. Well, it’s one module in particular. It has some psychology in it that I’m not really familiar with. Henry says you’re quite good in the relevant area. If you could do a couple of sessions
for me I’ll do a couple for you in return? I don’t want to bother Henry, especially after what’s happened today.’

Tim was happy to help. ‘No problem. It’s beginning to look as though we’ll have to do our own networking. I think the others are friendly enough but pretty much into their own specialities. Mind you I’ve met Henry Jones a couple of times. Despite what’s happened today he’s quite helpful in a general sort of way. He’s a bit bumbly, but I’m more comfortable with him than I am with Rachel. We could meet up with him some time.’

‘I’d like that. I’m not sure I’d want to meet him on my own just yet. I haven’t quite worked him out. I can’t believe his behaviour today was typical. You were quite brave to speak up for him.’

‘I don’t know about brave, foolish more like it. I certainly haven’t endeared myself to the Dean. I hope he’s not the kind of person that bears a grudge. But going back to Henry, he behaves erratically at times although it’s obvious that he’s massively knowledgeable about some areas of social theory. He treated me to an hour-long lecture in the pub the other day; really stimulating. I hope he finds more time to get himself published now that he’s been dumped as Head of Department.’

‘It was tough on him today, but I suppose the Dean knows what he’s doing. I think I like Henry but Rachel will probably make a better Head of Department,’ said Aisha.

‘Maybe… but what do we know? I guess we’ll get up to speed with faculty politics before too long.’

They talked for a little longer, relaxing as they shared experiences of their first few weeks at Wash. A day that had begun badly for Tim and then accelerated downwards had tilted again to the upside. If relations with colleagues at work were going to be problematic, here at least was someone in the same situation as himself: a potential confidant and ally in times ahead.

Later Aisha dropped Tim off at Calcott Place.

‘Thanks for the lift and don’t worry about those lectures, I’m happy to do them for you.’

‘Thanks Tim, that’s a real relief. But the support is mutual. Let me know if I can help you out whenever.’

On an impulse she held out her hand. Tim was about to kiss it, checked himself, and instead shook it warmly.

Tim combined his search for a place of his own with an exploration of Wash and its surrounds. Every route out of town ran into open countryside. Even the road to the M4 wound northwards through several miles of lush undulating hills dotted with outcrops of craggy white rocks of sandstone and lime. The early autumn colours blended warmly with the soft tones of the stone-built country villages. He briefly considered buying a rural retreat but dismissed it as a retirement option. He was still tugged by the latent possibilities of urban life, a yen his adventure with Georgie had done nothing to diminish. The dull ache of what he had lost never left him but the demands of his life in Wash allowed little opportunity to mope or even for much personal reflection. Activity became his anaesthetic.

He decided to find a place within walking distance of the city centre, although the period properties were beyond his means. Eventually he settled for a nineteen sixties semi in a suburban development in the east of the city not far from where he had bumped into Light-bulb and Dipstick.
The house was a brisk walk from the city centre with good access to the M4, useful when he needed to link up with life beyond Wash.

He didn’t have to worry much about fitting the place out. The couple he bought it from were about to start a family and wanted to move on to bigger and they hoped better things. For five hundred quid they agreed to leave all the basic furniture including an old but comfortable suite, a kitchen table and chairs, and a huge floor-level double bed frame filled with a firm bouncy mattress. He already owned all the leisure and communications equipment he needed but added an extra television for the bedroom. He spent the thick end of a month’s salary on a four door, second hand Volvo. The bodywork was beginning to flake and even rust in a couple of places but an AA inspection assured him that the engine was in good condition. Buying the car stretched his budget but it provided wheels to visit Gina and Maria in Essex and his mother in Lancashire.

Caveat emptor
. According to popular wisdom a buyer discovers what’s wrong with a house in the weeks after moving in. In that respect Tim was lucky. He had cut costs on the house survey, trusting the place had been as well maintained as it appeared. That turned out to be the case. Even the ancient central heating system gave no serious trouble, although it didn’t provide much heat either. Neighbours can be another risk for a new homeowner. Pick the wrong ones and they can turn daily life into purgatory. That possibility hadn’t even entered his mind. The elderly couple in the adjoining semi were pleasant enough but evidently had no wish to go beyond an occasional acknowledgement of mutual existence. That suited Tim. Polite chat had never been his forte. As it turned out, polite chat didn’t last long with his neighbours on the other side either. Darren Naylor was a builder who used his house as a base for his business, ambitiously named ‘Premiership Builders.’ When Tim introduced himself as a social science lecturer, Naylor responded with a semi-literate diatribe about how
too many people in the Britain were doing ‘useless jobs.’ In the brief period in which civil communication survived, Tim learnt that Naylor’s wife kept the business’s accounts and that both his dad-identikit sons had severe learning difficulties ‘due to the fucking education system.’ Naylor shook his thick fist to within a few inches of Tim’s face as he delivered this damning verdict, implying that Tim was personally implicated in his boys’ predicament.

Only a few days after he had moved in, Tim got a taste of Naylor’s rough entrepreneurial spirit. He answered an early evening knock on the door.

‘You settled in then?’

Tim nodded, ‘Fine… definitely getting there.’

Naylor wasted no more time in coming to the point.

‘Good. Ye’ve probably seen that the fence between our two driveways is rotten, falling to bits… I could put up a really nice one if ye’d split the cost. Now’s the time to do it while ye’re still into making things how you like them. May as well include the fence. I can do a good one cheap ’cos I got access to materials at trade price.’

Tim was well aware that according to the house deeds the maintenance of the boundary between the two properties was his neighbour’s responsibility. But for the sake of good will and perhaps a say in the type of fence that went up he opted to make a contribution. Negotiations about how much this should be went on for a couple of minutes. Verbals got a bit edgy as it became clear to Naylor that he was going to get less than he wanted. In the end Tim’s best offer of sixty quid was reluctantly accepted. When Tim pointed out that legally he didn’t have to contribute anything Naylor’s response was a sour ‘Yeah right.’ Naylor found his way back to his own property by route ‘A’ stepping over the old fence. He turned with sudden aggression, placed the sole of his shoe against the fence and pushed his weight through it. The rotten timber splintered and cracked. ‘See it’s fucked.’ Tim agreed that it was one hell of a fucked fence.

The two men stared at each other, their mutual dislike setting hard.

Following this incident, Tim decided to limit conversation with his neighbour to a polite minimum. For a few weeks this worked, although it became increasingly obvious that Darren Naylor was no shrinking violet. He managed to inject a surly aggression into their brief exchanges. Tim responded with what he liked to think was his trademark cool. It was a potentially incendiary mix. Naylor liked to ‘piss people off,’ ‘cool’ was what annoyed him most.

Meanwhile Tim waited for signs of the fence to go up, cursing him-self for giving Naylor the full sixty quid up-front.

The fence aside, managing to buy a house without too much trouble was doubly convenient because work continued unrelenting. Life in higher education was more impersonal and fragmented than he’d expected much more so than in his previous job where everyone came into work daily, dropping into the staff room at break-times for chat and refuelling. There was usually someone to talk to and maybe a few people around after classes to have a drink with. His social life seemed to roll out fairly effortlessly. Wash University was different and it took some getting used to. Opportunities for socialising didn’t arise so naturally. It didn’t help that he was a lone rather than a team-based researcher. Swankie insisted that all full-time staff undertake and publish research. Tim disliked his officious tone but he was anyway a keen researcher. Like teaching, it was part of his chosen career of opening minds, not least, his own. Getting lost in his research also contributed to his ‘escape’ from the demons of regret.

Still, if he had come to Wash to work, work was not enough. He was caught in a tangle of contradictions of his own making. He wanted to remain available to Gina should she change her mind about him, yet he needed some sort of social life and human contact. Tempted by the unexpected
opportunity of a period of no-strings hedonism he knew that the excitement and satisfaction of one-off encounters of the kind he had with Georgie was fleeting. His need for a more meaningful relationship was growing. But either way, he was open to possibilities. He was beginning to muse increasingly about the problem when the problem began to solve itself.

One early morning towards the end of autumn term, the phone rang. It was Erica Botham.

‘Hi Tim, I thought I’d give you a social call. I hope you don’t mind. I got your number from admin.’

He didn’t mind.

‘No, not at all. It’s good to hear from you. I’ve hardly seen you since we bumped into each other in Waterstones. Sorry if I sound a bit grainy, I don’t seem to get my wheels on before ten o’clock.’

‘Wheels?’

‘Just a figure of speech; I haven’t quite revved up yet. What have you been up to anyway?’

‘Not a lot. According to Henry you’ve been creating the news. I believe you’ve bought a house.’

‘That’s right. I invited Henry round but he hasn’t made it yet.’

‘I see. Actually I’ve called to ask you out for a drink. It’s not often we get a new appointment in the department. We need to look after you.’ She paused for a moment. ‘If you don’t fancy that I could pop round to see you and take a look at your new place?’

Tim hesitated for no more than a nano-second. Erica’s approach was direct but he liked the direction. He quickly agreed. ‘Ok. Why don’t you drop by for dinner this evening? Bring a bottle with you, anything except sweet white wine.’

Even as they talked, his libido began to wake. How might the evening ahead pan out? Would Erica be as coolly self-contained but tantalisingly almost within reach as she had seemed when they met in Waterstones? How lucky might he get? She was one of the most beautiful women
he had ever come within touching distance of. He wanted to touch.

Erica’s voice interrupted his imaginings.

‘No problem. I’ll bring something for afters. And maybe a surprise.’

‘Sounds great. Is eight o’clock a good time for you?’

‘That’s fine. Gotta go now, I’m teaching in a couple of minutes. See you later.’

‘See you then.’

Throughout the day Tim tried not to think too much about the evening ahead. But he was feeling the pinch of abstinence. The episode with Georgie was several weeks ago and he had decided not to repeat it. Erica switched on all his lights but it was too early to second-guess what if anything might happen with her. He had to micro-manage so much of his life that it was almost a relief to leave one area open to chance. As he waited he couldn’t ignore the anticipatory warmth and occasional involuntary throbbing of his loins and cock.
Down, hooligan, time you were taught a little self-control
. He was closer to the truth than he imagined but not that close.

The doorbell rang at eight precisely.

Opening the door Tim was dazzled by a vision of blond and blue. Erica’s thick hair cascaded almost halfway down her dark blue, ankle-length off-leather coat. Her face was pale in the cold, accentuating the intensity of her unfeasibly light blue eyes.

He stifled an impulse to gape.

‘Hi. Glad you made it ok. Come in, you must be frozen.’

‘Hi. It
is
cold’ she gave an exaggerated shiver as she stepped inside. ‘I’ll be fine when I warm up.’

Inside she handed her scarf and coat to Tim, her figure as shape perfect as he remembered. On the table, for once clear of books and papers, she off-loaded a large, eco-friendly Waitrose bag.

‘A bottle of wine and a homemade trifle. My contribution.’

‘Not
Blue Nun
or
Mateus Rosé
, I hope.’ Tim eased into the small talk.

‘No. It’s a red burgundy. I hope that suits. Does
Blue Nun
still exist? I must say I’ve had my fill of nuns, blue or otherwise. I was educated in a convent. Not much fun, believe me. Well,’ she reconsidered, ‘there was plenty of fun but the nuns had nothing to do with it.’

Tim decided to move on swiftly from the nun theme, although not for the first time he was struck by how often he was drawn to ex-Catholic convent school girls. Their fall from grace seemed to lend an explosive abandon to their bedroom performances.

‘Great. Red burgundy should go well with my trademark Irish stew. I’ll put the trifle in the fridge.’

Once they began eating and drinking, conversation came easily. Tim had a line in sixties/seventies American folk/blues music and put on some Kris Kristopherson and early Dylan. Anxious not to appear ‘all our yesterdays’ he followed up with some Mumford and Sons and the latest Leonard Cohen – the thinking woman’s Bing Crosby. None of this was quite Erica’s top taste – Cohen, as she pointed out, was old enough to be her granddad, but the music melded into a rising mood of erotic attraction and sexual tension. He could have put on the national anthem without seriously interrupting the flow. By the time they finished the first course there had been enough friendly eye contact and ‘incidental’ touching for Tim to sense that Erica’s interest in him might stretch beyond his Irish stew.

‘Why don’t we have the trifle in the lounge?’ He wished he had found a smoother way of moving things on from the kitchen to the sofa.

Erica gave him a teasing smile. ‘Is that where you usually have your trifles?’ Embarrassed at her pun she quickly agreed with Tim’s suggestion. ‘Yeah let’s go in there, but why don’t we finish off the wine and smoke a joint before the trifle? A joint always puts an extra edge on my appetite. I’ve brought some stash with me.’

She glanced quickly at him. ‘You do smoke don’t you?’

‘Not the killer tobacco, but yeah I enjoy the occasional joint.’ He was beginning to feel that if a seduction was under way Erica was orchestrating it. She took a made-up joint from her bag.

Sat together on the sofa, she lit the joint and took an exploratory pull before passing it over. Tim rolled it tentatively between his fingers before taking a shallow drag. He coughed sharply as the dry smoke hit the back of his throat. This was strong stuff. He drank some wine before taking another pull, deeper this time. He felt a surge of pleasure in his lungs and brain. As the joint passed between them they became increasingly tactile, their hands brushing together. An aura of easy intimacy enveloped them as they began to revel in a sense of mutual discovery.

‘Hello, then, Tim.’ Erica reached across and gently caressed the back of his head and neck.

‘Hello, Erica.’ Now well in the zone, he added, ‘I guess you know you’re very beautiful.’

He had almost broken the spell.

‘Tim, please.’ She took her hand away from his neck. ‘
Nobody
knows they’re very beautiful. Not really. Nobody’s
that
secure.’

Tim leaned back, surprised. Surely she must be kidding him. Haloed in a soft psychedelic haze she was beautiful whether she knew it or not.

‘Believe me, you are beautiful,’ Tim insisted.

Drifting pleasantly, a spate of philosophical ponderings suddenly hijacked his brain.
But what is beauty? Is beauty in the eye of the beholder? Am I beautiful? What is the purpose of…

Sensing she had lost him and keen to change the subject Erica brought him back to earth: