is a message for Dr. Jackson, Dr. Georgina Jackson.”
The accent was slightly American, and strangely familiar.
“This is Yolanda Vesey. Dan’s sister. He told me to get in touch with you.”
Of course, Livia had mentioned Dan’s sister, an academic who had verified the manuscript and—how could she have forgotten?—who was from Oxford.
“Let’s meet tomorrow. Nine a.m., Balliol, my room.”
Aghast, Georgina stared at the squawking phone and then picked up. “How did you get my number?”
“Is that Dr. Jackson? Livia Harkness gave me this number. She has a list of numbers for you, and since you’re in Oxford, I assumed this would be the right one to call. Nine tomorrow.”
She rang off.
So much for escaping from the Harkness-Vesey duumvirate. Fiendish Livia, handing over all her contact numbers for God knew how far back. Wasn’t that illegal, data protection, all that?
As if niceties like privacy laws meant anything to Livia.
It was half past ten. Too late to leave now. There would be a late train, but she didn’t relish venturing out into the foul wetness of the night. First thing in the morning, she’d be out of here.
Where to?
Back to London. Back to her own life. From there, she would contact Livia, and Dan Vesey, and lay it on the line. No dice. She wasn’t playing. She wasn’t on for this, the sooner she made that completely clear, the sooner they could dig up some other literary sucker, one of doubtless dozens of writers who would jump at this chance. This evening’s encounter with those students had been the narrowest escape ever, and the mere thought of meeting Dr. Yolanda Vesey filled her with terror. No. She was out of here, and out of the whole lunatic scheme.
She woke at five, after a fretful night, and flung her things into her bag. Dragging it behind her, she thumped her way down the stairs—it looked like the ancient elevator needed serious work, as it was still out of action—and out into the chilly damp darkness of pre-dawn Oxford.
The station, a fifteen-minute walk away, was a haven of light, with early commuters gulping their lattes, and station staff punctiliously announcing the delays to trains in all directions.
Recklessly, she broke her no-bought-coffee vow and bought a cappuccino and a newspaper, before going through to the platform, where a disconsolate crowd of people waited in a triumph of hope over experience for the London train.
In the manner of Oxford trains, the 7:05 arrived well before the 6:38, and she felt herself lucky to find a seat. She was in the quiet carriage, but the woman next to her was muttering into her phone, giving instructions about meetings, appointments, deadlines—who on earth was at the other end at this time of the morning? Did she have a twenty-four-hour secretary, some hapless slave who worked and slept beneath her desk? It would save on rent, she supposed.
Outside Reading, the train slowed to a crawl, and then stopped. After fifteen minutes, it started again.
“Signalling failure,” predicted a man on the other side of the aisle. He shut his laptop and reached up for his coat. “I’d guess brakes, judging by the smell,” the man next to him said, also getting up and retrieving his belongings.
The train juddered into Reading. “Due to engine failure, this train will not,” boomed the announcer and a guard in a counterpoint of bad news, “be proceeding Londonwards. Passengers should disembark and board the next Paddington train, due from Swansea in twenty-five minutes.”
Since the Swansea train was already packed by the time it drew into Reading, there was no room aboard for another trainful of passengers. Georgina took the slow train ten minutes later, and watched the unlovely suburbs drift past in a haze of rain.
Why did she want to stay in England? What was it about this grey country that so appealed to her? Why not finish her work and go back to an American university, where she would have more money, more prospects,
The accent was slightly American, and strangely familiar.
“This is Yolanda Vesey. Dan’s sister. He told me to get in touch with you.”
Of course, Livia had mentioned Dan’s sister, an academic who had verified the manuscript and—how could she have forgotten?—who was from Oxford.
“Let’s meet tomorrow. Nine a.m., Balliol, my room.”
Aghast, Georgina stared at the squawking phone and then picked up. “How did you get my number?”
“Is that Dr. Jackson? Livia Harkness gave me this number. She has a list of numbers for you, and since you’re in Oxford, I assumed this would be the right one to call. Nine tomorrow.”
She rang off.
So much for escaping from the Harkness-Vesey duumvirate. Fiendish Livia, handing over all her contact numbers for God knew how far back. Wasn’t that illegal, data protection, all that?
As if niceties like privacy laws meant anything to Livia.
It was half past ten. Too late to leave now. There would be a late train, but she didn’t relish venturing out into the foul wetness of the night. First thing in the morning, she’d be out of here.
Where to?
Back to London. Back to her own life. From there, she would contact Livia, and Dan Vesey, and lay it on the line. No dice. She wasn’t playing. She wasn’t on for this, the sooner she made that completely clear, the sooner they could dig up some other literary sucker, one of doubtless dozens of writers who would jump at this chance. This evening’s encounter with those students had been the narrowest escape ever, and the mere thought of meeting Dr. Yolanda Vesey filled her with terror. No. She was out of here, and out of the whole lunatic scheme.
She woke at five, after a fretful night, and flung her things into her bag. Dragging it behind her, she thumped her way down the stairs—it looked like the ancient elevator needed serious work, as it was still out of action—and out into the chilly damp darkness of pre-dawn Oxford.
The station, a fifteen-minute walk away, was a haven of light, with early commuters gulping their lattes, and station staff punctiliously announcing the delays to trains in all directions.
Recklessly, she broke her no-bought-coffee vow and bought a cappuccino and a newspaper, before going through to the platform, where a disconsolate crowd of people waited in a triumph of hope over experience for the London train.
In the manner of Oxford trains, the 7:05 arrived well before the 6:38, and she felt herself lucky to find a seat. She was in the quiet carriage, but the woman next to her was muttering into her phone, giving instructions about meetings, appointments, deadlines—who on earth was at the other end at this time of the morning? Did she have a twenty-four-hour secretary, some hapless slave who worked and slept beneath her desk? It would save on rent, she supposed.
Outside Reading, the train slowed to a crawl, and then stopped. After fifteen minutes, it started again.
“Signalling failure,” predicted a man on the other side of the aisle. He shut his laptop and reached up for his coat. “I’d guess brakes, judging by the smell,” the man next to him said, also getting up and retrieving his belongings.
The train juddered into Reading. “Due to engine failure, this train will not,” boomed the announcer and a guard in a counterpoint of bad news, “be proceeding Londonwards. Passengers should disembark and board the next Paddington train, due from Swansea in twenty-five minutes.”
Since the Swansea train was already packed by the time it drew into Reading, there was no room aboard for another trainful of passengers. Georgina took the slow train ten minutes later, and watched the unlovely suburbs drift past in a haze of rain.
Why did she want to stay in England? What was it about this grey country that so appealed to her? Why not finish her work and go back to an American university, where she would have more money, more prospects,
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