Chapter Six
Sadie
O n any other day, you’d find empty offices up the wahzoo in this department. But this morning, the one time I need privacy for a conversation I would never have believed I’d be having, there are people everywhere. Most of them are coming and going from Ethan Carter’s office.
Everyone wants to introduce themselves, no doubt aware of Jennifer’s unspoken plans for Ethan to follow her as the head of department. From the lecturers, who are keen to reacquaint themselves, to the admin staff and undergrad students. Most of whom seem to be female. And is it my imagination or does Janet, the librarian responsible for the prestigious Berner Collection of ancient Egyptian texts, have lipstick on today?
At this rate, I’ll have finished my PhD and be running my own dig in Egypt before I get to have a conversation with him. Which, come to think of it, would solve the problem.
I’m in the storeroom updating the catalogue of artefacts we’ve been 3D scanning when Riley scuttles in with the look she gets when she has a whole pot of tea to spill, not just a cup.
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
I’d have to be an idiot not to know who him is.
“Who?” I hit her with my best blank stare.
“Pfft. You know who.” She may be stupid, but she’s not dumb. “Ethan Carter, of course.”
“Oh, him. No. Why?”
“Why? Why? Because he’ll be taking on some of the PhD candidates. That’s why.”
I don’t know why this hadn’t occurred to me. I’d normally be all over this kind of thing. It’s a measure of how discombobulated the situation has me. Now I really need to see him. Before … well, before I don’t know what. But I need to see him. Stat. I also need Riley not to know about it. So, while my heart races, I attempt an appearance of disinterest by continuing to check two cobbled-together computer systems against one another. One day we’ll have a shiny new computer system to go with our shiny new building. Maybe I’ll even be lecturing here by then.
“I have to have him as my supervisor!” Most of Riley’s sentences are liberally peppered with italics and exclamation points. Everything is a life-or-death drama. Sometimes, I wonder how she’s managed to get to PhD level, although I have my suspicions. Then I realise I don’t care and move on to thinking about things that actually matter.
“I guess you could ask Jennifer to appoint him. Or ask him,” I suggest. Part of me hopes she does get him. It would certainly reduce the likelihood he’d be appointed to supervise me. Then I feel bad. Wishing Riley on anyone is cruel and unusual punishment. Except maybe for Professor Collins. He deserves her.
“Oh, I will .” She perches on the edge of my desk and begins inspecting her manicure. I always feel like this is a passive-aggressive dig at my short, unpainted nails. But maybe I’m attributing too much forethought to Riley’s actions. “And isn’t it just sooo sad?”
Okay. I’ll bite.
I rub my temples to ease the building tension. I suspect I’ll regret asking this. “Isn’t what so sad?”
“About his wife.” Her shoulders droop, and her mouth turns down like an exaggerated clown frown.
I take a second to respond. Because wife ?
When I think I can speak in a normal voice, I ask, “Wife?”
It comes out as a weird squeaky croak. It’s fortunate Riley is too self-absorbed to notice.
“Yes. How she died.” More frowny face.
“His wife died ?” Oh, my God. I’m starting to sound like Riley. And how, in the tight and gossipy academic community, have I not heard this story before?
“That’s what I said . Two years ago. They’d only been married for months, and she just dropped dead. There was an autopsy and everything . No wonder he always looks so sad.” Not always, I recall. Which I keep to myself.
“Where did you hear this?” I think back to his house. The unpacked boxes. The lack of anything personal. Anything homely.
“Janet heard all about it from Jennifer, who’s known him for years .”
My heart feels uncomfortable in my chest, and my body is suddenly restless. I push back from the desk and stand up.
“I really don’t think that’s the sort of thing you should be gossiping about, Riley. It’s tragic, and you should have more respect.”
I’m down the corridor and into the unisex bathroom before Riley has a chance to reply.
I splash cold water on my face and run it across my wrists, trying to calm the emotions bubbling in my veins. Snapshots and soundbites from our night together are coming back to me, suddenly seeming more significant. Heartbreaking. Remembering how serious he was despite the flirty banter. How he allowed me to call him Solo Man and never offered his real name. The single plate and cup taken out of the brand-new box of crockery. The lone, single chair in the living room.
The fact that he never even tried to kiss me on the lips. That he seemed to prefer being behind me, not face to face. I thought maybe that was how he liked it, but it seems like he was holding me at arm’s length. Just as I was doing with him.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I’m grateful nobody else is in the bathroom right now.
I whip a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dab at my eyes, blinking until the tears subside. Thank goodness I rarely bother with mascara.
I know Ethan Carter must be a good five or ten years older than me. I knew it when we hooked up. But he’s way too young to have lost a wife. It’s too unfair.
My fears about my PhD and my reputation now feel petty in the face of this man’s loss.
Regardless, we still need to have a conversation.
It’s almost the end of the day before I get the opportunity to approach Ethan without a full theatre audience. It hasn’t been easy hovering in line of sight of his office door without being obvious. But I think I pulled it off.
I rap casually, I hope, on the glass wall beside his open door. He’s rearranged the coveted corner office he inherited from Professor Sprout, as we all called him, on account of the excessive amount of hair sprouting out of his ears, who retired suddenly earlier this year when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.
Professor Sprout had the desk facing the door, with two ancient and uncomfortable wooden visitors’ chairs opposite, so in any meeting, you were facing him across his cluttered desk, like a school kid seeing the headmaster. Ethan has turned the desk and pushed it against one wall of windows, so he can look out at the quad, which is a nice leafy view. This puts him perpendicular to the door. He’s replaced the uncomfortable visitors’ chairs with a small sofa and coffee table arranged against the wall behind him. This guy works fast.
I have to clear my throat before I speak. I’m uncharacteristically nervous.
“Umm. Hey. I was wondering if you have a minute?”
Ethan looks up from his laptop. There’s a brief flash of something in his eyes before the poker face returns.
“Of course, Sadie, isn’t it?” He knows damn well it is. And he knows I know that. But there’s someone walking past the door as I go into his office. I have to admire his sangfroid.
Ethan gestures to the sofa, and I perch uncomfortably on the edge, which is a shame. It feels like a really comfy sofa. One you could sink into for a long and spirited debate about Ancient Egypt, or your research, or anything at all.
Ethan hits save on whatever he’s working on and spins his chair around, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands between them. Unfortunately, his position brings my attention to the triangle of his spread legs, encased in faded denim. My cheeks heat, and the muscles in my lower belly contract, remembering what’s waiting at the top of that triangle. It’s like he can read my mind. He coughs and stands up, goes to the other wall of windows, and leans against the hip-height window ledge, crossing his booted ankles and resting his hands on the ledge beside his hips. Everything about his body language says cool and calm. His expression says cool and calm. Until you look into his eyes. They’re hot and turbulent and full of the same memories currently rendering me speechless.
The glass walls of all the offices allow us to see there’s nobody within hearing distance but I pitch my voice low regardless. I left the door open to avoid raising any eyebrows. Open doors mean nothing private is being said.
“I thought maybe we should discuss where we stand. You know, since …” I try to keep my eyes on his face, but it’s almost impossible not to run them down the length of his body. I shiver at the memories that invokes. The image of him leaning in the doorway, in nothing but grey sweats, is burnt into my retinas forever.
“Yes. I’ve been trying to find a minute to speak to you all day. I didn’t want to draw attention …” His eyes are doing the same bodycheck as mine, and I pull my long crochet cardigan closed across my knees as if a bit of twisted wool will break the metaphysical connection somehow.
“No. I understand.”
“I haven’t mentioned our prior … connection to Jennifer as yet. I wanted to,” he pauses, his eyes flicking towards the corridor, “have a chat with you about what your plans are for your PhD,” he finishes, and from the corner of my eye, I see Professor Collins coming towards us. The scowl he throws at Ethan, who waves politely in return, could blister paint. No prizes for guessing what that’s about. Professional jealousy is alive and well in academia.
“Oh, well. I’m working on the role, status, and behaviours of women in Egyptian society in the New Kingdom, particularly the Eighteenth Dynasty.” The corridor is clear again. “Nice save.”
Ethan smiles and tips his head in acknowledgement.
“You’ve chosen well. A fascinating period for the changing role of women, given Hatshepsut taking the throne and Akhenaten’s relationship with his wife. I’m looking forward to seeing your angle.”
I’m about to circle back to the real reason I’m in his office when Jennifer walks past and pauses in the doorway.
“Sadie is filling me in on her PhD plans,” Ethan says. “There’s a wealth of opportunity for her in that period.”
“Yes, I thought so.” Jennifer smiles at me. She’s told me more than once that she has her eye on me as one to watch. I’m glad because I’m hoping she’ll give me a job lecturing here once I have my PhD. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m off for the day. See you tomorrow.”
Ethan and I wave almost in unison. He waits a few beats before speaking again.
“I think this might not be the best place to talk. Did you drive here?”
I nod.
“I’ll be leaving at six. Perhaps we’ll run into each other leaving the building. Or in the carpark. If you could email me your proposal, and any research plans you currently have, that would be great.”
I suppress a sigh as another couple of people come down the corridor and walk past his door. He’s right. This conversation will take forever if it goes on like this. And the last thing I want is to be left in the offices alone with him. I’d only be lying to myself if I thought I could trust myself not to do something stupid.
“Sure. I can do that.” He knows I’m not talking about the email.
“Great. I’m looking forward to it, Sadie.”
And with that, he sits back down, spins his chair and starts tapping away at his laptop again.
A little over an hour to wait until we can get our stories straight. I just hope there’s nobody in the carpark. Because I don’t need another sleepless night. I suspect Ethan doesn’t either.