I place a hand on Caleb’s arm.
‘Can I meet you in the foyer?’ I whisper. ‘I’ve got something I need to do.’
He gives me a quizzical look, and then seeing the seriousness of my expression, nods and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Of course.’
I watch as he follows Julia and Marie-Claire out of the auditorium before I make my way along the aisle towards the governors.
‘Wasn’t that wonderful?’ Sally is standing in front of me, blocking the way. ‘I can’t wait to get a signed copy of their books, can you?’
‘What?’ Unable to disguise my irritation, I attempt to push past her. ‘Excuse me.’
The rest of the crowd are making their way up the stairs to the foyer, and I feel like a Pitlochry salmon swimming against the stream. Someone knocks against me and my bag falls to the ground, scattering the brown envelopes in every direction.
‘Oh dear,’ says Sally. ‘Can I help?’
We spend the next few minutes retrieving the envelopes from under impatient feet and auditorium seats. By the time we have collected them all, the headmaster and the governors are gone. I race up the stairs to find them, hoping it is not too late.
The foyer is teeming with people; bodies shift and merge as guests impatiently make their way forwards for another glass of prosecco or a soggy canapé. Cardew and McKinley are chatting animatedly to a fortyish woman with a heavy gold chain around her neck: the Provost of Perth. Next to her, an attractive young woman records the exchange on her iPhone. Her guest pass reads PRESS. Finishing their chat, the two poets make their way towards the table. A small queue has formed, ready to purchase a personally signed copy of their anthologies. The headmaster and board members are nowhere in sight.
‘Dammit!’ I move through the crowd, desperately seeking out the black-robed governors. Why have I waited so long? I could have posted the envelopes this morning, or even left them with the school secretary. If I’ve missed this chance, I will never forgive myself.
There is the tinkling sound of metal on crystal and I look to see Desra tapping a spoon against her glass. The headmaster and governors, now free of their dark vestments, emerge from the cloakroom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Desra begins. ‘Before we carry on with the signings, I would like to make an important announcement.’ She leans forward and speaks quietly to Cardew, who responds with a smile. ‘I am delighted to announce that Professor Cardew has been offered a prestigious visiting lecturer’s post this autumn with The Department of Literary Arts at Brown University in Rhode Island.’ There is a round of applause, which Desra silences with a raised hand. ‘I am also pleased to say that I have been offered a teaching position in America and will be accompanying Professor Cardew.’ She places a hand on his shoulder, which Cardew takes and raises to his lips.
I feel my mouth open, then almost immediately tighten shut in rage. So that was the reason for all those applications to American private schools. Desra is going with Cardew to America. Considering the dates on some of the job applications I found in her desk drawer the other day, she must have been planning to do so for months. Will riding on Cardew’s coat tails advance her career? Will he be the next professionally useful husband?
I glance towards the headmaster whose face is blank with shock. Clearly he hasn’t been informed that she is leaving. Has he been one more pawn in her plan?
I can feel my cheeks burning, and a thin sheen of perspiration glazes my forehead. There’s no way I am going to allow Desra McKinley to get away again. I find myself moving forward, pausing only to pick up a cheese knife from the catering table. I make my way towards her, the knife clenched so firmly in my fist I can feel the bone handle cutting into my flesh. Desra is only inches away. Our eyes meet; her smile freezes. I lean forward, but before I can utter the words forming on my lips, there comes the sudden crash of breaking glass from the rear of the hall. All the guests turn to see Becky surrounded by shattered crystal flutes.
‘You screwed her, didn’t you, Turner?’ she screams. A clearly drunk Turner, swaying like a puppet in the wind, does not reply. ‘Why don’t you just admit it?’
The guests stand frozen, engrossed. I think of one of those contemporary theatre experiences where the audience are expected to follow the actors around a performance space, eavesdropping on their lives.
‘There’s no use in denying it,’ continues a now hysterical Becky. ‘I saw you coming out of the boathouse with her the other night, and you weren’t just drinking, were you?’
The crowded room is pin-drop silent, and there seems to be a sudden suspension of breath.
‘So what if I did?’ replies Turner, with such casual arrogance that I think Becky will step forward and slap him. She does more than that. Stepping over the broken glass, she propels herself towards Turner, pushing him with all her might. He topples backwards, where he overturns two tables and finally lands prostrate on the floor just inches from the group of governors. The headmaster, his face white with fury, picks Turner up from the floor and guides him firmly towards Becky.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ he says to the two teenagers, barely managing to contain his anger.
‘What’s going on here is that that woman,’ Becky turns, narrows her eyes in unequivocal hatred, and points across the room, ‘has been screwing my boyfriend!’
It’s like something out of a detective novel. All heads turn to follow the direction in which Becky is pointing, where stands Desra McKinley. The lecturer’s eyes are wide, her expression stunned. I feel
