ferrety-looking boy with an earnest stack of books.
‘I guess that makes this the shortest course at this college,’ he said, ‘and my job a whole lot easier.’
Hadley laughed, and her pen skidded on the page. The boy beside her turned to stare, his brow peaking quizzically. Joel Wilson glanced Hadley’s way and she smiled in acknowledgement. He nodded, briefly but perceptibly, in the way that you might if you were reminding yourself of something you already knew.
He had arrived five minutes late for his own lecture, shrugging his jacket from his shoulders on his way from the door, throwing his tattered briefcase at the lectern and narrowly missing it. He had shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and grinned at them all, as the contents of his case lay scattered on the floor. The land of clocks and watches, and still I’m late , he’d said. What are you gonna do? He was already unlike any of the teachers she’d had at school, and any of the lecturers in her first year at university. Hadley was on his side right from the beginning.
‘Where shall we start?’ he asked them, leaving beat pauses as though he was genuinely seeking their suggestions. ‘Here’s an idea. Let’s begin with the kind of attraction that can only end in misery. How does that sound? A romance, whose only consummation will be one of failure.’ He looked around the room as he spoke, and Hadley twitched in her seat. ‘Do you think you can handle that? Can your hearts bear the breaking? Okay, then. Let’s talk about The Sun Also Rises .’
Standing at the front of the class, Joel Wilson looked as if he knew a secret, and that if you listened carefully enough, he’d let you in on it. He had slides, and he clicked through them at a rapid pace and with staccato rhythm. Some showed sections of type, blown up and fuzzy at the edges. Some were photographs: the dazzling red of a torero’s cape, the neat bob of a woman’s head, sleek as a boy, Hemingway himself, the thrust of his chest, eyes like bullets. Joel, as he told them to call him, was fast on his feet, spinning on his heel whenever he wanted to make a point, almost seeming to pirouette his way across the room. But when he stopped still the world appeared to stop turning with him, and everybody held his gaze. Hadley wrote frantically, without ever looking down at the page for long. Later in the library she would try to decipher these notes and find it impossible. She would write it all out again from memory, hearing the thrum of Joel’s voice in her head. Especially the part where he talked about her.
‘I’ve got a class list here,’ he said. ‘Stand up, please, Hadley Dunn.’
Hadley felt her cheeks burn. She got up, knocking her pen to the floor as she did so. She couldn’t remember swapping names with him on the street.
‘You’re Hadley?’ he said. ‘I might have guessed. You’re aware of your namesake, I take it?’
It had been her mum’s idea, but was not due to any literary enthusiasms, as Joel Wilson must have imagined. Hadley had been the name of the singer in a pub band that was playing on the night her mum first met her dad. This other Hadley, a girl with bare feet and hair to her waist, had walked on to the stage, the microphone squeaking, and sung of love won and lost, in a voice that thrilled and haunted with equal measure. The story went that after her song, James Dunn had made his own professions of love at first sight, whispering into Hadley’s mum’s ear as she stood in line for a drink at the bar. The girl packed up her guitar and went back into the night, stardust in her wake, as the soon-to-be Dunns fell into the sweetest kiss they’d ever known. Hadley was the daughter of romantics, if not book lovers.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am.’
‘Then I’m pleased to have you in my class.’
His gaze cut her clean in two. Joel clapped his hands together and dismissed them, throwing in a breezy reminder about the upcoming drinks party. Hadley liked
‘I guess that makes this the shortest course at this college,’ he said, ‘and my job a whole lot easier.’
Hadley laughed, and her pen skidded on the page. The boy beside her turned to stare, his brow peaking quizzically. Joel Wilson glanced Hadley’s way and she smiled in acknowledgement. He nodded, briefly but perceptibly, in the way that you might if you were reminding yourself of something you already knew.
He had arrived five minutes late for his own lecture, shrugging his jacket from his shoulders on his way from the door, throwing his tattered briefcase at the lectern and narrowly missing it. He had shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and grinned at them all, as the contents of his case lay scattered on the floor. The land of clocks and watches, and still I’m late , he’d said. What are you gonna do? He was already unlike any of the teachers she’d had at school, and any of the lecturers in her first year at university. Hadley was on his side right from the beginning.
‘Where shall we start?’ he asked them, leaving beat pauses as though he was genuinely seeking their suggestions. ‘Here’s an idea. Let’s begin with the kind of attraction that can only end in misery. How does that sound? A romance, whose only consummation will be one of failure.’ He looked around the room as he spoke, and Hadley twitched in her seat. ‘Do you think you can handle that? Can your hearts bear the breaking? Okay, then. Let’s talk about The Sun Also Rises .’
Standing at the front of the class, Joel Wilson looked as if he knew a secret, and that if you listened carefully enough, he’d let you in on it. He had slides, and he clicked through them at a rapid pace and with staccato rhythm. Some showed sections of type, blown up and fuzzy at the edges. Some were photographs: the dazzling red of a torero’s cape, the neat bob of a woman’s head, sleek as a boy, Hemingway himself, the thrust of his chest, eyes like bullets. Joel, as he told them to call him, was fast on his feet, spinning on his heel whenever he wanted to make a point, almost seeming to pirouette his way across the room. But when he stopped still the world appeared to stop turning with him, and everybody held his gaze. Hadley wrote frantically, without ever looking down at the page for long. Later in the library she would try to decipher these notes and find it impossible. She would write it all out again from memory, hearing the thrum of Joel’s voice in her head. Especially the part where he talked about her.
‘I’ve got a class list here,’ he said. ‘Stand up, please, Hadley Dunn.’
Hadley felt her cheeks burn. She got up, knocking her pen to the floor as she did so. She couldn’t remember swapping names with him on the street.
‘You’re Hadley?’ he said. ‘I might have guessed. You’re aware of your namesake, I take it?’
It had been her mum’s idea, but was not due to any literary enthusiasms, as Joel Wilson must have imagined. Hadley had been the name of the singer in a pub band that was playing on the night her mum first met her dad. This other Hadley, a girl with bare feet and hair to her waist, had walked on to the stage, the microphone squeaking, and sung of love won and lost, in a voice that thrilled and haunted with equal measure. The story went that after her song, James Dunn had made his own professions of love at first sight, whispering into Hadley’s mum’s ear as she stood in line for a drink at the bar. The girl packed up her guitar and went back into the night, stardust in her wake, as the soon-to-be Dunns fell into the sweetest kiss they’d ever known. Hadley was the daughter of romantics, if not book lovers.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am.’
‘Then I’m pleased to have you in my class.’
His gaze cut her clean in two. Joel clapped his hands together and dismissed them, throwing in a breezy reminder about the upcoming drinks party. Hadley liked
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