Page 78 of The Women

‘You know Professor Bailey?’

‘I did English, remember? She taught one of the MA modules. We got on well and kind of stayed in touch. I see her sometimes for a drink and a catch-up, but she couldn’t make tonight in the end.’

‘She’s friends with Peter.’

Aisha is still looking at the table. ‘She tried to warn me off him, back when we were … I was defensive, not reading the signs. She tried to tell me, you know, in subtext, that students were histhing, but I guess by then I’d withdrawn. Shrunk, actually, that would be more accurate. And Sally backed off. Well, everyone backed off. That’s what happens.’ She looks towards the film posters, as if to admire them, but she is not admiring them, Samantha knows, simply searching for somewhere to rest her eyes while she gets through what she wants to say. ‘Then afterwards she never said I told you so, which I’ve always appreciated.’ She glances at Samantha but immediately away, to a point behind Samantha’s head. ‘Ah, we can go in.’

They take their seats. The crowd are older, well dressed and most are white. Samantha wonders if she would have noticed this last if not for Aisha, wonders then what it must feel like to always be in the minority, wonders why the hell she doesn’t think about this stuff more.

The curtains scroll back.

‘Oh, how funny,’ Samantha says.

On the screen are rows of seats, as if they are looking into a mirror. But it isn’t a mirror.

‘That’s the Playhouse,’ Aisha says. ‘Amazing, isn’t it? The play is being transmitted live from the West End and we can see it here in Richmond.’

‘Amazing.’

It is. From her seat in Richmond, Samantha watches the theatregoers take their seats all the way over in central London. Some are already sitting, chatting, pointing, whatever, quite unaware of being observed from the other side of the lens. And with no sound at all, the effect is disconcerting.

Aisha leans close, keeps her voice low. ‘I remember the first time I came here. It makes quite an impression, doesn’t it? They have to rig up the camera for the live feed before the play starts obviously. They’ll do the sound check in a few minutes; you’ll hear the sound come on, and then a broadcaster will introduce the play. Last time it was Emma Freud, I think. Not sure who it will be today. Anyway, it’s weird because we can see them, but they can’t see us.’

‘So itisa mirror,’ Samantha says into Aisha’s ear. ‘A one-way mirror.’

‘Exactly.’

They settle and watch, benign voyeurs. The camera shots change every minute or so. Now the stage: black and bleak; now the audience: chattering, fussing, oblivious. Now the stage. Now the audience.

And there. Live from the West End of London, taking his seat and talking to an attractive young blonde woman, is Professor Peter Bridges.

Samantha’s entire body freezes.

A burst of static, followed by the dull rumbling of inaudible conversation. The audio feed has come on. Now the stage. Now the audience.

Peter has taken his seat. He has a glass of red wine in one hand. With the other, he is offering a packet of something to the girl. She takes a handful, tips back her head and empties whatever it is into her mouth. Peter gazes at her long neck. She glances sideways at him and laughs. He laughs. He cocks his head and continues to laugh before pushing his face to hers and kissing her on the mouth.

Samantha can feel the tension, electric in Aisha’s arm as if it is her own. Aisha has seen. She has definitely seen. White heat. The world suspended.

The house lights dim. Silence. A presenter speaks into a microphone, but Samantha doesn’t hear a word. Another silence, then blackness. Blackness on both sides of the screen. Blackness everywhere.

And so the play begins, Samantha thinks.The play begins now.

Thirty-Three

Outside, the cobbled lane is slick, though the rain has stopped now. Samantha matches Aisha’s silence with her own as together they leave the river at their backs and wander up towards George Street.

‘Amazing, wasn’t it?’ Aisha says finally.

‘Amazing.’

They stop at the crossroads. Aisha looks away, down towards the shops. Peter hangs in the air between them.

‘I have to go,’ Samantha says, bending down to kiss Aisha on the cheek. Aisha, already petite, has worn trainers this evening. In her mule heels, Samantha is much taller.

‘Samantha—’

‘I’ll talk to you soon.’ She turns and waves. ‘Bye.’

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