Romancing Robin Hood by Jenny Kane

breath, standing in a cramped Oxfam shop changing room. Agatha was passing her random skirts, tops and jackets, as Grace stood self-consciously in an un-matching bra and pants, and unsuitable black ankle socks and trainers.
    Three skirts, four shirts, and two jackets later, Agatha declared Grace done, but insisted on fastening her own chunky silver necklace around Grace’s neck, ‘to add that “vital something.”‘
    Having paid an amazingly cheap price for a complete outfit, Grace was hurried off to her home to put on tights and her one and only pair of court shoes.
    As she stuffed her jeans and trainers into the top of her weekend bag, Grace swore at the Vice-Chancellor under her breath. About to meet the new historian on the block, and examine a whiz kid postgraduate in the most important interview of his life; she was supposed to feel relaxed, professional, and confident. Instead Grace felt conspicuous, and rather like an over-dressed Christmas tree.
    Forcing herself to stand still for a second, Grace stared into her bedroom mirror and took some calming breaths. The creature gazing back at her seemed only vaguely familiar. A deep khaki, full length, but flattering shaped skirt was topped with a paler green V-necked top, which to Grace’s mind made her boobs look enormous, but which Agatha assured her made them look shapely and attractive. The jacket they’d found almost matched the skirt, and was luckily plain and simple. Grace hadn’t had the heart to tell Agatha she only had navy blue shoes, but personally she didn’t care, and was pleased by her minor flouting of fashion’s bizarre rules.
    She had twelve minutes to get to the station. Thank goodness Aggie had arranged a cab. Making sure she had the thesis, her own work, money, her iPod, a train ticket, and her overnight things for a stay at Daisy’s, Grace let herself out of her house and onto the doorstep in the gentle sunshine as the taxi pulled up in front of her.
    To Grace’s immense relief, the train was five minutes late, and she managed to settle herself in one of the few vacant seats just in time for the East Midlands train to whisk her to Beeston station on the outskirts of Nottingham, which was only a stone’s throw from the university.
    Plugging her iPod into her ears, Grace rested her head against the seat and tried to relax, as the haunting tones of Clannad playing the Robin of Sherwood soundtrack soothed her. She briefly toyed with the idea of reading through some of her own manuscript, but it was only a twenty-five minute journey and she knew she’d be better employed re-reading the PhD abstract and conclusion.
    Grace had just been re-impressed with the postgraduate’s neatly tied together final paragraph when the train pulled into Beeston’s small station. Five minutes later Grace was in another taxi, taking her to the nearby university campus.
    She’d done about half a dozen vivas in her five-year stint as a lecturer, twice as a supervisor, and four times as the external examiner. Grace should have been calm and radiated confidence, and yet wearing these unfamiliar clothes, about to face a stranger she was slightly in awe of, Grace found herself questioning whether she really knew anything about her subject at all.
    Usually when invited to attend such interviews, Grace already knew the other examiner fairly well, even if they’d never met she would have read their books and papers and probably heard them speak at a conference or two. The medieval England historians’ circle was a small world, and everyone was aware of everyone else. This Rob Franks was new and therefore an unknown quantity. Was he young or old, black or white, straight or gay? Was he vastly published, or completely new and unpublished? Grace cursed herself for being too wrapped up in her own writing to research Franks as properly as she would normally have done. It was unprofessional, and she felt she’d let