Part Two
Wednesday, 2 October
Henry
Noise drifted up from the quadrangle and through the window of Henry’s college office, where he sat thinking of the woman he’d promised himself to stop thinking of. Eleven days on from being struck speechless by the heated collision of Halley’s lips, he was still seeing stars.
Every time he closed his eyes a series of images flashed: Halley’s hair held up with a pencil... Halley appearing to him at the Radcam... the glow of a street lamp haloed around Halley when she kissed him. Seconds later she’d left to get the train somewhere, and he’d been left behind, rigid with shock and regretting not jumping into the taxi beside her, to confess he’d fallen for her and beg for her phone number. Now, all he knew was her name, and all he had were her sunglasses, which had fallen onto the kerb.
He’d found several Halley Harts in the USA, but it was immediately evident from their profile pictures that none of them were his Halley. And when he expanded his search to the rest of the world, it was more of the same. If his Halley had a digital footprint, he’d come up blank with finding it. The only idea he had left was emailing HalleyHart@ every single domain name he could come up with, which was entirely too extreme.
Shoving to his feet, he glanced through the dormer window that jutted from the sloping ceiling of his eaves office. Down in the old quad the college porters were supervising a strict one-in one-out system for the cars queuing behind the gate. As each was admitted, some of the waiting third-years, who’d returned a day earlier, sprinted over to greet the new student, and offer help unloading.
Henry paced to the far side of his office, where the ceiling was higher with no risk of banging his head, and he rested a hand on the bulging old plaster of the wall behind him. From this angle he could see straight out across the gables, chimneys and spires of Oxford’s skyline, a view that never failed to relax him.
Well, until Halley fled in that taxi, which had displaced his ability to relax, with this pent-up jittering.
Pushing off from the wall, he returned to his desk and flipped to the middle of his leather-bound journal, which was part-filled with his neat, slanted handwriting. He’d kept the log of daily developments in his historical research since his Ph.D., often filling a full page with reflections on papers he was reading, analysis of problems he’d noticed, or hunches on locations for the old documents he sought. Never before had he used it for anything personal, but now there were several pages devoted to Halley. He turned to a fresh page, determined to do some proper work.
He was investigating a possible extension of his first research paper, which had recently been accepted for publication in an academic journal. The focus of that was a sketchbook from 1806, which had lain unexamined in the St Jude’s library until Henry had unearthed it soon after his arrival. He’d spent the previous year laboriously decoding the writing beneath the drawings, discovering diary entries by a girl named Louisa Sedgwick, in which she quoted letters from her brother, Lawrence, who was a young British naval officer, at that time away at sea. Over the summer, Henry had invested many hours into scouring his college’s records, but had found nothing else related to the Sedgwick family.
He glanced at the time on his phone, then got up, grabbed his academic gown from its hook on the back of the door, and exited his tiny office. His office was on the top floor, and he tramped down the four storey staircase, pushed outside and went under the archway into the old quad. He slowed to a lope over the cobblestones and shoved first one arm, then the other, into the wide sleeves of his gown. The black fabric caught the breeze so it billowed out behind him as he passed an overfull Volvo, where two parents appeared to be playing car Jenga, attempting to dislodge boxes without pulling the rest of the pile over. Their black-haired daughter was trilling at the third years about how oxciting it was to arrive at Oxford.
Henry spared her a smile as he rushed on, through the covered passage and out the other side into East Quad. He was headed to a building on the far side of the square, diagonally across from him, but he couldn’t cut across the grass without breaking five hundred years of tradition, and risking a penalty rumoured to be the miscreant’s choice of beheading, defenestration from the Dean’s office, or a ￡250 fine. He continued down one edge at a jog, then round to pass the old cloisters, where he stopped short just in time to avoid a collision with a man, who was elderly, but by no means frail. Professor Geoffrey Hogshaw, frequently referred to behind his back as Hogshoo, due to the loud snoring that regularly emanated from his office, was a fellow historian, but beyond their subject they shared little in common.
Henry gave him a cautious nod, which Hogshoo barely deigned to return, instead scowling at a rake-thin boy who wandered past them, almost buckling under the weight of a shoe box, and glancing all around him as if he were lost.
‘God help us if there’s a war,’ Hogshoo said with marked disgust.
Henry intervened quickly, asking the boy his staircase number and directing him, before nodding once more at Hogshoo and continuing on to enter the Senior Common Room.
Ruth, the college’s rosy-cheeked young chaplain, who was also in charge of student welfare, was beside the coffee machine. As he sidled over she noticed him, and rooted in the pocket of her floral dress, which she’d layered over her clerical shirt and collar.
‘Kwame said he put it at the far end of the bike shed,’ she said, proffering a small key, ‘in hope that none of the new arrivals inadvertently lock theirs to it.’
‘Perfect,’ he said, accepting the key to the lock of the bike he’d bought from Ruth’s husband, who lived with her in the chaplaincy accommodation on the college site. Kwame owned a second-hand cycle shop. He was also a friend. Henry liked Ruth, too, despite feeling somewhat restrained by her vocation when she turned up to the pub in her dog collar. ‘Thanks for the key — and to Kwame for delivering the bike.’
‘It’s no problem. We know the start of Michaelmas is manic for all you tutors.’
‘The rest of Michaelmas term will be manic for me, too,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Did you hear that Hogshoo pulled out on tutorial teaching? Forced by a medical situation, he claimed. And he refuses to ask either of his senior doctoral students to cover him. Both are too close to submitting their theses, apparently. Rupert can’t understand why he’s being so obstructive.’
‘Mmm,’ Ruth said, because she was too diplomatic to point out what everyone but Rupert knew, that Geoffrey Hogshaw clearly held a grudge against the decade-younger Rupert, for being catapulted above him as St Jude’s Senior History Tutor when the previous incumbent retired. ‘So Rupert’s taking on double teaching, and you’re having to do extra too?’
‘Exactly,’ Henry said on a sigh. ‘The only advantage being that I’ll get most of my contracted teaching hours out of the way this term, freeing the rest of the year for my research. That’s not going great, so maybe it’s just as well.’
‘Is that what’s keeping you up half the night?’ Ruth asked.
He met her eyes, silently questioning how she could possibly know of his trouble sleeping.
‘I’ve noticed you leaving college after midnight three times this week, and Kwame said he sees you arrive at dawn most days. Those hours don’t leave much time for shuteye.’
‘Well, I’ve had to plan a full set of tutorials for the first years that were just foisted on me.’ It was an effort to speak mildly, and he suspected Ruth had clocked his defensiveness. He scratched his head, thinking hard. He never liked to lie, and he certainly wasn’t going to do so to a friend — and minister of religion. But neither did he want to take Ruth into his confidence about Halley in the middle of a room crowded with colleagues. He lowered his voice, and chose his words carefully. ‘But it’s not just that, you’re right. I’ve been struggling to sleep — struggling to do much of anything — for worrying about... something I’m desperate to find.’
Ruth’s diplomacy kicked in, and she didn’t pry further. ‘My experience with issues that intrude every time you try to think about something else, is that drowning them out — with work, or booze, or worrying about worrying about them — is never as effective as confronting them head-on.’
As Henry considered that, one of the college bigwigs announced it was time to make their way through to the conference table in the next room. Ruth grabbed her coffee and rushed forward.
Henry caught up with her. ‘How would I do that, though? When I can’t find something, it’s impossible to face it head-on.’
Ruth paused. ‘It’s hard to advise without knowing the details, but — have you searched until you’ve exhausted every possibility?’
He recalled the list of email domain names. ‘No...’
Ruth brightened. ‘I’d start there.’
* * *
Thursday, 3 October
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Halley Hart, Halley Hart, Halley A. Hart, Halley B. Hart, etc...
Dear Halley,
Are you my Halley Hart?
Not that I mean to imply ownership in any way, I’m just specifically seeking the Halley Hart who I encountered during her/your visit to Oxford on Saturday, 21 September.
If you are Halley — my Halley — then hopefully you know why I’m going to these lengths to find you.
If you’re a different Halley, please accept my profuse apologies.
With very best wishes,
Henry
* * *
Delivery to the following recipients failed permanently: [Halley X. Hart] [Halley Q. Hart] Reason: User unknown.
* * *
From: Halley S. Hart
Subject: Automatic reply Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Henry Inglis
Greetings from purgatory!
I’m currently offline, due to vacationing at an all-inclusive wellness retreat that’s sprung a digital detox on me.
If your message requires a response, I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve stolen my phone back from the lockbox, or otherwise once I’m released...
If it’s urgent, you’re very welcome to parachute into the Arizona desert to rescue me.
Sincerely,
Halley S. Hart
* * *
Friday, 4 October
From: Halley HART
Subject: Bad news, Good news!!!
To: Henry Inglis
Dear Henry,
The BAD news is that I’m not the Halley Hart you’re after. Actually I’m not Halley Hart at all. I’m Halley diMaggio, but my hair salon is called Halley Hair Art... Halley H-ART, geddit?
Anyway, you should be so lucky for sending this to me, because the GOOD news is that I know how you can find her! You see last year Foof, my Teacup Pomeranian, was snatched from the salon. I know, totally traumatic! But also kinda lucky because obvs I put her adorable photo straight on my socials, hashtagging it #SnatchAlert #FindMyFoof and before I knew it my post was high-key trending! Jeanine from Real Housewives even shared it, and that brought my salon more new clients than all the times I’ve run a referral discount put together!
Soooo I really think you should post a photo on your socials and tag it #AreYouMyHalleyHart. If you’re hot then you can @ my salon and then you never know... Jeanine might share it! No offence, but if you’re not hot then maybe skip the photo.
Good luck!
Halley diMaggio
* * *
From: Halley P. Hart
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Henry Inglis
Well bless your heart, Mr Inglis. I hate to have to tell you but I’m the wrong Halley Hart.
I read your email aloud at chair yoga this morning to see if any of the girls might know the right one, but they all said I’m the only Halley Hart they have ever rightly heard of.
My friend Marcia thinks you sound real charming, and I’m to say that if you don’t find your Halley Hart you’d be most welcome to correspond with her instead. She might be madder than a wet hen, but in my seventy-three years I’ve never tasted better devilled eggs than Marcia’s.
Cordially yours,
Mrs Halley Priscilla Hart
* * *
Sunday, 6 October
From: Halley S. Hart
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Henry Inglis
Dear Henry,
Sorry not to reply properly sooner, I’ve been away for something that my relative, Edie, optimistically called a vacation, as you should know from my auto-reply.
‘Your’ Halley Hart made a big impression, huh?
Before I reveal anything about myself I’d like you to confirm a few basics. Like, what’s your general state of solvency, do you have a police record, and are you definitely single?
By the way, how many Halley Harts have written you back? I thought ours was a pretty rare name.
Sincerely, Halley
* * *
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Halley S. Hart
Dear Halley,
I did indeed get your auto-response. I hope you ended up having a restful trip, and thank you for taking the time to reply now you’ve got your phone back.
So far, I’ve had two other Halley Harts confirm they are not the intended recipient.
Turning to your other questions. Of course I’m single, my last relationship was short-lived and ended ten months ago. Unfortunately the outstanding balance on my student loans is far in excess of my bank balance, so I have little claim on solvency. In better news, I have no police record. Well, not unless they recorded that my bicycle was stolen last month, when I reported it. Though if you’re Halley — my Halley — I briefly mentioned that before the kiss.
Dare I hope that you are indeed my Halley?
Very best wishes,
Henry
* * *
Monday, 7 October
From: Halley C. Hart
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Henry Inglis
It’s not me, I’ve never even been to Oxford. Good luck in your quest!
Halley Ciara Hart
* * *
Tuesday, 8 October
From: Halley A. Hart
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Henry Inglis
Roses are red and violets are blue,
Of course I’m your Halley, and I love you!
Halley
* * *
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Halley A. Hart
Dear Halley,
Thank you for the speedy reply. And the declaration of love.
I must admit to being somewhat taken aback, having heard, several days ago, from another Halley Hart who I thought was the one I’m seeking.
Sorry to put you on the spot, but may I ask — what was the object that you inadvertently left in my possession?
All best wishes,
Henry
* * *
Wednesday, 9 October
From: Halley S. Hart
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Henry Inglis
Hi Henry,
How are you today?
Your student loans don’t count against you, by the way. I know all too well that despite being priceless, education is expensive. Have you replaced your stolen bike, and may I ask with what?
As for whether I’m your Halley... didn’t someone smart say famously that every correspondence benefits from a healthy dose of mystery?
Sincerely, Halley
* * *
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Are You My Halley Hart?
To: Halley S. Hart
Dear Halley,
I’m afraid the Oxford Dictionary of Quotation contains no entries for the keywords mystery, correspondence and healthy . So it hasn’t yet become famous, and anyway, I’m not convinced that the originator could have intended the mystery to be the identity of one of the individuals engaged in corresponding?
I’ve replaced my bike with another battered old bicycle — which is more expensive, in Oxford, than a new one, since it’s less likely to be stolen.
As for how I am doing today... to be honest, I’m feeling rather discombobulated, after receiving a reply from another Halley. She’s claiming to be the one I met, in which case my suspicion that you’re such is wrong. I’ve asked her to confirm what the object was that Halley inadvertently left in my possession, and I need to ask you the same question.
Very best wishes,
Henry
* * *
Thursday, 10 October
Henry
Henry reluctantly switched his mobile off as he entered the dining hall. Never, when sending the email, did he consider the possibility that two Halley Harts would claim to be his, and he was impatient for answers from each. But hall etiquette stated no mobile phones. He navigated through the rows of trestle tables, rapidly filling with hungry students, to reach high table, which was set perpendicular to the others.
‘Good news, Henry,’ Rupert called, as Henry reached an empty seat two-thirds of the way down. ‘Did you hear me?’ Rupert added, in a bellow down the length of the table, loud enough to silence the general hubbub. ‘I’m pleased for that breakthrough on the hunt for—’
‘I heard!’ Henry called back, frantically trying to recall how his boss could know anything about his search for Halley. He’d bumped into Rupert during the tour, but Halley hadn’t even been at his side, and he certainly hadn’t introduced them.
Rupert opened his mouth again, and Henry added, ‘Can we discuss this later?’
‘A bit hush-hush, you reckon?’ Rupert asked amiably. ‘Let’s sit a little more privately then.’ With that he rose to his feet and moved towards the far end of the table. The convention was to fill high table strictly from right to left without leaving gaps, so there was a general rustling of indignation. Rupert ignored it — or more likely, wasn’t even aware of it, and Henry tried to look suitably apologetic as he trailed after the older man. They settled into new places, with a clear eight empty chairs between them and their colleagues, as a quavering undergraduate stood up to stammer out grace in Latin. The first time Henry had witnessed this, he’d wondered if it was some sort of punishment, before learning it was bestowed as a dubious reward on second years who’d attained the highest marks in recent examinations.
Rupert’s amber eyes were lively with conspiracy, and he spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘This is very cloak and dagger. What have you discovered?’
Henry laid his hands flat on the oak table top, scarred with centuries of wear, as if a stable foundation might steady his breathing. ‘Forgive me, Rupert, but I fail to see what your interest could be in my search for the woman I fell for. Let alone how you even—’
‘Woman?’ Rupert said, so loudly that several heads turned in their direction. ‘What’s it got to do with a woman?’
Henry studied Rupert, staring at him with the same confusion.
‘I put it in your pigeon hole this morning,’ Rupert said. ‘I thought you’d follow it up immediately.’
The steward arrived with the soup course, and placed bowls in front of them.
‘Thanks,’ Henry said, before returning his attention to his boss. ‘I haven’t seen any note. I was busy marking my first years’ essays, then taking their tutorial. What was it regarding?’
‘That sketchbook you unearthed last year,’ Rupert said, in a low, confiding tone. ‘Belonging to the Sedgwick family. I thought you’d want to know...’
When Henry was applying for his current position, he’d asked a friend who attended some of Rupert Peter’s lectures what the man behind the impressive reputation was really like. Peters by name, peters by nature had been the reply, and Henry always recalled it at times like these, when Rupert’s attempt at an explanation petered out so quickly it was rendered nonsensical.
Rupert lowered his head, with its resplendent crop of salt-and-pepper hair, over his bowl, as he brought his spoon up to his lips. When he went in for a second scoop without elucidating, Henry intervened.
‘Sorry, you thought I’d like to know what?’
Rupert frowned, then his face cleared. ‘Ah, yes. Well, I came across a mention, in records from 1952, that this college transferred Sedgwick family papers to the Bodleian.’
Henry almost dropped his heavy silver spoon in his surprise. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Entirely,’ Rupert assured him. ‘I can only surmise that the sketchbook was inadvertently separated from the rest, before the donation took place.’ He frowned again. ‘Speaking of searching, what was it you thought I was referring to?’
‘No matter,’ Henry said, with unfeigned excitement. He’d checked the Bod’s online catalogue for the name Sedgwick, but when nothing related to the family in question leaped out at him, his attention remained on St Jude’s archives. With a definitive place to look, and knowing the year of donation, that would change.
‘What did you make of your...’ Rupert said, gesticulating with his spoon.
‘First years?’ Henry guessed, with a grimace.
‘Oh dear. What was the issue?’
Henry pursed his lips, recollecting the tutorial where his pair of students’ essays, and the wider reading that he’d set them, were discussed. ‘Both submitted essays showed promise, so I had high hopes. They weren’t dashed by the young lady, who is... uh... enthusiastic.’ When she’d bounced into his office, he’d recognized her as the one trilling about her ox-citement on arrivals day. While they awaited the other student, she gasped about the view from his window, proclaimed the sloped ceiling ox-quaint , and begged him for a selfie to mark her first ox-tute . ‘But the young man arrived late, then didn’t say a single word for the entire hour, except for muttering exactly after everything his tute-partner said. When I asked him direct questions, he shuffled his feet and went dumb.’
‘He could be shy.’ Rupert was always quick to defend young people, whom he liked almost without exception.
‘But generally that also shows up with a lack of confidence in their written work, don’t you think? Whereas his essay took a firm stance and defended it to the hilt. But he then couldn’t — or wouldn’t — add a single thought on the matter verbally.’
‘Best run it through the plagiarism detection software,’ Rupert said with a sigh.
Henry already had, and no cheating had been identified. Before he could say so, the steward returned to his side.
‘Phone call for you, Henry. Apparently, it’s an urgent matter.’
‘Excuse me,’ Henry murmured to Rupert, switching on his mobile. He had missed no calls while it was off. Viola would have tried that first if there were any emergency with their parents. Which left... could Halley be calling? While his full name was in his email address, he hadn’t included any contact information, or even his college or occupation in any of the emails. His Halley alone knew he was an academic. A quick online search would lead her to St Jude’s website.
‘Do you know who it is?’ he asked, shuffling his chair back to bound to his feet.
‘The porter didn’t say. Just that it’s a lady.’
Henry’s heart sped up, and he scraped his chair across the parquet flooring in his rush to stand up. ‘Sorry — I have to take a call,’ he said to Rupert, before striding out.
He raced up to his office, because it was the only location in college where privacy was guaranteed, lifted the receiver from the landline, and pressed the button that connected him to the porter’s lodge at the college gates. As well as dealing with incoming visitors, parcels and security, the porters manned the phone for general enquiries. ‘Henry Inglis here, could I be connected to my incoming call?’
‘Righty-ho, Henry,’ a porter said.
His pulse thudded in his ears as there was a click, and then a female voice, with some sort of accent, said, ‘Is that Henry?’
Every millimetre of his body contracted in a spasm of surprise and delight, his hands knotting around the receiver, his back hunching over his desk. His Halley had found him.
‘Henry Inglis, I mean,’ she said. ‘Or, I guess... Dr Henry Inglis? My name’s Halley Hart.’
All the blood drained from Henry’s head, and he sat down in a hurry. This woman’s voice wasn’t right, and her accent wasn’t American. Somehow, a different Halley had found him.
‘Are you there?’ Not-his Halley demanded.
‘Yes,’ he said, dry-mouthed.
‘Good. I got an email that purported to be from Henry Inglis, of Oxford, looking for someone called Halley Hart, spelt exactly like I spell it in my email address. It seems to be a pretty sophisticated romance scam, because there’s no way any fraudster would bother with as weirdly specific a name as Halley Hart rather than Sarah Smith or something, so presumably they’ve programmed a bot to change the name to match each email address.’
Henry dropped his head into his hands. ‘Oh God...’
‘It must be a shock,’ she said. ‘But when I saw that you’re a uni lecturer, I was determined to pass on the intelligence. I thought, shit, what’ll happen if this email explodes into his students’ inboxes? I’d searched for Henry Inglis in Oxford, you see, because there was no way a scammer like that would use his real name — the smart ones scrape enough identifying information on a real individual to pose as him, and he seems pretty smart, because he didn’t fall for me immediately claiming to be his Halley and in love with him. He’s probably learned from being ambushed by a scambaiter before.’
Henry latched onto the last thing she said. ‘Scambaiter? I’ve never heard—’
‘It means I feign interest in obvious scams, to purposefully waste fraudsters’ time, hopefully limiting how much fraud they’re getting away with elsewhere. Basically, I scam the scammers. Have you heard of the “hey mom” scam, where they pose as someone’s kid, pretending their phone was stolen so they’re on a new number, and need money transferred for an urgent bill? That one’s my specialty. I keep the pretence up for hours with my favourite ruse, that I’m this bougie parent, replying like, Darling, I think we should get you a new phone too , and spamming them with links for different options.’
‘Thanks for the explanation,’ Henry said, stalling. ‘I’d never come across the profession of scambaiting before.’ Running back through what she’d said, he realized she must be the one who sent the roses are red reply. He hadn’t had another email from her after challenging her on what Halley left in his possession.
‘I can’t go so far as to claim it’s my profession , but I’m working towards getting licensed as a private investigator here in Queensland, and when that happens it kind of will be. For now I’m night receptionist at an office block. My boss doesn’t give a crap what I do as long as I look busy. So I listen to true crime podcasts and email, text and call scammers.’
The mention of Queensland helped Henry to identify her accent. ‘You’re making an international call, from work, in Australia, uh...’ For one ludicrous moment, he hadn’t been able to recall her name. ‘Halley?’
‘It’s Halley-Anne, actually. Hyphenated. I dropped the Anne for my email address so I can immediately pick out who really knows me, and who’s faking. And yeah, calling from Brisbane, Australia. As I said, my boss wants me to appear busy. Y’know, part of me wishes you had been the scammer, so I’d a chance of wheedling out where the Halley Hart romance scam is heading. I guess I’ll have to report back on it to my friends in the scambaiting community instead — see if any of them have any ideas on its purpose.’
‘It wasn’t a scam,’ Henry blurted.
‘What?’
He took a deep breath. ‘The email wasn’t a scam. I met an American called Halley Hart, and couldn’t get her out of my head. Then I wrote the email and... and sent it to Halley Hart at every domain name I could come up with, as well as various versions with a middle initial. It wasn’t a scam and I’m not a scammer, just genuinely looking for my Halley.’
There was silence. Then Halley-Anne swore. ‘In my defence, you wrote the sketchiest non-scamming email I’ve ever set eyes on! And, seriously, so I have this right... Your Halley Hart left such an impression that you’re doing the email equivalent of cold-calling every Halley Hart in the phone book?’
‘Correct,’ Henry said, wondering if he sounded as idiotic as he felt. ‘And there’s no need to apologize. I’m the one who should say sorry for sending you the unsolicited correspondence in the first place.’
‘Did it work?’ Halley-Anne asked. ‘Have you found her yet?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said heavily. ‘Someone’s been messaging, but so far she’s refused to divulge if she’s my Halley or not. I was hopeful that it was her, maybe feeling shy or something, until I got your email. Then I asked her the same question, about the object, and she hasn’t replied.’
‘Then it’s not her,’ Halley-Anne said immediately. Henry couldn’t disagree. ‘By the way, what was the object? And are you certain it was inadvertent and not some kind of clue as to how to find her?’
‘Her sunglasses. They fell from her pocket as she left.’
‘Describe them to me!’
Henry hesitated.
‘I’m a trainee PI, Henry,’ she urged. ‘I’ll help you search — no charge, but you’ve got to write me a reference when I start my business. Now come on, full description of the sunnies — and the case, if they were in one.’
Henry made a swift decision that he had little to lose by taking her up on the offer, and caught them up. ‘The sunglasses are light blue plastic, and shaped like cat eyes. The case is black, I don’t know if it’s artificial leather or the real stuff. Both are marked only with a logo that says Doe Eyes, which I’ve never heard of before, though I don’t know much about fashion.’
‘I know masses about fashion, and I haven’t either,’ Halley-Anne said speculatively. ‘I wonder if it’s a small independent brand that can help us pinpoint her location... Email me a picture of them, and your mobile number, and I’ll do some research and get back to you. Bye!’
Henry stood, holding the receiver and blinking. After talking so volubly, Halley-Anne had instantly ended the call.
* * *
Friday, 11 October
Halley
Halley took a rough headcount as she accepted papers from students traipsing past her into the lecture theatre. When everyone was in, she leafed through the pile, confirming her initial impression.
She raised her voice above the hubbub. ‘Listen up! Some of you sneaked by me without submitting your problem sheet.’
‘Didn’t seem any point,’ said a brave soul at the end of a row. ‘When Jacob hasn’t uploaded any of our grades for the work we’ve done already.’
‘They’ll be marked within five days in future,’ Halley said grimly, ‘and the... blip with your outstanding assignments will be investigated.’ As lead teaching assistant for the large introductory astronomy course, she’d had no choice but to attend the lecture in Jacob’s place, after he’d quit on the spot. She’d put a hundred bucks on him not having marked a single one of their papers, and if she couldn’t draft someone else quickly, she’d be stuck marking all of those, too. And in double-quick time, since Jacob had been assigned to Professor Tung’s lectures, and he happened to be her own doctoral thesis advisor. If there was a single professor in the astronomy department whom she wanted to keep happy, it was Tung.
‘Unfortunately, personal circumstances mean Jacob is no longer assigned to this section, and you’ll meet your new TA soon. I’m covering until then, and from now on, please upload your assignments to the portal when they’re due. If you’ve been too sick to do the assignment, email me your excuse and I’ll pass it along to Professor Tung for consideration. If you need help with the assignment, visit me in my office, or email me for support. If you dispute the marking on an assignment — who wants to venture a guess? — yes, let me know via email. I’m Halley Hart, and my email address is now up on the screen, and also on the portal.’
Professor Tung arrived, followed by a keen TA from another section. Halley breathed a sigh of gratitude, and went over to confer.
‘I can take over,’ the TA said. ‘I helped design the assignment this lecture will feed into.’
Halley glanced at Professor Tung to gauge his attitude. Having been messed around for the first few weeks of the quarter, he might insist on Halley, since he knew her best.
‘That’s fine,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’ Halley asked.
‘It doesn’t help any of us if you keel over from exhaustion — go!’
‘I’m going!’ Halley gathered her things and made a quick exit.
Pacing down the corridor, she realized she had a whole four hours until she needed to be anywhere. That was long enough to head home for a nap. Stepping out of the building’s exit, she was blocked by a couple of cheerleaders trying to gain entry. Tall, burly cheerleaders — both young men squeezed into female cheerleading outfits, crop tops and all.
‘Fraternity initiation ritual?’ she asked, barring their way in.
‘No,’ the one with the hairiest stomach said with a shrug. ‘We’re here for the freshman party. High-school stereotypes theme.’ He held out a crumpled flyer.
‘You’re at the wrong building. Show me that flyer, and I’ll work out where you belong.’
She suppressed an urge to snark about them winning places at one of the most competitive schools in the country when they couldn’t read door signs or a simple map. Dependence on phone navigation was the problem, and she didn’t have time to resolve that for them, so she just pulled up the address they needed on her own phone, and showed it to them.
The one who’d parted his hair into stubby pigtails took her handset. ‘The address said it was right off Campus Drive, and that’s where we are.’
‘But see how it loops around in almost a whole circle?’ she said with forced patience. ‘You need the opposite end.’
‘Oh.’ He glanced at her ID hanging from her lanyard. ‘Thank you, Halley Hart.’
‘Let me look at that.’ His friend jostled to see her phone screen. ‘You’ve got a text, by the way.’
‘It says call me ,’ Stubby pigtails said. ‘And, hey, no way — it’s from Halley Hart. But that’s you! How are you texting yourself?’
Halley held her hand out, and he put her phone in her palm.
‘Don’t be a doofus,’ Hairy stomach said to his friend, as they wandered away. ‘She has to know someone else with the exact same name. Probably she’s, like, an identical twin.’
By the time Halley stopped gaping, they were too far away for her to quiz them on whether they were actually dumb enough to think any parent would give twins the same names, and she headed toward home. She set a steady pace for the mile walk to her apartment, drinking in the view of the wide, blue Californian skies, and not recalling the text message until she was almost off campus.
She tapped her phone to call the messenger back. ‘What’s up?’ she asked, wedging it under her chin. She screwed up her face, struggling to follow the fast, high-pitched diatribe that came down the line. ‘Can you repeat that, Mom?’
‘ I know you’re pulling crazy hours, Junior, but it would only have taken a few minutes to tell me about Henry! ’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You had a memorable encounter with a man called Henry when you were in Oxford.’
Halley nearly tripped over the empty sidewalk. ‘How the hell could you know that?’
‘So I’m right,’ her mom said, with satisfaction. ‘And I know it because, in the course of contacting all the Halley Harts in the world, searching for you, he emailed me . What does he look like, by the way? I couldn’t find a picture of him online, but he’s a British Henry — is it crazy that I’m picturing Henry Cavill?’
He’s contacting all the Halley Harts in the world... How would someone even go about that? Her head spinning, she resumed an unsteady walk.
Mom’s voice rose again. ‘Why have you gone quiet? Is he a creep? Was that kiss he mentioned non-consensual? Did he maul you—’
‘There was absolutely no mauling,’ Halley put in, her cheeks ablaze. ‘And he wasn’t a creep.’
‘So, you’re interested in him, too?’
Too. Halley swallowed heavily. ‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘Aha,’ Mom said, as if Halley had answered in the affirmative. ‘And is he cute?’
‘Also irrelevant.’
‘So he’s better than cute! Is he a snack , like you used to say about that boy who lived two doors over?’
‘I haven’t talked like that since I was in high school — Mom, stop laughing!’
Halley passed someone she vaguely knew, but she fixed her eyes on the sky in the distance, rather than returning their wave.
‘I’m sending you Henry’s email address right now.’
He’s contacting all the Halley Harts in the world, Halley thought again . Reaching an empty bench, she sunk onto it, and opened her mail app. There was nothing in her Stanford account. She switched to her lesser-used personal one, and her mouth went dry. ‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘You’ve got nothing to lose by replying to him.’
‘I meant, you don’t need to forward anything because I just found his email in my spam.’ Her eyes were moving rapidly as she read. When she reached the end she sat in silence, then something Mom said earlier came back to her. Figuring she must have missed it, she reread his email, but no, there was absolutely no mention of it. ‘Mom, I don’t get how you knew about... the kiss thing?’
‘He let it slip in one of his replies,’ Mom said airily.
‘Replies?’ Halley echoed faintly. ‘Mom, are you saying Henry emailed all the Halley Harts in the world and you wrote him back ?’
‘Exactly! I didn’t know for sure that it was you he was looking for, but the date seemed to fit, so I thought I’d strike up a conversation to check he’s not sketchy. I couldn’t ask a lot of the basics, since that risked putting him on to me, if those were things you already knew, but he’s employed, educated and not a criminal. Unfortunately there was no way to check he’s not in a cult, since cult members are programmed not to recognize themselves as such, so you’ll need to look out for any red flags there. But,’ she said triumphantly, ‘I confirmed he owns a pushbike, and heard no mention of motorcycles at all.’
‘Motorcycles and cults are what freak you out, Mom. Personally, I’m bothered by people who reply to emails that weren’t intended for them!’
Mom wasn’t listening. ‘I’ll forward you all his messages so you can take over the conversation from your own email address. Just tell him you changed it or something, and then he’ll never know that it wasn’t you from the start. Oh, and what was it you inadvertently left in his possession? Is that how you lost your sunglasses?’
Stunned into disbelief, Halley couldn’t say a word.
‘He got my auto-reply about that digital-detox retreat Aunt Edie dragged me along to,’ Mom continued. ‘So I’ll tell you about it, in case he ever asks for the details — Halley? Are you still there?’
‘I am. But I’m... Mom, you pretended to be me ?’
‘I never lied,’ Mom said quickly. ‘I only said I might be the Halley Hart he was looking for. Honey — are you really mad at me? I didn’t mean to overstep, I was just acting instinctually, to check he wasn’t a stalker.’
‘ Acting instinctually ,’ Halley spluttered. ‘You catfished him! What’s wrong with you?’ She felt so numb with shock that it was an effort to keep a hold on her phone. ‘Don’t send me those emails. And don’t call me back. I need to think.’