POX: A contagiously funny dual timeline rom-com

Chapter 1

Oxford, present day

‘Anna, I’m leaving.’

Becca’s words filtered into my Monday morning brain fog, but I didn’t fully comprehend their meaning. I sipped my coffee, unconcerned. ‘I’m not sure why I need to know you’re going to the loo. But thanks for telling me.’

There was a silence, and I glanced over to the adjoining desk. Becca’s face had taken on a patient expression, as a mother’s might when dealing with a small child. Oh, OK, that wasn’t what she meant. Despite being a senior researcher with a doctoral in history who could rattle off all sorts of facts and figures, sometimes I failed to understand basic communication.

My stomach dropped as her real meaning sunk in. ‘What? But you can’t leave. I need you, and I’ve just gotten used to you!’

Becca had been hired fresh out of her master’s degree six months ago as my research assistant for Professor Jeremy Trelawny’s book The Impact of Smallpox on Eighteenth-Century England.

Despite a three-year age gap, we’d bonded over endless cups of tea and a shared fascination with endemic diseases. Becca’s caustic wit reminded me of my twin sister, Beth. Plus she had the same first initial and our long dark hair, slim build, and green eyes. Not that I’d seen Beth for two years. She might have shaved her head, put on 100 pounds, and now wear coloured contacts for all I knew ...

Becca hitched a shoulder and looked sheepish. ‘As much as I like working with you, I’ve had a great offer—a three-month research post in Africa.’

‘Africa!’ I screeched a touch too loud, and Becca winced.

‘Wow,’ I said in a softer tone. ‘Doing what?’

‘Collecting oral histories from people affected by malaria and documenting their personal experiences related to the disease,’ she explained. ‘It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. And my time working on the pox project boosted my application to the top of the pile.’

I folded my arms, frowning at her. ‘Does Jeremy know about this?’

‘Yes, he was the one who acted as my referee. I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was sure, but I got confirmation over the weekend.’

Jeremy hadn’t mentioned anything to me about Becca leaving. But then again, there was a hierarchy in the faculty—one I was duly aware of at times like this. Information tended to flow upwards or sideways and only down the chain when strictly necessary. But still ... Becca was my assistant, and I’d miss her.

A thought struck. What if Jeremy hired someone unbearable to replace her? We shared a small office, and I wasn’t great with other people in my personal space. I needed quiet and calm to do my job. A foot tapper, gum chewer, or loud headphones-music player would irritate the heck out of me. There was also the worry he’d hire a woman I couldn’t compete with. Becca, once I’d gotten used to her little quirks, was safe as she was ensconced in a long-term relationship. And as far as I knew, she didn’t find Jeremy remotely attractive; she’d never said anything to me anyway.

‘Has he ...’ I started, and Becca knew instantly where my mind was headed.

‘Begun advertising? Yes, since I’m on my notice period starting today.’ She moved her mouse, clicked on a link, and brought up the history faculty vacancies page in case I was still in denial. ‘See?’

I leaned over and saw the listing: ‘Assistant Required for Senior Researcher on Smallpox Project’. Below it was a brief paragraph about the role, qualifications required, along with salary and start date.

This was turning out to be a bad day. I should have stayed in bed and skipped Monday altogether.

‘Maybe you should leave too,’ said Becca casually. I almost choked on a mouthful of lukewarm coffee.

‘Me? Why would I leave? I’m doing important work.’

‘Yes, but you’ve been doing it for two years. Don’t you want to branch out and do something else? There are lots of interesting positions on here. You should take a look.’

I shook my head emphatically. ‘Jeremy’s book requires meticulous research, and I wouldn’t want to leave him in the lurch, especially as he’s about to start writing. He needs me for editing, cross-referencing, and footnotes.’

What was she even thinking suggesting I leave?

Becca was looking at me with a curious, almost-knowing glint in her eye. ‘Are you sure it’s the book you’re focused on?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I averted my gaze and concentrated on the document displayed on my computer screen. I was combing through church records in south-east England from 1749 to 1779. They were proving vital because some months had disturbingly high deaths from smallpox. It was fascinating stuff (well, to me).

‘Come on, Anna. I’ve seen the way you go all moony whenever you’re around him,’ said Becca in a strange voice.

I glanced sideways and saw that she’d puckered her lips and was fluttering her eyelashes. She looked ridiculous. I threw a paper clip at her. ‘I don’t do that!’

But inside, I quailed. God, if Becca had noticed, who else had? Jeremy himself? I shuddered to think of it. I thought I’d been pretty discreet at keeping my feelings to myself. Obviously, I had a bad poker face.

I took another sip of coffee, now cold and acrid, and swallowed it down, hoping she’d drop the subject.

But Becca, whose features had returned to normal, was warming up to the subject. ‘I mean, I can see the appeal. He’s good-looking, smart, and charming. But he’s a chronic serial dater. You must’ve noticed that. No one is ever good enough. If they get a second date with him, they’re lucky. A third date is a miracle. But he never takes it any further.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being picky,’ I said resolutely. ‘He’s just trying to find the right person—’

The landline on my desk rang, interrupting me, and my cheeks tingled with the start of a blush. I’d privately labelled my phone the ‘Jeremy hotline’ since he was the only one who ever rang me on it.

Becca mouthed ‘serial dater’, but I ignored her, picking up the receiver.

‘Hi, Jeremy,’ I answered sweetly. ‘Oh, a meeting in your office? Sure. See you in five.’

Becca shook her head as I hurried out of the room, heading to the ladies’ to freshen up before my meeting. Perhaps it was best if she did leave. I couldn’t stomach the thought of her counselling me ‘for my own good’ on why I shouldn’t be in love with Jeremy Trelawny when I didn’t even understand it myself.

***

I paused outside Jeremy’s door, forcing my heartbeat to a slow clip instead of a fast clop. It was always like this when he called me into his office. I’d get myself into a right tizzy. But somehow, I managed to keep my cool when I was in there and talk intelligently with him. At times, I wondered why I put myself through it, but I lived in hope that one day I’d mean more to him than just his senior research assistant.

The problem with the situation, though, was that we worked together. Jeremy’s career and reputation at Oxford were too important to him to be involved in an affair with someone he worked closely with, especially if it went pear-shaped. I was hoping that, miracle of miracles, he’d fall in love with me too; and then he wouldn’t care about workplace ethics. Until then, I waited in the wings, an understudy, hoping that one day it would be my turn on the main stage.

Today’s meeting seemed like it was going to be a short one, and I assumed it was about Becca’s resignation. But Jeremy often called me into his office for longer discussions or to have a working lunch so we could converse about my research findings and the statistical data I was gathering for his book. The admiration he bestowed on me when I’d managed to unearth some rare nugget of information to support one of his theories could make me float on air for days. To him, it was probably a throwaway comment. But I relished it, savoured it. Some might call it ‘obsessing’. I called it ‘cherishing’. Was there even a difference?

Checking for the third time that there weren’t any blobs of food on my green silk shirt and smoothing down my black skirt, I rapped on his door.

‘Come in, Anna,’ intoned Jeremy’s deep voice from within, and it sent a light shiver down my spine. I stepped in and shut the door, effectively sealing off the rest of the world, for time always stood still in here. The first impression of entering his office, when he’d interviewed me two years ago, still stuck with me. I’d summarised it into five words so I’d always remember the day we met: wood, paper, glass, warmth, and beauty. Wood-panelled walls, a mess of paper, a lattice picture window looking out onto the quadrangle green, the afternoon sun streaming in, and the man sitting behind the desk.

On this particular Monday morning, the mess of paper had been tidied into neat stacks, the sky was grey through the lattice window, and it could have seemed a little chilly without the sun. But the masculine energy of the man sitting behind the desk warmed the entire room.

Jeremy looked up as I approached.‘Morning. Monday-itis?’ he asked.

I sat down in the chair opposite and attempted a more pleasant expression. Dammit, I didn’t want him thinking I was a moody cow.

‘Morning. Ah, no. I just drank cold coffee. It didn’t sit well,’ I said.

Jeremy tsked. ‘That crap from the kitchen? Can’t have my number one researcher drinking bad coffee.’

As I knew he would, he leaned across and flicked on the espresso machine in the alcove next to his desk. Jeremy was a coffee connoisseur and enjoyed trying out different varieties—the stronger the better. I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker before I worked with him; now I had a mild coffee addiction. His latest favourite was from El Salvador—a light roast, but potent. It looked like I was going to be wired before lunch.

While the coffee machine cranked and whirred and did its thing, Jeremy smiled at me, and my insides cranked and whirred too. In his late thirties, he was past the bloom of youth, but I thought the faint crinkles at the corners of his piercing blue eyes showed maturity and only added to his attractiveness. To be honest, there wasn’t much I didn’t like about the way he looked. From his thick chocolate-brown hair to his polished leather loafers and the tight physique in between, it was all good to me.

Jeremy handed me a small white cup of steaming black liquid emitting a rich aroma. He took a tentative sip of his own and licked his lips in appreciation.

‘So how’s it going with the church records?’ he asked, settling back in his chair.

I roused myself, trying not to stare at his luscious mouth like a halfwit.

‘Um, good, just a lot of them to get through. Becca’s been doing a first scan and handing over anything that needs a deeper look, though I guess I won’t be able to rely on her for much longer.’

‘She told you about Africa, I take it?’

‘She did.’

Jeremy’s eyes flicked over my face. ‘You’re not happy about it.’

I sighed inwardly. There was never much I could get past him. He had a knack of reading my moods. This was why I was worried he’d picked up on my crush. The thought of him finding out how I felt was terrifying.

I took a sip of coffee and blinked as the ensuing blast of caffeine hit my brain like napalm.

‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘Becca’s great. But I can’t protest if she’s already handed in her resignation and it’s what she wants to do.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find you another Becca,’ said Jeremy breezily. ‘I’ve had twenty applicants already.’

Twenty!‘Wow, the advert was only posted on Friday.’

‘Yes, smallpox must be a popular topic,’ he replied.

I suspected it was more likely the chance to work with a hot professor.

‘Out of curiosity, what’s the female-to-male ratio?’ I asked.

‘Uh ...’ Jeremy ran his eyes down his laptop screen, counting under his breath. ‘Fifteen female, five male.’

Dammit, just as I thought.

I gulped nervously. ‘That ... that’s a lot.’

‘I know, it’s a bit silly. I closed off the job before you came in. There are three main standouts for interviewing to my way of thinking, but I’ll let you have a look at them.’

Jeremy swivelled his laptop towards me to display the candidates he’d shortlisted. There were two male and one female. The males I disregarded because as soon as I locked eyes on Lucy Flanagan’s CV photo, I knew I was in trouble. She was Irish with blue eyes, blonde hair, and, judging from the swell of flesh before the photo cut off, an ample bosom.

‘I think she’s the best of the bunch,’ Jeremy said, tapping on the photo of pretty Lucy. My mouth went dry. Seriously? Could this Monday get any worse?

‘Her qualifications are top-notch, and she’s got excellent references,’ he continued. ‘But of course, it’s up to you since you’re the one who’ll be working with them closely. I trust your judgement to choose the best candidate, Anna.’

I glowed a little at that and felt relieved. I have some say in the matter. I made up my mind there and then. There was no way in hell Irish Lucy would be working in my office!

‘OK. Send me through the link, and I’ll have a look at them.’

‘Excellent,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ll do that now. Oh, and by the way, the books I requested from the Wellcome Library arrived yesterday afternoon.’ He gestured to a sturdy-looking box sitting on the floor by the door. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. Would you mind having a look?’

‘Of course,’ I replied, eager to help even though it would add considerably to my workload. As well as conducting research for Jeremy’s book, I was independently researching and writing a paper on Queen Mary II, who had died of smallpox at age 32.

‘We can discuss anything you find over lunch later in the week.’

‘Great, I’ll look forward to that.’ My breath hitched as I realised what I’d said. ‘Uh, I mean, the takeaway salads you get from that cafe are delicious. I’ll look forward to eating another one.’

Jeremy chuckled. ‘Good, aren’t they? Anyway, I’d better let you get on with it.’ He nodded at the box.

Right. Yes, the books. Our meeting was over. I got up, went over to the box, and hefted it off the floor and into my arms. It weighed a small ton. Awkwardly grasping it against my chest, I managed to open the door, manoeuvre myself and the box through, and inch the door shut with my foot. As it closed, I allowed myself a final tantalising glimpse of Jeremy’s handsome face, peering intently at his laptop; he was no doubt checking out Irish Lucy’s credentials more thoroughly.

Back in the office, I deposited the box of books on my desk with a thump. Becca glanced over. ‘How did it go? You were in there for a while.’

I grunted. ‘We were discussing your replacement. But Jeremy said I’d get to choose whoever it is, thank God.’

Becca raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything else, as if sensing that all wasn’t well in paradise.

At least I had something interesting to distract me. Unpacking books from an archive was always thrilling. You could practically smell the past seeping from their ancient pages.

Pulling on a pair of white gloves, I cut open the top of the box and removed the foam cushioning material that had been packed in tightly to prevent the books from moving around during transit. There were eight: four small and four large, wrapped in acid-free tissue paper and packed in two layers, spine down to prevent damage to the binding.

I unwrapped one of the small ones first. The cover was dark green and had an intricate gilt-tooled floral border. It was in superb condition, as if it had been someone’s treasured possession. But it was the title that instantly caught my eye.

Memories of a Pox-Scarred Maid

by Contessa Mercy Mocenigo

Intriguing. Who was Mercy Mocenigo, and what had happened in her life that was noteworthy enough to warrant writing a memoir? I couldn’t wait to find out.