Playing for Keeps

1. Emma

EMMA

“…and no, I don’t really believe in settling down. You could say it’s my method.” I gave Margaret an awkward smile. “I pick up my roots, move them somewhere new, and see what stories a city wants to tell me.”

Margaret’s pen hovered over her legal pad.

She had a sharp bob and a knowing expression that suggested she had already memorised my file, but wanted to see if I’d say the same things out loud.

“And this time, the method’s brought you to Toronto and to our university,” she said.

“The whole department is delighted you’re here.

You’re a big name in the literary world, Emma.

Students who normally wouldn’t go near English lit begged for a spot. ”

I never felt comfortable when someone called me a big name. I shifted in my chair. “We’ll see if they still feel that way after they get the reading list.”

Margaret smiled at that, then smoothly moved the conversation to my last two books.

I kept my answers light. We covered readers and syllabi, touching briefly on the buzz my second book had generated.

After a couple of minutes, Margaret stood up, gesturing towards the door.

“Enough interrogation. Let’s go to the staff room.

I want you to meet one colleague in particular.

Simon. He’s the kind of person who remembers everyone’s birthdays and will bring balloons if a whole class aces an exam. ”

“So he’s the department’s secret weapon.”

“Exactly.”

We walked down the corridor, my eyes darting between the framed photos of alumni and the students who were drifting by.

In a couple of weeks, I would need to be able to engage them in, hopefully, lively discussions about Austen and Bronte.

Thinking about that made me feel just the tiniest bit queasy.

“Simon is also really good at helping new employees settle in,” Margaret added. “Because of your… nomadic tendencies…”

“My creative geography,” I cut in.

“…your creative geography, he’ll be useful. He’s meeting us in the lounge.”

As we turned into a stairwell, the air got cooler. “Quick question,” I said. “Everyone keeps warning me about Canadian winters. Are they really as dramatic as people say they are?”

Margaret’s laughter bounced off the walls. “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, enjoy August. September will give you hints. By October, you’ll understand why we keep spare boots at work.”

That sounded a bit ominous.

The lounge was like the set of a long-running academic sitcom, complete with mismatched chairs, a scarred table, and the low hum of people who knew where they belonged.

I counted three men by the coffee, two women bent over a printout, and two men by the bookshelves.

One had short sandy-brown hair, the other good shoulders and dark hair that curled at the collar.

“That’s Simon,” Margaret said, pointing to the shelves. “I’ll be right back. I just remembered I need to talk to Professor Forester over there.”

I walked up to the two men by the bookshelves and gambled on the first. “You must be Simon.”

He turned around, eyebrows raised, and the silence told me everything. Not Simon.

His face was sharp and polished, like a man who knew his angles. Eyes that were blue and flicked too quickly. A mouth that smiled, but without any warmth. Hair gelled into shiny curls. I automatically took a step back because of his cologne that was so strong it could choke a room.

“Ah,” he said, like I had turned up at his private party. “You are Emma Dawson, the British author.”

“Yes,” I said cautiously.

Over his shoulder, the sandy-haired man’s eyes went wide. He shook his head in a frantic no while pointing at the man in front of me. A second later, he marched over. “Here you are! Emma, right? Welcome, welcome. Hi, I’m Simon.”

I immediately understood why Margaret had called him her secret weapon. He made me feel at ease right away. When he shook my hand, it felt warm and comfortable, like a cup of tea when you didn’t realise you needed one.

“And this is Henry,” Simon sweetly added, looking at the other man. “He lurks here to look taller.”

Henri’s face was pinched. He corrected Simon by saying, “Henri. Like in French. Not Henry. Henri.” He dragged out the last syllable like he wanted applause.

“Ah, forgive me,” Simon said, eyes wide with mock innocence. “One never knows whether to flatter the French or irritate them for sport.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Henri teaches something very useful, like metrics or misery.”

“Romanticism,” Henri snapped. “And I don’t lurk. I consult.”

Margaret came back and smoothed things over with her diplomacy. “Emma, I see you’ve also met Henri. He’s very good with Byron. This is Emma, our visiting novelist.”

Henri grabbed my hand without asking, his thumb pressing deliberately into my skin. “Welcome,” he said, eyes travelling in a way I didn’t like.

Why do some men seem to think this is the kind of behaviour women appreciate? I slipped free, and thanked him as politely as I could manage.

He smiled as if I had complimented him. “We must get coffee. I’ll show you the real campus, not the one for visiting lecturers.”

“Great idea,” Simon said cheerfully, sliding between us like a shield. He handed me a paper cup with tea and a slice of lemon floating on top. “Except I’ve got first dibs. Department tradition. The official tour for new staff.”

“Tradition,” Henri sniffed dismissively. “It’s often the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

“Second last,” Simon said pleasantly. “The last is misquoting Oscar Wilde in the staff room. Henry.”

Henri’s nostrils flared. “Henri.”

“Yes, darling,” Simon said in a voice so sweet that I thought Henri might combust. “Go consult a bookshelf.”

I couldn’t help but laugh before I could swallow it. Simon’s eyes met mine, warm with inclusion. He was sarcastic but also genuinely kind, which made me feel we would get along, maybe even become friends.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Emma, I’ll leave you to Simon. He’ll take you to your office without getting lost in the tunnels.”

“Tunnels?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” Simon said. “Don’t worry, there are only two ghosts.”

“Three,” Henri put in. “If you count the chair of eighteenth-century studies.”

“Four,” Simon said. “If you include Henri’s sense of humour.”

Margaret gently squeezed my arm. “Email me if you need anything. And if Simon tries to recruit you for the salsa society, say no. He’ll only love you more for it.”

“Spoilers,” Simon sighed dramatically. “She messes up all my plans.”

Margaret wandered off to the photocopier. Henri gave me a lingering look before turning away in a cloud of cologne.

Simon exhaled, half relief, half theatre. “He’s not all bad. He’s just not so good with boundaries.”

“I noticed.”

“He once RSVPed yes to a wedding he wasn’t even invited to.” He said, shaking his head. “Come on, Emma. Before you become the first person in the department to go missing.”

We slipped back into the corridor, which was full of flyers for poetry readings, seminars, and drag bingo. The air was stale and cold, as if an air conditioner had been working too hard.

“So,” Simon said casually, “you move from city to city, leaving behind great sentences and perhaps some confused admirers. Is that your story?”

“Maybe great sentences,” I said. “But I leave the lovers in the books.”

“Ah,” he sighed, “a woman after my own heart. I read your second novel on a flight to Halifax. I cried into my pretzels. The flight attendant hated me for constantly blowing my nose.”

I stopped. “You read it?”

“I did. There’s music in your sentences. You land hard truths without crushing the reader.”

I had never heard that before. I blushed and softly said, “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“I like to be honest and straightforward, so if you appreciate that, I have a feeling we’re going to be good friends.

” He winked at me while saying that. “Now, a tour of the campus. Fake castles in the neo-Gothic style. Disasters of modernism. Tunnels because of the snow. A food court that will save your life and shorten it by a year. And most importantly – the best chocolate croissant you’ll ever eat. ”

“I see that you’re really focusing on the essential things.”

“Finally, someone sees how much I matter.”

We turned into a glass walkway, with the sun shining on a quiet courtyard.

“Why Toronto?” Simon asked.

“Because it seemed like the best option, even though it wasn’t the most obvious one. It’s very diverse in terms of languages and cultures, and it has an energy that keeps you interested.”

“Good answer. You’re going to love it here.”

We cut across the quad, Simon pointing out the downtown campus library in the shape of a cathedral and the student centre that resembled a spaceship. “That low building? Office supplies and existential crises. Unlimited.”

He made me laugh. He made the city seem less intimidating, which was a gift.

“Okay, time for tea,” he said briskly. “Then tunnels. Then the copy-machine chapel. And if you’re still standing, we’ll go to the notebook store that will make you believe in your own sentences.”

I smiled and kept pace with his steady stroll. It was warm, noisy and anonymous out here. Exactly what I needed.