Chapter Three
Ethan
“ E than.” Jennifer holds out her arms in welcome, her trademark matte red lips stretched into a mile-wide smile. “How are you?” The smile might be wide, but the dark eyes are sharp, missing nothing.
The last time I saw Jennifer in person, I was not in good shape. Despite the positive reports she’s no doubt had from Cambridge, she’s taking a risk on me. We’re both aware of it. Not only am I young for being groomed as department head, but I’m only two years out from a crisis that nearly broke me. Personal friendship aside, I need to perform. And I intend to.
I lean in for a cheek kiss and a hug.
“I’m good, Jennifer.” I hesitate. No point lying. Good might be overstating it a little. “Much better than last time you saw me, at least.”
She shakes her silver head, her perfectly trimmed bob swinging elegantly.
“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”
She knows what I’ve been through. I lost my wife.
What she can’t imagine—what she doesn’t want to imagine—is how I’m still standing. Still putting one foot in front of the other. Her wife means everything to her. As mine did to me. Nobody wants to imagine what that kind of loss is like.
We travel up in the gleaming new lift to the ancient history department. Things are very different from when I was an undergrad, and post grad, here. A shiny new building with enormous windows, fresh white walls and plush carpet. Yet somehow, it still manages to smell of dust, old paper and the concoction of chemicals used to preserve the artefacts the university has been lucky enough to get their hands on over the years.
Jennifer might be in a brand-new office, flooded with natural light, but the desk and bookcases are as cluttered and disorganised as they always were. The only thing the extra light does is highlight the layer of dust over everything except the small space where her laptop is squeezed in.
“Nothing’s changed, I see.”
“Cheeky.” She settles herself behind the desk. “Miranda wants you to come for dinner as soon as you’re settled.”
“I hope she’s not planning on cooking.” I shudder. Jennifer’s wife is the world’s worst cook, but nobody has the heart to tell her because she prefaces every conversation about food with how it’s her love language and breaking bread is the cornerstone of society. I probably don’t need to say she’s an anthropologist. Brilliant. But blind to her own under-seasoned, overcooked shortcomings.
Jennifer laughs. “It won’t kill you. I’ve been eating her cooking for twenty years and look at me.” She indicates her well-padded frame.
“Hmm. It’s a mystery.” I have a theory. “Is that Korean fried chicken shop still on campus?”
Jen has the good grace to blush.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anyway. Let’s get down to business. It’s wonderful to have you on the team. Our Egypt and the Near East offering has been sadly lacking for the past couple of years.”
“How can you say such a thing when you’ve got Martin Collins on staff?” I tease, knowing Jennifer’s feelings—almost everyone’s feelings—about Martin and his abilities.
Jen rolls her eyes but doesn’t give my comment oxygen.
“I want us back to being Australia’s pre-eminent choice of university for studying Ancient Egypt,” she says instead, with pursed lips. The obvious subtext being Martin Collins is not going to get us there.
“No pressure, then.” This is exactly what I need. I came home to be nearer to the family. I also need a challenge to keep my mind occupied, or I’m worried I’ll sink beneath the surface of my grief and guilt. How I’m going to balance my career with trying to be more present with my family, I have no idea. But coming home is the first step.
“None at all.” Jennifer’s smile in no way gives me the impression she’ll be taking it easy on me. But I’m up to the job.
We spend a couple of hours talking through Jen’s plans for the department and brainstorming opportunities and challenges. One of the things that’s most important to me is being able to continue my dig in Amarna. I have a good relationship with the Department of Antiquities in Egypt, and so far, they’re open to me transferring the concession I secured while in the UK, as long as I keep Cambridge in the mix. Which is no problem since their big budgets never hurt.
It's nearly midday by the time we’re winding up.
“Okay, let’s do a walk around the department and show you the new digs. Then maybe we can grab a bite of lunch.” I see some Korean fried chicken in my near future.
Most of the offices are missing their occupants, and most are as cluttered as Jennifer’s. You can give an ancient history professor a sleek new office, but you can’t make them embrace the minimalist look.
As we circle back to the bank of lifts we pass the utilities room. The massive copier/printer stands with all its doors and flaps open, torn and blackened paper scattered around it like the rubbish the wind collects against the Pyramids of Giza. A very shapely arse points directly at the door, its owner headfirst in the gaping copier. I have no more than a second or two to register a vague sense of familiarity before Jennifer speaks.
“Oh, Sadie. I’m glad you’re here. Ethan, this is Sadie Montgomery. One of our most promising PhD students. And the only one who seems to be able to tame this beast.” Jennifer pats the top of the printer with what could be fondness. The shapely arse drops, and its owner turns on her knees. “Sadie, this is Professor Ethan Carter.”
And there I am, once again staring down into the big grey eyes of the woman I fucked six ways to Sunday and sent home in an Uber barely a week ago. The big grey eyes that gazed up at me as her cheeks hollowed around my dick. The big grey eyes that rolled back in her head when she came on my cock. And again on my tongue.
I’m screwed.