The head of the Department of Philosophy had called King in to her office not five minutes after he’d returned to work. She might at least have let him clear his backlog. After three weeks away, the accumulation was frustrating. Could no one have covered his duties while he was away? He may not really have been sick, but his colleagues didn’t know that, did they? Not one call to offer sympathy or concern. And this morning the other administrative staff hadn’t even asked him about it. This was the way it had always been, no reason to expect anything better at this point. Was it intimidation or jealousy, he wondered, as he deliberately delayed by making tea, keeping Natasha, or Professor Forge as she insisted he call her, waiting just a few minutes more.
By the time King opened her door, she was taking a telephone call and raised her forefinger as if he was a wayward student, keeping him still and silent while she finished her business. Natasha was wearing a dark green suit that emphasised her hazel eyes and ash blonde hair. King hated the way she made him feel. Even though he couldn’t bear to be in her company these days, there was no escaping her beauty. He admired her long, slender neck, with skin that would have flattered a woman in her early twenties. Forge’s thirty-sixth birthday had come and gone yet she was remarkably untouched by the signs of ageing. But King wouldn’t let her affect him like she used to – he had a new world waiting at home that she could never conceive. Like some great Vernean adventure, he would travel into his secret inner domain, moulding it until his utopia was complete. He pictured Natasha there – she could insist he call her Professor to her face, but in his head he called her other names, some she wouldn’t like at all – and felt a desire so strong wash over him that the mug in his hand began to shake. Finally she hung up.
‘Sit down, please, Dr King. It’s good that you’re back at work. I’d like you to arrange a speaker for the next evening lecture. It’s only two weeks away so we’re behind with the arrangements. Can you organise it in that time frame?’ She raised her eyebrows at him. There had been a time when he’d loved that expression, her pensiveness. He’d been wrong. It was irritating. He hadn’t noticed then how it created tiny frown wrinkles across her brow, or her patronising habit of tipping her head to the side as she waited for a response.
‘Easily,’ was his reply.
She breathed in as if about to say something more, changed her mind and flipped her diary shut.
‘All right. The speaker should address one of our listed titles for the term and we’ll need an outline of their lecture seven days beforehand, so time’s tight.’
‘I know the format,’ he said, enjoying her tension. She had her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Little did she know how appropriate it was, he thought. If she could only see what he’d done; all that he’d become. The tailored suits and high heels, her immaculate hair kept short and businesslike, wouldn’t be so intimidating on his home territory.
‘Right, you’ll have a lot to catch up on from your leave, so that’ll be all.’ She turned her face to the computer monitor. He had been dismissed. All she’d ever done was dismiss him. King had once put forward a paper he’d spent months researching and writing, offering it for inclusion in the department’s journal, only to have it rejected out of hand. Three times he’d applied for academic posts in the department. Twice he’d been discounted at the first stage. The third time, he’d been selected for interview. He remembered his elation upon receiving the notification letter with something close to shame. He’d worked hour after hour, consuming every volume on philosophy he could find, studying teaching plans, the history of the department, everything and anything that would impress the board. He was finally going to receive the recognition he was owed. He wouldn’t let himself down.
On the day of his interview, he’d been calming his nerves in the gents’ toilets, splashing cold water on his face. That was when he’d heard those imbeciles giggling together, thinking they couldn’t be overheard in the ladies’ next door.
‘What are they doing interviewing him? He gives me the creeps and he’s horrible to the students, won’t give them the time of day. Can you imagine him teaching? I’m not staying here if he’s on the faculty, doing his typing, organising his diary. He’ll probably make us all address him as sir,’ the ugly bleached-blonde receptionist had said. He’d always loathed her. She embodied the worst of young women, concerned only with their grooming and social lives, handing themselves out to the lowest bidder, couldn’t write a sentence without a spelling mistake.
‘He’ll probably make us curtsy when we go in his room,’ said another. This was an older voice. Deirdre, King thought. That was worse. She’d always been polite to his face, friendly, even. How quickly women betrayed. Throwing a paper towel in the bin he told himself to stop listening, knowing it was stupid, damaging his confidence before the most important thirty minutes of his life and a chance at the academic career he’d always desired. But he’d stayed. It was the human condition: the need to know the worst, the destructive desire to see how it feels when you hit rock bottom. He’d inched closer to the wall to hear better. The voices were hushed and he’d held his breath to catch the words.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ two-faced Deirdre had hissed. ‘Natasha didn’t even want to interview him but Human Resources told her she should. They didn’t want a challenge to the fairness of their long-listing process. His CV is quite impressive.’
‘How do you know so much?’ Bleached-blonde had sounded amazed. ‘Oh my God, I never hear this stuff.’
‘I had to type up the notes of her session with HR. Professor Forge called me in especially to tell me I wasn’t to say anything to anyone, so don’t you go blabbing. I think he makes her skin crawl like he does everyone’s. She’s not giving him the job, that’s for sure.’
‘Bloody right,’ the yellow-haired whore had replied.
King hadn’t moved, not until they’d finished tarting themselves up and he’d heard the ladies’ door swing shut behind them, giggling viciously as they’d trotted up the corridor. When their grotesque laughter had finally faded, he’d let rage take him, slamming a fist into the mirror that was reflecting his reddened face and swelling tears. A second time, then a third, he punched the shattered glass, no pain transferring from hand to brain because everything was black and buzzing and he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, why he’d come, only that he had to get out, get out, get out!
He’d grabbed a toilet roll and wrapped the paper around his hand until the bleeding was hidden, shoved the fist into his pocket, wiped the sweat and other unthinkable liquids from his face, and marched down the corridor. He’d forced his pace to slow, held his head high, put his dignity back on like a helmet and left the building. He couldn’t remember the drive home, nor unlocking his door and throwing all his notes, all that work, into the bin. He didn’t remember cleaning and binding the fist that really required hospital treatment but that still, in spite of all the abuse it had taken, he could not feel. Nor could he recall falling asleep on his bedroom floor, flat on his back, arms over his face as if blocking out the world that had insulted him so badly, the same room where his mother had spent hours patiently teaching him and his sister algebra, French, chemistry, anything and everything. A whole history in this house. He’d wanted his parents to be proud of him then. Had been sure that even in death, this new career path would make them proud of him now. But he’d been tricked. Lied to. Made a fool. What he did remember, with startling clarity, was waking up and knowing he was better than all of them. He would show them how superior he was, humble every one of them with his brilliance. He would not run, wouldn’t be forced out, would never let them know the humiliation he’d suffered. Reginald King was a man born for recognition, adoration even, and he would not quit until he had conquered.
He smiled at the memory. What a moment that had been, a pivotal instant in his life. Still, there was work to do before he could progress further. Work that paid for him to live. He couldn’t afford to slack. There were mouths to feed. He filed a faked doctor’s letter with Human Resources, citing chronic gastroenteritis as his illness then fired off a few emails searching for a speaker. He was particularly keen to secure the attendance of a representative from Professionals Against Abortion. That would get right under Natasha’s skin, women’s rights being her regular ride of a high horse. It seemed unlikely that they’d be overwhelmed with invitations to speak at such a prestigious institution as the University of Edinburgh. He would follow up his email with a phone call to them in a couple of days.
The rest of the afternoon was spent clearing his desk of trivia before a trip to the supermarket on his way home. There were certain women’s supplies that needed buying. Not a chore he looked forward to, but a necessity. He went through the self-service checkout to avoid a nosy employee thinking too hard about the contents of his basket, treated himself to a good bottle of white wine – he might even share a glass with the ladies if they were behaving themselves – and set off to prepare dinner for them. It would be an interesting evening, he thought. Time for them all to get to know each other better.