Page 54 of The English Professor

‘At uni?’

Leyna nods. ‘I don’t think I had much beyond our local chippy growing up.’ She stops and looks sheepish. ‘My parents weren’t very adventurous.’

Her simple phrase tugs at my heart. I can read between the lines of what she’s saying—in other words, her family didn’t have much.

‘Leyna, you should never be ashamed of where you come from. I hope you know I would never judge you for what you did or didn’t have growing up.’

‘I’m not ashamed. It’s complicated. There were a lot of things I didn’t know anything about until I grew up and left home. Posh restaurants wereneveran option. Traveling. Hotels.’

‘Tell me more about your time at uni. You studied art history, right?’

She seems grateful for the pivot away from her childhood. ‘Yes. I was one of the lucky ones, actually. One of the very few bonuses of having no money, I suppose. I got a scholarship, a fully-funded studentship to go to Oxford. Studied art history. Loved it,’ She draws out the vowel sound for emphasis. ‘It wasn’t without its own complications, though. I often felt like an imposter, or an outsider during my time there, but most of the time, I was able to push that to one side—because I loved what I was doing so much. That’s where I met Candace, too.’

‘The best friend?’

‘That’s right. We’re like chalk and cheese but somehow it works.’

‘How are you different?’

‘Ha! Where to begin... Candace is measured. Rational. A background in science means she thinks everything though, every little detail is planned out. Whereas I... I fly into things at one hundred miles an hour. I never think anything through. I’ll have a two-second, does this feel right? Yeah? Okay, go for it. Drives Candace mad,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll never understand why we get along, but we do. We need each other, I guess. She keeps me on the straight and narrow. I give her things to shake her head and laugh about.’

‘What happened after uni?’

‘That’s when all my dreams started to fall apart. When I finished, I couldn’t get a job. Which meant I couldn’t afford to stay in Oxford. So I came back up north, where I could stay with family for a bit until I found something. Thing is, they never let me forget it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They were against me going to uni in the first place. Well, maybeagainstisn’t the right word. They never considered that I would want to go. But then when my A-levels were good enough and I was accepted, they couldn’t believe I wanted to do art history. They thought I was wasting my life.Art history is for those who can afford to flounce about and go on gap years, they said. That clearly wasn’t me. But I thought, you know what, I’ve gotten myself this far, it’s my decision. They weren’t paying for anything, so they didn’t get a say as far as I was concerned.’

Leyna stops when the waiter returns with our appetizers. I’ve ordered the sharing platter specifically so I can watch Leyna try all sort of different things. We both tuck in and I watch as she momentarily closes her eyes as she tastes her food, delicately licking the tip of her finger. I nearly groan out loud. How is she able to do this to me? Once I’ve had my fill of watching her eat, I say, ‘So, you went to Oxford and read art history and then returned back north.’ I’m eager to hear what happened next.

‘When I got a degree in art history I thought: this is it. I’ve finally found what I was put on this earth to do. I would learn about art and then, after I graduated, I would maybe work in a gallery or a museum for a bit and then have my own showings, showcasing new artists. Giving them a voice. Lifting up the next generation of creatives.’

‘That’s impressive.’

‘Yeah. Too impressive. A big dream for a little girl from a coal mining village up north. As it turned out, none of that came to light.’

‘What happened? Were there not a lot of jobs?’

‘There were jobs. I just never appreciated how much I’d have to fight for them. It was an uphill battle and one I could never win.’

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

‘Well, who do you think got the jobs? It wasn’t the northern lass with no connections. They all know each other, go to benefit dinners together, went to the same schools, work at the same places. Those with clout, with money, made sure their children got the top positions in the top museums, in the art galleries. I never had a chance. Those jobs were already gone long before I even showed up.’

‘You think that every single job was taken because daddy made a phone call.’

She looks nervous, uncertain. But then I see that little chin stick up in the air as she says, ‘Actually, I do.’ Then she stares at me, daring me to challenge her judgment.

I take a sip of wine, drawing out the moment. I love the way she presses her lips together, her haughty mouth an act of defiance. ‘I think you’re probably right, love.’

She looks surprised. ‘You do?’

‘I should know. I went to school with them.’

‘So why aren’t you like them?’

‘Like the other spoiled, posh twats?’

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