Forty-seven
Club Day on campus always took place the first week of classes. The grassy area behind the president’s house, known as the quad, filled end to end with booths from the Environmental Coalition to the GSA Club to the theater group and beyond, offering information and email sign-ups to new would-be members or just the mildly curious.
Sadie, not a joiner, always took pains to avoid this particular display. But today, she was forced to cut through the crowd to reach Dr. Moore’s office. She didn’t even know if Dr. Moore would be holding office hours. It was that odd time of year when schedules were in flux—just like her academic future. But maybe—just maybe—she was on to something.
The idea had come to her in the middle of the night, and she hadn’t had a moment’s sleep since. It was close to ninety degrees and it wasn’t yet noon. Sadie, overheated in her jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, felt a little woozy making her way through the rows of fold-out tables: The Board Game Club. The Sketch Comedy Group. A few of her friends sat at a booth under a particularly colorful banner. One of them waved her over.
“Hey—I’m just passing through. I have to find my advisor,” Sadie said.
“It’ll just take a minute to sign up.” Someone shoved an iPad in front of her.
“I don’t have time for the . . .” She checked the banner. “Jane Austen Film Society. What do you guys do, anyway?”
“Talk about Jane Austen, of course. And watch film adaptations of her books . . .”
“Sadie Bailey,” someone called from behind her.
It came from the direction of the Crew Team booth, where Holden sat flanked by his teammates, all tanned and golden from a summer at the beach. Sadie panicked. Of all places to run into Holden for the first time, did it have to be so public? She had no choice but to walk over to the table.
“Hey,” Sadie said.
“Interested in rowing?” the guy next to him said.
“She’s not into physical activity,” Holden said. Someone snickered.
“Or maybe I just never found the right sport,” she shot back.
For so long, she had thought something was wrong with her for not having strong romantic feelings. She’d explained it away as being too much in her head; her intellect got in the way of whimsy. She was too practical to experience true passion. She’d thought, if she didn’t feel it with Holden—hot, smart, fun—who would she feel it with? She had been certain it wasn’t a matter of meeting the right person; it was her emotional set point. But the way she’d gotten carried away with Mateo had disproven that. For the first time, her mind had been overcome by her body. She’d experienced the irrational thoughts and feelings that she’d believed to be part urban myth.
Now, missing Mateo, she was suffering just like everyone else. A mere mortal after all.
And then, across the lawn, a bright yellow dress caught her eye: Dr. Moore, crossing the field and headed away from the English offices. Sadie wedged between two tables to follow her.
“Hey, Sadie—I was just kidding. Come back . . . ,” Holden called after her.
Sadie broke into a run. She was sweating now, light-headed from the encounter with Holden, lack of sleep, and a general sense of being overwhelmed. A Club Day volunteer stepped forward, handing her a bottle of water.
“Please recycle. The bottle easily flattens and can be mailed back to the company to be reused as fuel in a waste-to-energy plant . . .”
Sadie chugged the water and continued on, now facing Dr. Moore’s back and trailing her by a yard.
“Dr. Moore!” she called out.
The professor turned, standing in place and shielding her eyes against the sun with her hand.
“Sadie, where are you running to in such a hurry?”
“To see you,” Sadie said, trying to catch her breath.
“Oh. I have a meeting. Can you email me to set up an appointment for office hours?”
“It can’t wait,” she said. “Please—just let me get this out before I start doubting myself. I think I’m on to something. I’ve got a new thesis topic.”
After Dr. Moore’s prompt the week before, she found herself paging through Lace, Chances, and Scruples. She read through them all side by side, noting parallels between them: strong women finding their way in life, in love, in business. But beyond that, in a lightning-bolt moment of clarity, she recognized a connection to the writings of Susan Sontag.
Halfway through Scruples, she opened her copy of “Notes on ‘Camp.’” She read it from beginning to end, doubting herself. But then it was clear—thrillingly clear—that the style of the novels, the merit of these books, could be explained by something Sontag wrote in “Notes on ‘Camp’”: “And one cheats oneself, as a human being, if one has respect only for the style of high culture, whatever else one may do or feel on the sly.”
All summer long, she had told herself she couldn’t take these novels seriously, of course she couldn’t. The very idea was absurd. But then, Sontag had written, “The whole point of Camp is to dethrone the serious.” Oh, yes.
“It’s still on Sontag. Still ‘Notes on Camp, ’” Sadie said. “But instead of writing about distance as methodology, I’m looking at three works by other authors filtered through Sontag’s lens: it’s my thesis that the novels of Jackie Collins, Shirley Conran, and Judith Krantz are the ultimate examples of literary Camp.”
Dr. Moore smiled. “Now, that’s the girl I met at Young Arts.”
Vivian heard the bedroom door click open. The curtains had been closed against the sunlight for hours, and now she didn’t know if it was light or dark outside. Leonard sat on the edge of the bed. Her back was to him, and she didn’t turn around.
“Vivian,” Leonard said. “Are you unwell?”
She felt his hand on her hair, stroking it away from her forehead.
“No,” she whispered.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.”
She blinked in the near darkness. When she didn’t respond, Leonard got up and opened the curtains. Sunlight poured in. How could it still be the same day? It was like time had paused, waiting for her to make her confession, ready or not.
“Vivian!” he said, squinting at her.
“What?” She sat up.
“Your face . . .”
She pulled a hand mirror from her nightstand. Her cheeks were lined with streaks of mascara, the area around her mouth stained red from smeared lipstick. Only her hair was still in place, sprayed and bobby-pinned into submission.
“I just need to wash off my makeup,” she said, walking to the bathroom. Her legs felt like lead. She dispensed the foaming cleanser into her hands, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. She preferred to look her best for difficult conversations, but her skin was too blotchy, her eyes too swollen, to think about reapplying makeup. She would face her husband without armor, her skin as raw and vulnerable on the outside as she felt on the inside.
When she returned to the bedroom, Leonard was pacing.
“What’s going on?” he said. “Did something happen with Leah? What’s she doing back here?”
“It’s not Leah,” she said, not knowing whether to sit or stand. She decided to sit, but not on the bed. She chose one of the Georgian armchairs near the window. She and Leonard had bought the set while on vacation around the time they were renovating the house, both enthralled with the carved legs and pale green cotton jacquard upholstery. She ran her hand over it now, wishing she could go back to that time and tell her husband what had happened in the moment.
“You’re being dramatic, Vivian,” he said. “Out with it.”
“Remember the day in your office when I asked you not to sell to the baron, if there was any way we could borrow or—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, not this again.”
“Please, Leonard. This is difficult for me, so just listen. I don’t want to sell—you know that. But I especially don’t want to sell to the baron.”
Leonard sat in the chair next to hers.
“He was spiteful back in the day, and yes, pulling out of the deal like that hurt us. But it was a long time ago. And he’s offering us good money now. You’ve got to let go of this, Vivian. All of it.”
She nodded. “I want to. But first, there’s something I need to tell you. The reason Leah is back here is that she found a letter. It was folded in one of the books she took from the library. The letter was from the baron to me. Thirty-five years ago.”
“What do you mean, to you? To you about what?”
As difficult as it was, Vivian looked at her husband, wanted to imprint in her mind the way he looked at her before she lost all of his respect. Possibly his love. She gripped the arm of the chair.
“Remember when the baron came to visit after you fired Delphine, and I took him for a tour of the stables?”
“No,” Leonard said.
“He wanted to see them even though I told him we didn’t have any horses. While we were there . . . he kissed me. And I kissed him back.”
“This is crazy talk, Vivian.”
“I didn’t sleep with him,” she said quickly. “And it never happened again. It was a moment of insanity, and I put a halt to it the second I came to my senses. But he kept calling and writing me letters. He refused to take no for an answer. I know he told you he was ending the partnership because you fired Delphine. But I believe the real reason is that I spurned his advances. And now that he’s back, he’s made it clear his expectations haven’t changed.”
“No. That can’t be.” Leonard jumped up.
“I’m sorry. It was so long ago . . . I never meant to hurt you.” He held up his hand to stop her from talking.
“I can’t hear any more right now.”
He paced back and forth for a minute while she watched him, feeling helpless. She just prayed he wouldn’t leave. It felt like a long time before he looked at her. When he did, his eyes were cold.
“I can’t go through with the sale. I’d sooner watch it all turn to dust than sell to him.”
She nodded. “I understand. But maybe it’s for the best. We can—”
“No sale. No money. A tax debt. We’re in big trouble, Vivian.” He stood and walked to the bedroom door, turning back one more time. “You might not have screwed him, but you screwed us.”
With that, he walked out of the room.