Chapter 7
Meeting Jeremy for lunch always meant the night before was fraught. I had to block out time for shaving my legs and armpits, body moisturising, face masking, hair washing and conditioning. Not to mention ironing clothes, painting nails, and plucking eyebrows.
By this level of maintenance, you would assume that I was some sort of disgusting hairy beast that had let herself go. I wasn’t, and I hadn’t. But on ‘lunch days’, I was spending a longer amount of time in his presence, so I wanted to make sure I was presenting the most perfect version of myself. It was exhausting but worth it in case he happened to have a light bulb moment: Gosh, Anna is quite pretty. I could live in hope.
On this Friday morning, though, the unthinkable had occurred. The face mask I’d used last night was a different brand to my usual, and I had applied it liberally. But when I looked in the mirror, I got the shock of my life: there was a huge shiny red zit the size of Krakatoa on my chin! I could’ve cried after all the effort I’d put in (in fact, I did for five minutes) before toughening up and painting the zit carefully with concealer and powdering the heck out of it. Perhaps if I faced directly towards him, Jeremy wouldn’t notice the volcano.
My nerves kicked up a notch as I approached the faculty building. Luckily, the day was cool and breezy, so it had dried my underarms on the fifteen-minute walk from my flat. I enjoyed spending a whole hour with Jeremy, but it did mean I needed to reapply my antiperspirant a few times before I even saw him. If I was this much of a wreck being with him for an hour, God knows how I’d ever manage a relationship. But we’d cross that bridge if (when) we came to it. Maybe I’d splash out and Botox my armpits.
Of course it didn’t help that Becca, upon catching sight of my face when I walked in, exclaimed, ‘Wowser, that’s a beauty! Did you eat a whole box of chocolates last night or something?’
I ducked my chin and sidled to my computer, feeling like a swamp hag.
‘Aren’t you seeing your man today?’ she asked.
‘For the hundredth time, he’s not my man! Haven’t you got work to do?’ I snapped. That shut her up, and we concentrated in strained silence for the next few hours, only punctuated by Becca’s sighs as I sent her a heap of admin emails to deal with.
Maybe I wouldn’t miss her as much as I’d initially thought.
The other books from the archive were dry scientific journals written by men and proving time-consuming to get through when I was more interested in Mercy’s encounters with Jasper. As much as I hated having a massive zit, at least I didn’t have pox scars and had to live in the same house with the guy I had a crush on. From her description, Jasper sounded like trouble, and I had a bad feeling about him—for her sake. It was making me even more jittery as noon approached.
‘Come in, Anna,’ Jeremy intoned after I’d knocked on his door. I entered, clutching my tablet, prepared to show him the notes I’d made on the books.
He was typing away on his laptop with a serious expression. I stood and gazed, drinking him in. Maybe it was the adorable lock of hair falling over his forehead or him biting his lower lip in concentration. Either way, he was radiating sex appeal. I gulped. Absence had made my heart grow even fonder as I hadn’t seen him since Monday.
He waved me over without looking up, and I shook myself from my reverie. As I sat down in the chair opposite, I noticed the paper bag by his left elbow with the cafe logo. He’d been out to get ‘our’ salads. That was sweet.
‘You like the Caesar chicken, right?’ he asked, finally looking up and smiling at me. My chest bloomed. I smiled back.
‘Yes, thanks.’
Jeremy’s eyes flicked over my face, dropped to my chin, and then he busied himself with taking out the salads. My smile faltered. So much for concealer—he’d noticed the volcano.
‘You can eat while I check your notes, if that’s OK?’ he said, handing me a container and a wooden fork.
‘Fine by me,’ I said, blushing and hoping my zit hadn’t put him off his lamb couscous.
Jeremy reached over for my tablet, and his back gave an almighty crack. He grimaced, straightening up in his chair.
‘Gosh, that sounded painful. Are you all right?’ I asked.
He tilted his head from side to side, wincing. ‘Yes ... just my spine clicking back into place—I had a hard workout last night,’ he replied with a rueful chuckle.
I didn’t say anything, my mind whirring as the inference sunk in. That sounded awfully like he’d been up all night bonking the woman I saw getting into his car! My fingers tightened around my fork, feeling frustrated and hurt. Without thinking, I said sharply, ‘You should stop doing that.’
Jeremy paused mid head tilt, and glanced at me. ‘What?’
I coughed and said quickly, ‘I mean, you should stop overdoing it at the gym. If you need a chiropractor, let me know. A friend of mine sees a good one.’
‘Oh, thanks. I might take you up on that.’ He grinned. ‘I’m getting too old for these hard workouts.’
I stabbed at a piece of chicken, stuffed it into my mouth, and quietly simmered. Seriously? What had he been doing with her to put his back out?
Jeremy rapidly read over my notes and tapped the screen. ‘There’s not as much information as I thought there would be. And aren’t there eight books?’
I swallowed some lettuce. ‘Yes, there are. But I’m still going through the eighth one.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ah, a memoir by a female smallpox survivor who had variola major.’
Jeremy’s eyebrows raised. ‘Sweet Jesus, really? Does it give much detail?’
‘Yes, she recounts her experience of contracting the disease early on in the book.’
‘I should definitely read it then.’
I squirmed hearing him say that. If my suspicions were correct about where Mercy’s memoir was headed concerning Jasper, I didn’t particularly want Jeremy reading it. It was too close to home, and I wanted to protect her (well ... myself).
‘That’s not necessary,’ I said quickly. ‘You’re so busy with your lecturing, and that’s what I’m here for. I’ll make sure you have the pertinent bits for your book.’ And leave out anything more sensitive.
My diversion tactic worked. Jeremy nodded. ‘OK, that might be best. I have got a full schedule at the moment.’
He passed my tablet back, glanced at me, and, pointing at his chin, said, ‘Ah, you might want to ...’
I dabbed at my chin with a napkin, thinking I had dripped mayo on it. But when it came away soaked in watery pus, I realised in horror—the volcano had erupted!
***
Isabel clapped her hands loudly, and I jumped. By the surprised looks on the faces of the other women around the table, I wasn’t the only one who had been startled. I didn’t realise my easy-going friend ran such a tight ship. Then again, this was the first time I’d been to her art therapy class at the community centre, and people were always different in a work environment.
After the disastrous pimple-exploding incident in Jeremy’s office, I’d slunk to the ladies’ and had a self-pitying sob in a cubicle about the sorry state of my life. In desperation, I’d messaged Isabel, and she’d fitted me into the class after work. So far, it had been drinking cups of tea and eating biscuits, but it appeared we were about to get down to business.
‘Right, ladies,’ she said in a no-nonsense tone as the chatter ceased. ‘Let’s get started. You each have a ball of clay that you’re free to mould into whatever shape you please. But the object you make should represent the person who has hurt you and encompass your pain. There are various tools in the jars if you need them for rolling, cutting, and texturing.’
A woman tentatively raised her hand. ‘Does what we create have to look ... good?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘As long as you know what the object represents, it doesn’t have to look professional. I’m not expecting any budding Michelangelas.’
A few women tittered at that. ‘Don’t you mean Michelangelos?’ asked one.
‘No,’ said Isabella firmly. ‘This is a man-free zone. In here, it’s women only.’
Wow, OK, this could be interesting. I didn’t realise she was such a staunch feminist.
Isabel tapped at her iPhone. ‘You have half an hour to create your object. I’ve set the timer. Go!’
There was an instant flurry as the other women started moulding their clay balls or tearing off smaller pieces and shaping them.
My own grey sphere sat in front of me, and I prodded it, feeling hugely uninspired. What could I create that encompassed my pain? Jeremy and his latest date bonking? That would take a lot longer than half an hour, and I definitely needed Michelangela skills for that. Maybe I could poke a hole in it with a stick and say it represented my painful zit.
I side-eyed the woman next to me to see what she was making. She was busily rolling a sausage shape and had two smaller balls already made. The woman next to her was also making a clay penis. Oh well, if you can’t beat ’em …
‘Time’s up, ladies!’ Isabel shouted, and I almost leapt out of my skin since she was standing right next to me. She strode around the table, peering over people’s shoulders—nodding, commenting, and sometimes raising her eyebrows. I hoped I wouldn’t have to do a show-and-tell as to whose penis I’d created and why it had caused me pain. But I was quite pleased with my creation, to be honest. I’d even done some detailing to make it look more authentic. Not that I knew what Jeremy’s penis looked like, but since the man was an Adonis, I’d tried to do his nether regions justice.
‘Very nice, Anna. One of the best I’ve seen, and there are quite a few specimens here,’ remarked Isabel as she reached the head of the table again, and I felt smug for creating a top-notch clay penis.
That was me, though, such a goody-goody—always doing extra homework to receive praise from my teachers at school, coming home with certificates and awards to bask in even more praise from my mother.
‘Anna’s the brainy one, and Beth is the pretty one,’ she’d tell her friends, as if both traits were equally as important. I guess in the patriarchal society we live in, she wasn’t too far wrong. But the fact that we were identical twins also made it kind of confusing.
‘OK, ladies, now I want you to focus on your object and channel all your pain and heartbreak into it,’ said Isabel. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged as she saw us hesitating. ‘This is the prick that’s making your life hell.’
I glowered at my clay penis, imagining Jeremy dancing about naked, waving it in front of my face, and taunting me, See this, Anna? You’re never going to have it. Because I only go out with pretty girls, not brainy ones. I’m going to call you into my office and sit there looking beautiful with this gorgeous member between my legs and make you suffer.
I felt rather silly thinking this, but all the other women were frowning and muttering at their clay, so I didn’t feel too weird.
‘Good work, everyone. Now under the desk is a shelf, and I want you to bring out the tool you’ll find there.’
Curiously, I reached underneath and gripped a smooth rubber handle. Bringing it up to table level, I saw it was a small but strong little hammer. I wasn’t sure why Isabel didn’t place them on the table. Dramatic effect?
‘Right, ladies,’ she said, beaming. ‘This is the therapy bit. I want you to pound the living daylights out of your object.’
I blinked and glanced around. The other women were grasping their hammers and looking uncertain too.
‘Aren’t we going to get them fired?’ asked one. ‘I spent ages doing the pubic hair.’
‘The only fire that clay penis is going to feel is the heat of your anger. What are you waiting for? Pound!’
Obediently, we tapped our clay creations timidly.
‘Harder!’ exclaimed Isabel excitedly. ‘Feel the rage!’
Somehow, her encouragement infected us; and we started wildly smashing our hammers, obliterating our creations to smithereens. The noise was incredible. Some women were screaming. Others were crying. Some (like me) were giggling uncontrollably. Bits of wet clay flew into the air, and I felt it land in my hair and stick to my face. I’m pretty sure I also breathed some in.
After a few minutes of everyone letting loose their emotions, Isabel clapped her hands, and the banging ceased. ‘Now for some feedback. How did that make you feel?’ She looked around the table and clocked me. ‘Anna?’
Breathing hard, I looked down at Jeremy’s make-believe penis, which was now a flattened pulpy mess. No way he was using that anytime soon. He’d need corrective surgery. I spat a bit of clay out of my mouth and grinned at Isabel.
‘Strangely satisfying.’
***
Buoyed by the adrenaline rush I’d experienced at the art therapy class, I immediately went home and replied to my mother, telling her I’d come and stay next Saturday. Then I booked a ticket for an Oxford Castle Prison tour tomorrow. It felt good to take action rather than being a passive observer.
But being a passive observer on the tour was what I needed to be. My plan was to check out Eleanor’s cousin, Thomas, incognito and see what he was like. That entailed wearing inconspicuous clothing: a grey sweatshirt, black leggings, ratty old trainers, and a cap. Plus lurking at the back of the group, not asking questions, and generally avoiding suspicion. I was pretty sure Thomas had no idea who I was, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Eleanor may have mentioned me and shown him a Facebook photo.
However, I wished she had shown me a Facebook photo of him. I’d had a bit of a madge-twang moment when the tour started. She’d mentioned he was attractive, but I hadn’t counted on Thomas being quite so good-looking, and it had thrown me a bit. Short dark-blond hair that was longer and tousled on top, a hint of stubble, and a pair of intelligent brown eyes. He was medium height, and I could tell there was a decent body under the white prison garb he was wearing too. Plus he seemed kind of cool and personable, judging by the way he held everyone’s attention. Intrigued, I crept forward when we were in one of the dungeon rooms so I could hear better.
He was recounting a story about a woman called Mary Blandy, who had been imprisoned and hanged for poisoning her father. ‘It’s not entirely clear what happened,’ said Thomas, gazing around at the group. ‘Mary was a well-educated and respectable young woman. But she met Captain William Cranstoun, who was already married, and he made a play for her.’
Humph, typical,I thought and inched forward until I was near the front of the group.
‘He proposed but kept stalling, trying to annul his previous marriage, and Mary’s father became suspicious. William sent Mary what he said was a “love potion” and asked her to add it to her father’s food so he’d be more amenable to their relationship. Unfortunately, it contained arsenic, and her father died. Mary was imprisoned here for the crime of parricide. She was hanged on Easter Monday, 6 April 1752.’
Unable to help myself, I remarked, ‘It sounds like Mary was a scapegoat. Why did William get off scot-free? They should’ve hung him.’ A few of the women in the group murmured in agreement.
Thomas smiled amiably, his eyes sweeping my face. ‘Well, she wasn’t that innocent. The jury went through all the evidence—’
‘But that was probably made up of men. Of course they were going to be on William’s side,’ I interrupted.
‘That’s a valid point,’ said Thomas, casually leaning against the wall of the cell. ‘Her case was debated for years afterwards, and in the nineteenth century, it was re-examined more sympathetically. Many believed she was wrongly accused and just a “poor lovesick girl”.’ He used air quotes.
‘Well, there you go ...’ I began, ready to make some more pointed remarks on Mary’s behalf, but Thomas cut me off before I could.
‘If you like, we can discuss it more after the tour,’ he said politely with a wink. ‘Let’s move on, shall we? We’ve got some more rooms to visit.’
I shuffled after the group, kicking myself for opening my mouth. Now Thomas definitely had me on his radar. He kept staring at me with a mulish expression whenever he said anything, probably thinking I was going to start a feminist rant.
When he told us about a 7-year-old orphan girl who had been imprisoned during the Victorian era for stealing a pram and sentenced to hard labour, I thought I might. But I kept quiet even though I felt like saying something cutting about the injustice of it. Isabel’s session last night had really fired me up.
At the end of the tour, we were able to explore the prison at our leisure, so I peeled off from the group and wandered back the way we’d come. I wanted to examine the 900-year-old crypt underneath St George’s Tower again. There were some engravings on the pillars holding up the arched roof that I hadn’t had a chance to look at during the tour.
I thought I was on my own in the cold, dimly lit space, but a deep voice said, ‘Did you know this is the most haunted space in Oxford?’ I almost had a heart attack. As Thomas emerged from the darkness with a ‘wooo’ noise and wiggling his fingers, I frowned.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said.
Thomas smiled. ‘Just me,’ he replied genially, and I relaxed. There was something about his manner that made it difficult to be uppity with him.
‘Who’s it haunted by then?’ I asked.
‘Brother Bernard, the drunken monk, apparently.’
I snorted. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘No, never. But then again, I’m pretty oblivious about stuff like that. Probably a good thing since I’m down here a lot,’ he said.
‘Yes, probably,’ I agreed.
He threw me a quick glance. ‘So what’s your deal? You seem like you know some stuff by the way you were challenging me about poor Mary back there.’
‘Challenging’ him? I simply had a differing opinion to the history books.
‘I’m a historic researcher,’ I replied a bit defensively.
‘Ah, makes sense. Are you at the faculty over in George Street?’
I nodded warily.
‘My cousin works there. Do you know Eleanor Jackson?’
I couldn’t lie. ‘Yes, I do.’
Thomas gave me the once-over, taking in my cap and dowdy sweatshirt. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Damn, he wasn’t stupid. And he was hot. No wonder Eleanor was offering him up as a distraction from Jeremy.
I started edging towards the passageway. ‘Anyway, I should get going.’
‘Yeah, I’m off too. After you,’ he said, waving me in front of him.
I trotted along in silence with Thomas practically breathing down my neck but when we reached the entrance, he jumped in front to open the door.
As I stood in the courtyard, blinking in the late-afternoon sunlight, Thomas materialised beside me.
‘So I’m heading to the pub. Did you want to come with?’
I tensed. He’d obviously put two and two together and realised that I’d booked onto the tour to suss him out. How embarrassing!
But what did I have planned? A trip to Sainsbury’s for a bottle of wine and a heat-and-eat meal for one, then an evening alone in front of the telly.
I shrugged, attempting to seem casual when, really, I’d been sprung like a jack-in-the-box. ‘I guess so. But I’m not dressed to go out, and you might want to change?’
‘Nah, they’re used to me at the local.’
So much for being incognito. I was now on a quasi-date with a guy who looked like he’d escaped from a nineteenth-century prison!