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Helen walked away from Alex feeling all powerful and in control. She was the author of her own destiny. She had come up with a plan. There were four easy steps:
Step One: Find Isabel Sutton and wow her with academic brilliance so that Sutton instantly offered Helen a job.
Step Two: Quit current job and move to Manchester, which was in The North, and therefore cheaper so she would definitely be able to afford the sort of dream home where the shower ran at a consistent temperature.
Step Three: Have a glittering career.
Step Four: Get over Dominic.
Easy. The first kink in the plan came when she couldn’t find Professor Sutton. This was the sort of thing that would discourage a person less in control of their destiny. There was no need for panic. The esteemed professor had been here the night before. She was at the ceremony half an hour ago. So, logically, she must be here somewhere. The toilet? She might have gone to the toilet. Helen headed down the corridor to the ladies’ loo. There was no queue but both cubicles were occupied. Should she wait? She shouldn’t wait. Waiting for someone outside the toilet would be stalker-ish. Or maybe not. It could be like Helen had just happened to run into her here. One of the cubicle doors was opening. It probably wouldn’t be her, in which case Helen could go into the cubicle, wait for a minute, flush and come out again. Nobody would think she was weird.
‘Doctor Hart.’
It was Professor Sutton. What to do? She couldn’t go into the cubicle now because the professor would get away again, but if she didn’t she was just a woman who liked to hang around in public conveniences. Hold on. Professor Sutton didn’t know that Helen hadn’t just come out of the other cubicle. She could still pull this back. She turned to the wash basin and ran the tap. Washing her hands. That was totally a normal thing to do. Helen started to relax.
‘Doctor Hart?’ She said it louder this time.
Helen ran the conversation over again in her head. She’d forgotten to answer hadn’t she? She’d been concentrating so hard on looking normal that she’d forgotten to answer the question. Helen tried to smile and brazen it out. She turned and gave a slight jump, implying, she hoped, that she simply hadn’t seen the other woman standing next to her in the two foot square space. ‘Professor Sutton.’
‘Isabel, please. Lovely ceremony.’
Helen nodded. ‘Once they’d sorted out the music.’
Isabel laughed. ‘I much preferred her second choice.’
She’d finished washing her hands, and was moving to the hand dryer. It was one of those super modern ones that dries your hands and makes you a cup of tea in less than ten seconds without trashing the planet. It also made about the same amount of noise as a jump jet taking off in the next room. There was no way Helen could impress anyone over that.
Isabel pulled her hands out of the dryer. ‘Well, I’ll probably see you later.’
She was leaving. She rounded the corner out of the door. It was now or never. Helen ran the four paces to catch up with her wiping her hands on her skirt. ‘Elizabeth Fry!’
Professor Sutton stopped. ‘I’m sorry?’
Helen dragged her voice down to a normal pitch and tone, as if shouting the names of eighteenth century reformers at the backs of passing academics was normal behaviour. ‘You were asking last night about the links between the abolitionist movement and prison reform.’
Sutton stopped. ‘I don’t think one individual is of anything more than symbolic value.’
She was arguing, which was worse than her falling at Helen’s feet in awe of her intellectual prowess, but significantly better than running away from the crazy toilet lady, and argument Helen could do. ‘Well no, but there are parallels in the use of language around slaves and prisoners – the infantalisation and the othering.’
She nodded. ‘That seems valid.’
Next came the tricky bit and Helen had no idea how it normally worked. The whole old boy network thing was outside of her expertise. She imagined there was some sort of special handshake and then you would all go and play golf. ‘Do you play golf?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘No.’
‘No. Me neither.’
She glanced back towards the toilets. ‘Were you waiting for me in there?’
Helen closed her eyes. This was it, wasn’t it? Failure of the plan at Step One. She was destined to spend the rest of her life earning a pittance and mooning over her best friend’s husband. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why? You know I’m straight, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Gender studies. Female academic. People get the wrong idea.’
‘No! I wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t want to ...’ Helen’s mouth was still going. She was reduced to a mere spectator waiting to see what it would say next. ‘I mean not that you’re not attractive. You’re not my type. I’m sorry. I said that already, didn’t I? Sorry.’ Helen clamped her mouth shut.
‘Stop apologising. I can’t abide women who constantly apologise.’
Every fibre of Helen’s being itched to say sorry. Must fight urge to apologise.
‘So why were you waiting for me?’
Helen gave up. She already looked completely ridiculous. ‘I wanted to ask you for a job.’
‘And you thought the ladies’ toilet was the best place?’
Helen shook her head. ‘Look. I’m not very in practice at this “seizing the moment” thing.’ Isabel looked amused. Amused was better than horrified.
‘Why didn’t you say you were looking for a job?’
‘I don’t know. It seemed a bit forward.’
‘But you already know I’m interested in your work. I told you that last night.’
It was true. She did.
‘So come on. You don’t get anywhere in life by babbling like an idiot in a toilet, do you?’
Helen supposed not. ‘Can I start again?’
‘Go on.’
Helen held out her hand for shaking. ‘Hi. I’m Doctor Helen Hart. I’m an historian. I wanted to say that I’ve read a huge amount of your work, and I think the department you run in Manchester sounds incredible.’
‘And?’
‘What?’
‘Now tell me what you want. Don’t be so bloody polite.’
‘Well I want a job.’
She nodded. ‘All right then. Now we can talk.’
So they did, and it transpired that Isabel genuinely was familiar with Helen’s work, and also had a departmental vacancy to fill.
‘You’re kidding.’
Professor Sutton shook her head. ‘The posts were advertised in January, but we didn’t fill them all.’
‘So you’re actually offering me a job?’
‘No. I’m offering you an interview, but your publication record is good, especially considering that you don’t have a full-time university post at the moment. And I would like to be able to offer dissertation supervision in your area.’ She smiled. ‘And you’re clearly very keen.’
‘Sorry about the toilet thing.’
Isabel held up hand. ‘Don’t apologise. I’m surprised you didn’t apply when we advertised the post.’
Helen paused. ‘I wasn’t looking to move out of the area then.’
‘And now you are?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Now I realise that I don’t have a reason to stay.’
‘Okay. Well I’ve got your contact details on this napkin.’ She held up the paper serviette Helen had pressed into service in the absence of anything as professional as a business card or notepad. ‘Someone will contact you on Monday to set up an interview. Enjoy the rest of the reception.’
Don’t do the happy dance until she’s out of sight. Don’t do the happy dance until she’s out of sight. Helen waited until Isabel rounded the corner, and did the happy dance on her own in the hallway outside the toilets.
She didn’t have anyone to be happy with her. Apart from Alex, of course, who seemed to have recovered from being in love with her dishearteningly quickly. Not dishearteningly because she wanted him to be in love with her. It would just be nice to think that she had sufficient allure to hold someone’s interest for more than three hours. She hadn’t spoken to Emily or Dominic since they’d been dispatched from the bedroom of shame. One of those problems felt too massive to think about. Helen looked up. The other was standing at the end of the hall. Emily.