Page 3 of The Women

‘Peter?’

He raises a hand, coughs into the other. Tourists chatter on long necks; there is the click of a dozen iPhones. One of the guards raises his arm at them.

‘Calma,’ he says. ‘Un po di calma.’

Peter is lunging into the crowd, pushing through, his cough hacking, raw. Samantha runs after him. The guards stand back to let her pass; they shout and gesticulate at the tourists to make way, but still the people push in, bleating like dumb sheep.

‘Scusi,’ she hears Peter say. ‘Scusi. Scusi.’

The raspberry-coloured bald patch at the back of his head zigzags a short distance away. He staggers up the steps, through the wide arched door of the church.

‘Peter,’ she calls out, almost slipping on the shiny tiled floor. ‘Peter!’

He stops dead, as if he has heard her. With a great sucking sound, he clutches his shoulder, reels back and falls to his knees. She runs to him and she too drops down. In the backpack, Emily jolts against her shoulders.

‘Peter?’

He collapses, his hands against the tiles, his chest against the tiles, his cheek now against the tiles. His mouth is slack, his eyes glassy, his forehead spritzed with perspiration. Shouts echo. Strangers are running, running towards her – from the altar, from the doorway.

‘Aiuto!’ she cries to them. ‘Ambulanza!Someone call an ambulance!’

Two

London, October 2016

Samantha Frayn sees Professor Bridges before he sees her. At least, that is how she will recall it later, in the light of everything that happens. But for now, nothing has happened, and all she can see is him. He is drinking red wine from a plastic cup on the far side of the English department foyer. His hair is a deep chestnut brown. He is slim. He dresses well – how she imagines an American academic might dress: soft blues, fawns, tan brogues. Would risk a burgundy V-neck, possibly has tortoiseshell glasses in a case in his breast pocket, though Marcia would say this was Samantha’swhole Gregory Peck thing. She knows Professor Bridges teaches art history, here at University College, London. She knows he drives an old midnight-blue Porsche. And she knows that most of the female student population would give their last tenner for one look from him. Right now, he is talking to a girl from the year below Samantha. The girl laughs, knees sinking, looking down at the floor, only to glance up again. And there, look: she’s tucking a loose strand of honey-streaked hair behind her right ear, better to expose her perfectly flushed cheek.

The thumb of jealousy in Samantha’s chest is a surprise. Ridiculous.

There are about seventy people here. It is the beginning of term; autumn’s nip is in the air. She misses the Yorkshire countryside in all its colours, the wellington boots in the stone porch, the smell of damp soot in the chimney stack, though these things haven’t been part of her life for a long time now. Around her, chatter amplifies against the hard surfaces, brings her back to herself. She should move, mingle. She should at least smile. If Marcia were here, she would have got them both a drink by now. But Marcia has a hangover and is watchingI’m a Celebrity …back at the flat.

Samantha glances towards the door; beyond, to the lifts. She could go, actually. She could just leave. It’s not like she’s interested in any of these people. Well, if you don’t count one, and he is miles out of her league. Yes, go – turn and wander away, back into anonymity, onto the Tube. She could be in Vauxhall by—

‘I took a chance and brought red,’ a man’s voice behind her says.

She startles, turns, finds herself looking into fathomless brown eyes, crinkled at the edges: the eyes of Professor Bridges. Oh God.

‘Ah,’ is all she finds to say – more of a noise than a word – fighting the heat that is climbing up her neck. She did not see him cross the room.

‘I’m Peter.’ He presses a plastic beaker into her hand. His lips are dark pink, the bow almost pointed, defined even against his weathered skin. The wine is warm, like blood. ‘You’re not first year, are you?’

‘Final,’ she says. ‘I’m Samantha.’ She offers her hand, which he shakes.

‘Pleased to meet you, Samantha.’ His hand is warmer than the wine.

‘You too.’

He takes a slug of his drink, grimaces as if offended. ‘Christ, the wine at these things is awful, isn’t it?’

‘Oh my God, yes.’ Samantha rolls her eyes. Not that she’s tasted better. Or worse. She really has no idea about these things; she’s just trying to somehow throw a ring fence around the two of them, make some sort of lightning intimate connection.

‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ he says, glancing about before returning his gaze to her, as if the others are of no interest. ‘I’m an interloper, strictly speaking.’

‘Careful,’ she says. ‘You might get caught.’

He raises one eyebrow, as if surprised, before throwing her a suggestive smirk.

‘Let’s hope so.’

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