SIGMUND FREUD
Professor Brownlow opens his mini-bar. ‘Beer, wine or gin? Or would you prefer a cup of tea?’
‘Gin, thanks.’ I perch on the edge of the solitary chair, wondering what I am doing here. There has been nothing about our work relationship to prepare me for the awkward intimacy of a Lighthouse Bay motel room. I avoid looking at the bed, which is difficult as it takes up most of the room.
My erotica and what Professor Brownlow does or doesn’t know about it hangs between us like a giant snapping crab.
Professor Brownlow opens a beer and hands me a gin. He eases himself onto the bed and puts his legs up. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ I down my gin in an effort to paper over the social gaps.
‘So, which authors have you read apart from Murakami?’ asks Professor Brownlow.
None, would be the correct answer, but why tell the truth when you can lie? ‘Nori Toyota is one of my favourites.’ I am careful not to look into Professor Brownlow’s beautiful eyes as I need all my wits about me. I see his glasses on the bedside table. ‘Can you see all right without your glasses?’ I wish he would put them on.
‘I can see well enough for this kind of thing.’
‘For discussions about Japanese literature, you mean?’
Professor Brownlow gives me a quizzical look. ‘Indeed. For discussions about Japanese literature with my talented research assistant.’
The giant crab snaps its menacing pincers. I retreat back into my chair.
Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘I haven’t heard of Nori Toyota.’ He pulls a laptop from the bedside table towards him and opens it. ‘Might just Google him.’
Damn Google to hell. Why wasn’t I born into an era where fact-checking required more effort? A three-day journey on horseback to a rundown library with no Japanese books, for example. Don’t these web nerds ever consider the consequences of their actions? ‘He’s not very well known.’
‘Hmm, no, can’t be.’ Professor Brownlow scrolls down the screen. ‘Who else do you like?’ He looks up, fingers poised on the keyboard.
‘No one else.’ I am sullen. ‘Only Nori.’
‘You know, I like your writing a lot, Edie.’ Professor Brownlow’s voice is mild. ‘You are an interesting woman.’
The giant crab attacks. Its pincers are sharp and strong. I gasp like a small fish being pulled towards its sandy burrow. I turn red, then white with terror. My mouth is dry and my hands are wet.
Professor Brownlow taps a few keys on his keyboard. ‘It reminds me of the work of the late Nagasaki. I think you’re filling a niche market there. You should do a pitch to the crab symposium. They’d love it.’
I am lost for words. Professor Brownlow is more deeply eccentric than I’d ever suspected. Lighthouse Bay could sink into the sea before I’d stand in front of an audience and discuss erotic literature. I tip my glass to my mouth, but there is no gin left. I feel as exposed as a crab larva under the microscope but not nearly so innocent.
‘I’m serious. We could use some light relief in the program. You could team it with your drawings.’ He double clicks on his mouse and an image fills the screen. It is my Hercule Poirot crab larva. He tilts his head to one side. ‘I’m still trying to figure out a way to slip them into my presentation.’ Looking up from his keyboard, he gazes at my face. ‘What? You thought I’d be shocked? I’m flattered you think of me like that. Here I am — a boring forty-two-year-old academic.’
‘It’s not you.’ I gulp. ‘It’s nothing like you. It’s fiction.’
Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘If you say so, Edie.’
I don’t know where to look. You could sauté crab sticks on my burning face.
‘I’m afraid I got you into my motel room under false pretences.’ Professor Brownlow focuses the beam of his cerulean eyes on me.
Oh help. Those eyes should be classified as WMDs — Weapons of Mass Desire. My heart palpitates and sweat breaks out in my armpits. This is it — he’s read my fantasies, now he wants to act them out. My eyes meet his and a tremor passes through me — I don’t know if it’s lust or fear. My body sways towards him like a charmed snake.
Professor Brownlow looks puzzled. He nods towards his laptop, breaking the charm. ‘I could really do with some help typing up my presentation for tomorrow.’
My heart slows, but my cheeks grow hotter. How embarrassing. I probably looked like I was about to throw myself at him. Embarrassment is followed by indignation. He lured me into his motel room with Japanese literature, not to seduce me, but just so I could type up his speech? The cad. How dare he? I should slap his face and leave. That’s what a Brontë heroine would do. That, or throw his laptop out the window onto the windy moors.
Instead I say, ‘Of course, Ralph.’ I hold out my hands for the laptop. ‘I’d be happy to help.’
I am woken by the sun streaming into my eyes. As I open them I find I am looking straight into Professor Brownlow’s face. I feel like I have hardly slept at all.
I am lying on top of the almost unruffled covers of his king-sized bed.
Professor Brownlow is sitting on the edge of the bed wearing his regulation short shorts and loafers. His glasses sparkle in the sun. Today he has added a tie to his button-up shirt. I wonder what Sally would say about this wardrobe addition. Personally, I find his lack of dress sense quite sexy. It shows he has more important things to think about.
‘You look like Botticelli’s Venus,’ he says.
I am familiar with the picture; the naked, golden-tressed woman standing in a shell. And lovely though the image is, there is one aspect of it which troubles me — the nakedness. I glance down at myself and find I am still wearing my complete outfit — skirt, tights, T-shirt, all intact.
‘I’m sorry.’ Professor Brownlow smiles. He doesn’t look sorry. ‘I meant your hair — the way it’s lit up in the sun.’ He holds one lock up to the light. ‘See what I mean?’ It is an intimate gesture, and although his manner is more scientific than personal, my heart still quickens.
Fuelled only by teabags and biscuits in plastic wrappers, Professor Brownlow and I had worked until two in the morning. By this stage driving home had all the appeal of root canal surgery.
‘You may as well stay. I’ll sleep on the floor if you like, Edie,’ he’d said, giving a big yawn.
‘No, no, it’s a big bed.’ The mood between us was so comradely, so businesslike; I knew sleep was the only thing which was going to happen in that bed. There had not been even the slightest frisson between us as we lay down. Well, that’s a lie, there had been a teensy frisson on my part, but I don’t think it showed.
And it was a very big bed.
Professor Brownlow stands; laptop under his arm. ‘Thank you for your help last night, Edie. I’m sorry I kept you up so late. I’ll pay you overtime, of course.’ He sounds brisk. There is no hint in his manner that our working relationship has breached any of the usual guidelines.
This is reassuring. Even though he has read my erotic fantasy about him, we have shared a bed, and he has compared me to a naked goddess, we are still all above board, shipshape and totally professional. Excellent.
He glances at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. Will you stay here for a while?’
‘No.’ I slide my feet onto the floor and stand up. ‘Things to do.’
This sexless bed-sharing seems to be turning into a pattern, I reflect. I yawn and follow him to the door. Am I really so unattractive no one wants to have sex with me? Apparently so. And I’d always been under the impression that men would have sex with anyone given the opportunity.
Anyone except me.
‘Yo, Edz.’ A voice hails me as we step out into the sun.
Tim the surfer boy gives me a thumbs-up as he rides by on his bike, surfboard under his arm. ‘Surf’s up in the Bay,’ he yells back to me. ‘See you out there.’ His eyes slide to Professor Brownlow and he winks at me.
‘Friend of yours?’ asks Professor Brownlow.
I look after him. ‘Kind of. I’m starting to think he might be stalking me.’