finest paper you ever penned. I mean, you nailed it, Milo. It was almost autobiographical.’
He smiles at me serenely. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
I feel something small and fragile break in my mouth, as though a tiny glass vial has cracked between my teeth, leaking poison into my bloodstream. ‘How often are you seeing a therapist?’ I ask.
Milo’s mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.
‘That little thing you do – clenching and unclenching your fist – you were counting to five and telling yourself to breathe. Someone taught you to do that to relieve stress – a therapist or a psychologist. What makes you anxious, Milo? Is it the crowd or your own doubts? You’re not the type to worry about what other people think of you. You’re brighter than they are. You’re brilliant. There must have been someone else here that you were trying to impress – a woman, standing near the back. She was filming you. You wanted a record of tonight so you can replay it later. Watch yourself. Pick up any mistakes. Or maybe you get a sexual charge out of seeing yourself on stage.’
Milo’s eyes slightly glaze over and colour flushes into his cheeks. He wants to hit me. Maybe I’m the bully.
Terry Bannerman has dragged himself away from a cluster of fans. He slaps Milo on the back, congratulating him. He looks right past me, almost dismissively, and then refocuses on my face.
‘You’re that professor,’ he says, excitedly. ‘You must be very proud of your protégé.’
‘Yes, he’s come a long way,’ I reply. ‘Let’s hope he finds his way back.’
6
Halfway down Mill Hill Lane, opposite the cottage, there is a huge chestnut tree that is famous among local children for the size and strength of its conkers. I am parked beneath the lowest branches. The dashboard clock reads 9.45. There are lights on upstairs. Charlie is still awake but Emma will be asleep by now, curled up under a small mountain of stuffed rabbits, bears and dogs arranged in a specific order, smallest to largest, or alphabetically, or by colour, depending upon her whim.
Downstairs a soft light glows from behind the curtains. Julianne must be watching TV or curled up on the sofa with a novel. Her book club meets every month, more for the wine than any literary discussion, she says.
I shouldn’t have come. I should have booked into to a bed and breakfast or a hotel. I should have called ahead. But here I am, sitting opposite the cottage, replaying my conversation with Julianne, trying to read between the lines of her invitation to come home for the summer.
In my mind the cottage has always been ‘home’. We moved out of London nine years ago, looking for better schools, more space and cleaner air – the usual arguments, along with the unspoken one – less stress. All that fresh country air, organic food and slow talking was going to make me a new man who could arm-wrestle Mr Parkinson and pin his skinny trembling limb to any table.
I took a job lecturing at Bath University, teaching an introductory course in behavioural psychology and mentoring PhD students like Milo Coleman. We stumbled upon Wellow almost by accident when I drove along a narrow road looking for somewhere to turn around. The village is full of stone cottages and pretty terraces with brightly painted front doors and windowsills lined with flower boxes. Picturesque. Postcard-worthy. There is a pub, the Fox and Badger, and a village shop, a primary school and a church with a graveyard where the headstones are so weathered that most of them can’t be read.
When Julianne and I separated I rented a smaller place around the corner where the girls could come and visit me after school. Emma would play hide and seek in a house that had four hiding places. She still managed to squeal whenever I found her. Meanwhile, Charlie would waltz in, make a sandwich, accept help with her homework and then both my daughters would go back to the cottage and their mother.
Two years ago I moved
He smiles at me serenely. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
I feel something small and fragile break in my mouth, as though a tiny glass vial has cracked between my teeth, leaking poison into my bloodstream. ‘How often are you seeing a therapist?’ I ask.
Milo’s mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.
‘That little thing you do – clenching and unclenching your fist – you were counting to five and telling yourself to breathe. Someone taught you to do that to relieve stress – a therapist or a psychologist. What makes you anxious, Milo? Is it the crowd or your own doubts? You’re not the type to worry about what other people think of you. You’re brighter than they are. You’re brilliant. There must have been someone else here that you were trying to impress – a woman, standing near the back. She was filming you. You wanted a record of tonight so you can replay it later. Watch yourself. Pick up any mistakes. Or maybe you get a sexual charge out of seeing yourself on stage.’
Milo’s eyes slightly glaze over and colour flushes into his cheeks. He wants to hit me. Maybe I’m the bully.
Terry Bannerman has dragged himself away from a cluster of fans. He slaps Milo on the back, congratulating him. He looks right past me, almost dismissively, and then refocuses on my face.
‘You’re that professor,’ he says, excitedly. ‘You must be very proud of your protégé.’
‘Yes, he’s come a long way,’ I reply. ‘Let’s hope he finds his way back.’
6
Halfway down Mill Hill Lane, opposite the cottage, there is a huge chestnut tree that is famous among local children for the size and strength of its conkers. I am parked beneath the lowest branches. The dashboard clock reads 9.45. There are lights on upstairs. Charlie is still awake but Emma will be asleep by now, curled up under a small mountain of stuffed rabbits, bears and dogs arranged in a specific order, smallest to largest, or alphabetically, or by colour, depending upon her whim.
Downstairs a soft light glows from behind the curtains. Julianne must be watching TV or curled up on the sofa with a novel. Her book club meets every month, more for the wine than any literary discussion, she says.
I shouldn’t have come. I should have booked into to a bed and breakfast or a hotel. I should have called ahead. But here I am, sitting opposite the cottage, replaying my conversation with Julianne, trying to read between the lines of her invitation to come home for the summer.
In my mind the cottage has always been ‘home’. We moved out of London nine years ago, looking for better schools, more space and cleaner air – the usual arguments, along with the unspoken one – less stress. All that fresh country air, organic food and slow talking was going to make me a new man who could arm-wrestle Mr Parkinson and pin his skinny trembling limb to any table.
I took a job lecturing at Bath University, teaching an introductory course in behavioural psychology and mentoring PhD students like Milo Coleman. We stumbled upon Wellow almost by accident when I drove along a narrow road looking for somewhere to turn around. The village is full of stone cottages and pretty terraces with brightly painted front doors and windowsills lined with flower boxes. Picturesque. Postcard-worthy. There is a pub, the Fox and Badger, and a village shop, a primary school and a church with a graveyard where the headstones are so weathered that most of them can’t be read.
When Julianne and I separated I rented a smaller place around the corner where the girls could come and visit me after school. Emma would play hide and seek in a house that had four hiding places. She still managed to squeal whenever I found her. Meanwhile, Charlie would waltz in, make a sandwich, accept help with her homework and then both my daughters would go back to the cottage and their mother.
Two years ago I moved
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