Part Six
Thursday, 28 November
Henry
Henry crouched in front of the small oven, examining the dish inside. The parmesan had darkened, so he lifted the lasagne out with folded tea towels, adding oven gloves to the mental list of essential items to buy before Halley arrived. He wondered, setting the dish on the table that bisected the galley and the living area, if she’d booked her flight yet. He wanted a date to put in his diary, and to begin a daily countdown.
His laptop buzzed, and he glanced at the time. Halley was ten minutes early, but he was ready, and he slid onto the bench on the galley side, accepting the call.
Halley was cross-legged on the floor of her living room, with a pile of junk food in front of her.
‘I misinterpreted comfort food,’ he said. ‘Pasta sprang to mind, not crisps and biscuits.’
‘This is mostly candy,’ she said, without a smile. Her voice had a different quality to usual. ‘I was going to make macaroni and cheese but ran out of time.’ She reached for something. A napkin... no — a tissue.
‘You’re unwell? Should we—’
She jerked her head. ‘Don’t suggest a rain check. I might just wimp out and take you up on it. I’ve fucked up.’
His stomach lurched. He kept his tone calm, his volume soft. ‘What happened?’
She compressed her lips, her eyes watering.
Surreptitiously he opened his email, and reread her recent messages, hunting for clues. ‘Should I attempt a guess?’
She raised a shoulder. Go ahead.
‘Is it . . . related to your mother?’
She shook her head.
‘Then, the meeting with your advisor?’
Her jaw clenched. Yes.
Henry’s tension dissipated a little, and he released a long, slow breath. Halley hadn’t suffered a bereavement or been diagnosed with a terrible disease or met someone else. This was about her Ph.D. Though that didn’t mean it wasn’t earth-shattering. He sought the softest words with which to frame the likeliest scenario.
‘Has your advisor... revised the timeline on when you’ll be PhDone?’
‘Kinda,’ she croaked. ‘Henry, he saw an error with one of the shards in my data set. I don’t know when it happened, or how, but it’s corrupted. I’ve got to patch it, as best I can, by collecting more data. It means I can’t take part in the symposium, and worse, sets me back on writing up.’ Sniffing, she half-turned, holding balled tissues to her eyes. ‘I’m missing data over thirty-two days. He says I’ve still got a shot at finishing on time — if I virtually live up here at the telescope between now and mid-January. Which means I can’t... come to Oxford.’
Henry’s heart kicked his ribs, as the woman rapidly coming to mean everything to him buried her face in her arms. He knew how awful she felt, having had to deliver similar news to her. And rather than wallowing with him, she’d conjured a practical solution. But he couldn’t think of one. ‘Halley, I don’t know what to say...’
She glanced up at that, and blew her nose before she spoke. ‘I’ve spent all night figuring out if I can both collect this data and get to Oxford. But the only dates that aren’t vital for me to be here are literally dawn on the 23rd to dusk on the 28th. The travel knocks out at least twelve hours each way, which would leave us four days together, some of which you’d be busy supporting your parents. I don’t think either of us have got the money to travel that kind of distance for two to three days together? I certainly don’t — especially since Professor Tung also recommended I quit my TA role in January, to throw all my efforts into writing up. I’ll be majorly broke, but I think he’s right. And I also won’t be ready to present at the symposium―’ She picked up one of the packets, unwrapping it resignedly ― ‘so that sucks. Professor Tung said he’ll recommend me to the organizing committees of symposiums taking place next year, but there’s no guarantees.’ She threw a sweet into her mouth. ‘Sugar helps. Vodka would be better.’
‘Didn’t know you like vodka.’
‘I don’t. I just want to get wasted. Ideally, with you. Hey, what’s that expression for?’
He debated saying it, then succumbed, fixing his eyes on her intently. ‘The first time I see you again, sweetheart, I intend to be absolutely and entirely sober.’
She flushed. ‘That’s... a better idea than mine.’
He smiled at her, and an edge of her mouth tilted upwards.
‘So, can I come to California in February, when you’ve completed your nights at the observatory, and Dad’s recovered from his op?’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Our birthdays, and Valentine’s — we could be together for all of that! But... are you allowed to take vacation in term time?’
‘Not technically, but my double teaching load this term means I won’t have any next. I think Rupert would let me disappear for a week.’
‘A week’s not long enough!’ Halley insisted around another mouthful of sweets. ‘Not if we’re waiting more than two whole months.’ She unwrapped a bar of chocolate. ‘Hang on... now I’m quitting as TA, I’m not continually tethered to Stanford. I could come to Oxford for a couple weeks, as long as I make some time to write while you’re at work.’
‘You could easily get guest status at the Bod,’ Henry said. ‘Or work here on the Blue Moon — whatever you prefer.’
She smiled properly, at last. ‘Then it’s a deal.’ She twisted up her hair and secured it with a pencil. He wanted to let it loose again. ‘And I feel a little better. And it’s Thanksgiving — your first?’
‘Yup,’ Henry said, eyeing his lasagne. He’d lost his appetite, but heaped a serving on his plate anyway.
‘Henry, do you ever just eat, like, a salad?’
He stared significantly at her pile of sweets, and she laughed. ‘That was a genuine question.’
He considered his diet. ‘College does meat-free Mondays, and I’ll usually have veggie chilli. Does that count?’
‘What? How would that count?’
‘It’s a plate of plants,’ he said, enjoying her laughter.
‘Hot, with sour cream and nachos and cheese!’
‘Compared with sweets, it’s a salad,’
‘ Sweets ,’ she said, in an over-emphasized imitation of his accent. ‘Which is at least traditional for me at Thanksgiving. Mom and I ate them while obsessing over the Gilmore Girls — because they too loved candy and shared a name.’
‘They were friends of yours?’
She scrunched her face up in confusion.
‘The Gilmore girls you mentioned?’
‘The Gilmore Girls is a TV show from the noughties — Mom and I binged the reruns. We even kept a cupboard filled with Mallomars and Red Vines so we could eat along when Lorelai and Rory had them. Henry?’
‘Yes, Halley?’
‘How much of that did you follow?’
‘I remember the noughties. I’m hazy about everything else.’
‘Lorelai is the Mom’s name. And she called her daughter Lorelai too, only she went by Rory. Hey — we should watch a Thanksgiving episode together!’
Comfort viewing, and comfort eating, because he wasn’t there to comfort Halley himself. Nor was he seeing her at Christmas, so it wasn’t only Halley who needed comforting. He wondered if he had any chocolate in the cupboard.
* * *
Sunday, 1 December
Text messages between Halley and Henry:
Night 1 of 33 at observatory is done! And at about 2 a.m. I realized I’ll have to mail you a Christmas gift. How do I do that at the Blue Moon? Your Halley x
Royal Mail don’t service houseboats, so I get my post delivered to St Jude’s. The best Oxford advice I ever received was to make friends with the porters, and it’s paying off now ― they inform me about any parcels immediately. Hoping for good weather for your observations, sweetheart. Henry xxx
* * *
Tuesday, 3 December
Halley
Halley stared into the bathroom mirror. She looked as tired and drained as she felt, and there wasn’t anything miraculous enough in her make-up bag to hide the signs from Mom’s scrutiny, but she made her best attempt, then wandered back into her bedroom. The kitchen was both full and silent, which meant Angelie had the quietest of her groups over, who were developing something to do with cyberattack detection. Ironically enough, Angelie’s noisiest group, who did little but argue, were working on a productivity platform.
Her bed would be visible in the background, so she made it to Mom-standard, hospital corners and all, then dimmed the lighting before sitting at her desk. She shoved aside the stacks of assignments. She’d mark them later, as well as texting Henry back and doing some laundry, she promised herself, initiating the video call.
As it connected, she put a party horn between her lips.
‘Jun—’ Mom began.
Halley blew hard, so the horn unrolled and blared, making Mom wince. ‘Happy 50th, Mom!’
‘Those things should be banned,’ Mom said, as she had every birthday since Halley first woke her with one, aged around seven.
‘At least I don’t subject you to it at five in the morning anymore. You don’t look in your fifties, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ Mom said drily. Her hair was fading beautifully to silver-blonde, and she’d worn it bobbed to just above her shoulders for as long as Halley could remember. ‘Did you know Aunt Edie’s visiting?’
‘Hi, Junior,’ Aunt Edie said, appearing over Mom’s shoulder. ‘You look terrible! Doesn’t she look terrible, Halley?’
‘She looks exhausted , not terrible,’ Mom said. Aunt Edie was the only person Halley knew who made Mom seem diplomatic. ‘Edie, go away. The call’s my gift from Halley.’
Aunt Edie rolled her eyes. ‘So dramatic. Bye, Halley!’
‘Bye, Aunt Edie,’ Halley said. She loved her aunt a lot — especially when only subjected to her in small doses.
‘So why are you tired?’ Mom asked once Edie had shut the door behind her.
‘Can’t we focus on you, on your birthday?’ Mom raised an eyebrow, and Halley relented, briefly explaining about the corrupted data shard, and the nights she had to work for the next six weeks, if she was going to complete her Ph.D. on schedule. ‘It’ll be easier once the quarter’s over, and I can sleep daytimes.’
Mom frowned. ‘Are there financial implications if your Ph.D. extends into another year?’
‘My basic stipend would carry over — it’s more the opportunity cost, of another year unable to earn. But it shouldn’t come to that. It’s six weeks extra to squash in, not six months. So not a disaster, aside from ruining Chri—’ Halley broke off, furious with herself.
‘ Christmas ? What had you planned?’
‘Huh?’ Playing dumb might work, since Mom knew she was tired.
‘You were saying, it’s ruined your Christmas plans, were you not? What had you planned?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Halley ground out. ‘It’s not happening anyway.’
Mom stared at her. Halley stared back, unblinking. Mom cannot read my mind , she chanted internally.
‘Aha!’ Mom said. ‘Christmas with Henry was on the cards!’
Halley slumped back in her desk chair. ‘How the hell d’you do that?’
‘I figured it was going well with him, when you went quiet for all those weeks. Then you gave yourself away ending a text with a kiss. That’s very British. I was hoping,’ Mom added, ‘that you were so exhausted because he’s visiting...’
Halley’s face heated. ‘Well, he’s not,’ she said shortly. ‘We haven’t seen each other again. And we can’t until February. Mom, I know it’s your birthday and I want to play nice, but you’ve got to swear you’ll never talk to him again — in any format — without express permission from me.’
‘I swear,’ Mom said immediately. ‘Which means anything you tell me is safe. I won’t tell anyone — except maybe Edie, if we open champagne later. Come on, pretend I know nothing, and fill me in from the very start...’
* * *
Wednesday, 4 December
From: Halley Hart
Subject: Clear Skies
To: Henry Inglis
Hey Henry,
Sorry I didn’t reply yesterday. Between Mom’s birthday call and my body clock readjusting to staying up half the night, this week’s been a mess. Aside from my one piece of good news — clear skies so far!
I was hoping an email rather than text might make up for being tardy, but now I gotta run and take a class, so it’s not long and newsy like I planned.
Hope you’re OK? And that you know I miss you.
Your Halley
* * *
Saturday, 7 December
Text message from Halley to Henry:
Henry, I’m hoping you’re just crazy-busy and there’s not been some emergency, with your parents or something. Can you drop me a line to confirm you’re OK? x
* * *
Sunday, 8 December
Halley
Halley woke with an ache in her jaw, and massaged it gingerly. She must have been grinding her teeth in her sleep, worried about Henry even during her few hours of unconsciousness.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, but there were no new messages, and she vowed to call him after a cup of coffee.
There was a bang on her door. ‘Halley?’
She considered pretending to be asleep, but Angelie sounded panicked. ‘I’m awake.’
Angelie rushed inside. ‘You have to help me get rid of Ben! We overslept and now my robotics team are about to arrive, and he can’t know!’
‘Ben?’
‘Texan. Football player. Hot as a barn burner, as he would put it.’
‘Bin the human trashcan,’ Halley said, groaning. ‘I thought a lot of my food’s been disappearing. When did you two graduate from being co-workers?’
‘We didn’t. We’re co-workers with benefits,’ Angelie said icily. ‘Here’s what I need you to do. I’m going back in my room to get dressed — I’ll be loud enough to make sure I wake him, but I’ll act all unconcerned. Like it’s fine for him to hang out a while. But I’ve just programmed our doorbell to go off in five minutes. I’ll go out to “see who it is”, while you go into my room and tell him that my boyfriend has turned up to surprise me, so Ben must leave quietly. I’ll go in the kitchen and talk as if I’m with a guy who’s the strong but silent type. Then, and only then, you make sure Ben tiptoes through the hall and out the front door. Now get up!’
Halley dazedly felt for the flip-flops she wore like slippers. ‘You’d rather the guy you’re sleeping with think you’ve got a jealous boyfriend, than that you’re involved in more than two businesses?’
‘Exactly! Come on!’
Halley’s phone chimed. She snatched it up, her heart thumping: Incoming voice call, Henry Inglis.
‘Henry?’
‘Hi,’ Henry croaked. ‘I’ve got flu.’ He coughed, and didn’t stop.
‘You sound terrible!’ She didn’t think he could even hear her over the cacophony of coughing, but she jabbed to mute the call anyway. ‘Henry’s sick, you’ll have to handle it yourself.’
‘Properly sick?’ Angelie asked with suspicion.
Halley held the phone towards her, and Angelie cocked her head, listening as he hacked. ‘Eww.’
‘Exactly.’
As Angelie retreated from her room, Halley unmuted the call, and sank back onto her side, her head on her pillow. ‘Babe, I’ve been so worried about you.’
* * *
Monday, 9 December
From: Halley Hart
Subject: Rest up!
To: Henry Inglis
Hey Henry,
It’s even worse not being with you when you’re sick. I want to feed you chicken noodle soup and make sure you’re taking enough Tylenol. I want to check if you have everything you need, and if you’re doing any better, but I don’t want you to write me back, because you need to rest, so ignore my questions, and sleep! And don’t rush back to work too soon.
Mostly clear skies over the weekend, but a minor irritation marred my morning. I’m used to a lot of different spellings and pronunciations of my name, but today a student wrote dear Holly Heart — two mistakes — despite sending it to my email address where my name was obviously spelled correctly...
Your Halley
* * *
Tuesday, 10 December
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Doing better
To: Halley Hart
I’m doing a bit better, and no offence but personally I’m glad you’re not here, Holly Heart. I wouldn’t want to infect you.
Julian’s dropped stuff off at the door a few times, and other people have offered but I haven’t needed to take them up on it. Hogshoo was forced to step in to assist Rupert with end of term and interviews, so no worries about work. I’m even hoping this might get me out of pursuing the climber.
It was lovely to hear your voice the other day, sweetheart.
Henry xxx
* * *
Wednesday, 11 December
Text messages between Halley and Mom:
How are your Christmas plans shaping up, Junior? You don’t have to be at the observatory 23rd-28th, right?
Haven’t even thought about it. Angelie’s going to the Philippines, so I’ll gate-crash some other friend’s lunch.
How about you come home instead?
Sorry, Mom, I can’t really afford it.
I’ll send you a ticket as your Christmas gift. Junior, please? I’m not working this Christmas, and Edie’s going to Tahiti. It’d be nice not to be alone.
If it means that much to you, of course I’ll come.
* * *
Friday, 13 December
Henry
Henry was sitting up in bed, fighting guilt. He’d binged the first series of Gilmore Girls over the prior two days, and managed multiple brief phone calls with Halley, which surely meant he was capable of a bit of work. Reluctantly, he slid his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses on then navigated to the Bodleian’s manuscripts and archives webpage, and clicked into the search box. It had come to him in the middle of the night that two separate errors, like in the email Halley received, was an avenue to explore for the Sedgwick papers.
His phone buzzed with a withheld number. Grateful for the interruption, he answered.
‘Henry!’ It was a familiar voice, but not Halley’s.
‘Halley-Anne,’ he said, a few seconds later. ‘Uh...’ His brain was on go-slow ― how to ask politely what the hell she wanted. The last time she called she said she thought his Halley was in Chicago, where her sunglasses were made. He’d had to apologize profusely for forgetting to update her that his Halley had found him in the meantime. ‘How are you?’
‘Still fighting the good fight against the scammers. I’m currently messaging Brad Pitt, who wants to date me but is temporarily cash strapped, so I need to send him Amazon vouchers. And even better, I’ve started a podcast! It’s called Romancing the Scam , subtitle They’ll Tug at Your Heartstrings to Tug Open Your Purse-Strings . My aim is to smash the fraudsters and blast onto the Aussie podcast top one hundred.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘It will be. And I had the best idea — to have one of my introductory episodes about the time I called a scam wrong — it’s good to show some foibles along with your successes, listeners find you more sympathetic. So I thought you could come on as my guest! Get this — I wrote you the best intro... Joining me tonight direct from Oxford University, it’s renowned historian, Professor Henry Inglis !’
‘Junior research fellow of zero renown, actually.’
‘Creative licence,’ Halley-Anne said. ‘And then you could do a snappy turn, on the history of romance scams, before I lead our discussion into why I thought you were a love scammer.’
‘I’m afraid,’ Henry said cautiously, ‘that it doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ Halley-Anne’s enthusiasm continued unabated. ‘So back-up plan: scrap you being there as a guest, and I just read out your email, then analyse it for the listeners, identifying all the elements that sounded so scammy. I’ll change the names so you don’t need to worry about privacy.’
‘But... aren’t you releasing the podcast in your own name?’
‘Sure... Well, at least the version I use publicly: Halley Hart. You know I reserve the hyphen Anne for friends and governmental communications.’
Henry dropped his head back onto the pillow. ‘So, you could keep my name out of it, but not Halley’s — my Halley’s. Since I sent it to all the women with a certain name — and that name’s plastered all over your podcast.’
‘Strewth,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re right.’ Her voice perked up. ‘And you don’t think she’d be OK with this whole thing getting out there with her name on it?’
‘I suspect not.’
‘Well could you ask her? Because if she didn’t mind, it would be the simplest thing. She could even come on the pod! Get back to me in January will you? Bye!’
As ever, she cut the call off without waiting for him to return the farewell.
Rubbing his forehead, Henry returned his attention to his laptop. He input a donation date that was a decade out, then tried various misspellings of Sedgwick.
Sedgewick . . . Segwik . . . Segwick . . . Cedgwick—
Suddenly his screen flashed: 1 result found. He scrolled down.
Miscellaneous papers of Cedgwick family, donated 1962. Archive box 13995.
* * *
Saturday, 14 December
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Breakthrough!
To: Halley Hart
I might have found the Sedgwick papers, thanks to inspiration from you!
I’ll go to the library to request the archive box on Monday, and if it contains what I hope it does, I’ll have a few days to start cataloguing it before I’m due in Hampshire to help during Dad’s op. I’ll be at the hospital with him, and Viola at their place with Mum, settling in the live-in carer.
It’s a full moon so you won’t be at the telescope this week, I think. Time for a movie date?
Sweetheart — that flu wiped me out during the week I was planning on posting your Christmas present, so I’ll have it couriered now instead.
Henry xxx
* * *
Sunday, 15 December
From: Halley Hart
Subject: Breakthrough!
To: Henry Inglis
That’s awesome!! Let me know how it goes at the library!
Sorry, I wish I had time for any kind of date but I’m hideously busy finishing off senior TA admin, ready for doing a handover. Almost busy enough to distract me from how depressed I am that I’m not packing to come see you, as I should be. I’ll continue calling whenever I can.
Henry, I’m heading to Chicago for a few days over the holidays, so you’d be better sending a gift there, rather than here. But I haven’t sent you anything either. It was on my to-do list, but then things got so crazy I lost the list... So how about we wait until our birthdays to exchange gifts? (But Mom’s address is attached in case you hate that idea.) (I’d seriously prefer it, though ― the only thing I want for Christmas is to see you, and that’s impossible.)
Your Halley
* * *
Monday, 16 December
Henry
Henry hurried up the wide steps of the Weston Library. It was one of the few genuinely modern buildings in central Oxford, yet it housed some of the most ancient of the Bodleian’s collections, including manuscripts, maps, and some of the archives. More of the archives were stacked in the labyrinthine tunnels under the streets, or within depositories outside the city.
Being so close to Christmas, there was no queue at the service desk for archive requests, and the librarian behind it gave him her attention immediately.
‘Name?’ she asked.
‘Henry Inglis.’ He showed his Reader card, with its staff privileges.
‘Not yours — the item you’d like to examine.’
‘Right,’ he said, feeling like an idiot. ‘It’s archive box 13995.’
She typed as he spoke. ‘Miscellaneous papers of the Cedgwick family, donated in 1962?’
‘That’s it,’ Henry said, ‘Except that I suspect it was donated in 1952 by St Jude’s, and contains the Sedgwick — with an S — family papers. There were two entry errors when it was catalogued.’
‘Two entry errors!’ The librarian bristled as though he’d said something obscene. ‘We librarians are certainly not in the business of slinging around papers of historical interest without cataloguing them properly.’
‘I understand that,’ he said quickly. ‘Obviously, it would have been some sort of accident. And I could be incorrect entirely. I’ll know once I see inside, if someone could arrange access to that box for me.’
The librarian released a resigned sigh. ‘ Someone would be me. But it’s in long-term storage — it’ll take some time.’
‘I can wait.’
‘Some time meaning days ,’ she said, typing again. ‘I’ll email you once it’s available.’
He thanked her and retreated, as she muttered, ‘ Two entry errors! ’ sounding scandalized.