It was thanks to Rebecca that everything did indeed change for Annelise, just not in the way she could have foreseen.
Forever saying that Annelise didn’t go out enough, Rebecca one day insisted that she accompany her to Blackwell’s for the launch of a new book – The History of Jews in Italy – written by Professor Harry Knoller, a Fellow in Politics at Merton College. Reluctantly Annelise had agreed to go.
Her friend had been adamant that they arrive early for the event and had grabbed two seats on the front row. From the moment the author of the book had started speaking, Annelise could see that he was an immensely charismatic man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He spoke eloquently and with searing conviction, and it was obvious that he wanted his audience to be in no doubt that he possessed a ferocious intellect.
From her front row seat, and being in such close proximity to the speaker, it was impossible to avoid his gaze as it swept around his audience. More often than she was comfortable with, Annelise found his powerfully searching gaze settling on her. It made her wish she were seated at the back, safe from his scrutiny.
In his mid to late thirties, he had a full head of wavy dark brown hair, a narrow face and blue-grey eyes behind tortoiseshell-framed spectacles. He wore an open-necked shirt and a tweed jacket, which she noticed had a button missing. He looked every inch the college professor, but there was something overplayed about him. His performance, and that’s exactly what it was, reminded Annelise of a play she had seen Isabella in. The leading actor had been hamming it up something awful, to the point that his character was wholly unconvincing.
As thought-provoking as she’d found the talk, Annelise had no wish to join the long queue to buy Professor Knoller’s book, but Rebecca wasn’t leaving empty-handed. They joined the queue until finally, in a gush of breathy admiration, Rebecca had her chance to request the great man’s signature.
‘What about you?’ he said, pointing his fountain pen at Annelise, ‘don’t you want a book like your friend?’
‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘I have enough to read at the moment.’
He considered her answer for a few seconds. And then: ‘What did you think of my talk?’
‘It was interesting.’
‘Interesting,’ he repeated. ‘Is that all?’
‘What’s the answer you would rather I gave you?’
‘The same as any academic would want. I want you to tell me that I’m sensationally brilliant, that my thought process is unique, and it had you on the edge of your seat, hanging on my every word.’
‘If you need somebody to worship at the altar of your cleverness, I suggest you look elsewhere. After all, brilliance is not in short supply here in Oxford. And sadly, nor is sycophancy.’ In any other situation she would have been appalled to hear herself being so extraordinarily rude, but she couldn’t stop the condemnation pouring out of her.
But he just laughed. ‘A straight-talking undergraduate, that makes a refreshing change.’
‘A straight-talking Junior Fellow,’ she corrected him. ‘And really, we mustn’t monopolise you anymore, you have many more people queuing to buy your book.’
‘Won’t you tell me your name?’ he said.
‘No need. Our paths won’t cross again.’
She had been wrong. Three days later he appeared at the main entrance to St Gertrude’s while she was checking her pigeonhole for mail.
‘At last,’ he said, leaning against the stonework, ‘I’ve tracked you down.’
As startled as she was, she kept her expression indifferent. ‘Which raises the question, how did you track me down?’ she enquired.
‘I remembered your friend’s name from signing my book for her and asked around. May I take you for lunch?’
‘I was planning to eat in hall.’
‘Is that an unbreakable plan?’
Before she could reply, he said, ‘Please say yes, I’d like the opportunity to prove that I’m not always an arrogant buffoon.’
‘Whatever my opinion of you is, I wouldn’t have thought it would matter to you very much. If at all.’
‘Come on, you know what it’s like for us narcissistic academics, we need everybody to love us.’
She couldn’t help but smile. And with that, she allowed him to take her for lunch. And for dinner the day after, and to bed the following week. Only then did he tell her that he was married. By then it was too late.
So when Isabella had spoken about an unhappy and neglected husband straying in search of emotional comfort, Annelise knew all about that.
But Edmund? Surely he wouldn’t do that to Mums? No, Isabella was wrong about him. They must just be having a private disagreement over something. Perhaps Edmund had been trying to get Hope to ease back with her workload, worried that she was overdoing it and would make herself ill again?
From downstairs Annelise could hear the telephone ringing. It rang and rang, and when she realised nobody was going to answer it, she went to do it herself. She reached the hall just as the telephone stopped ringing.
She was about to go back upstairs to her room and do some work on the paper she was writing, when the telephone rang again. She picked up the receiver. ‘Island House,’ she said.
Seconds passed. Then came a voice, a man’s voice: ‘Is that who I think it is?’
Her heart leapt.
‘Harry? Is that you?’
‘The one and only. Are you missing me?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Liar.’
She smiled to herself and pressed the receiver against her ear, as if that would bring him closer to her. ‘Are you missing me?’
‘Of course I am. I want you here with me. How could you think otherwise when you know I’m crazy about you?’
Her body absorbed his words like a sponge soaking up water. But she made light of it. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she said.
‘See, that’s what I love about you,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘you’re always so cool and distant with me. And always ready to put me in my place.’
‘Somebody has to,’ she teased.
There was a rustling sound in her ear, followed by a silence, and then Harry was cursing under his breath.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s Miriam,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘home earlier than she said she would be. I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll see you when you’re back. I’ll book us a room, usual time and place. Be good without me and don’t let some ardent young tyke steal you away from me!’