Lying in bed the next morning, I was acutely aware of Lottie’s breathing. The room smelled of stale vodka and furred breath, and of the empty sweet wrappers all over her desk. I longed to crack the window, to let in that gentle, nourishing scent of rosemary, moss and wild garlic, but I was afraid of disturbing Lottie. Of inviting a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.
In any case, assaulting a guy on her birthday was probably the final nail in the my-roommate-hates-me coffin. All right, so she’d tried to follow me out, offered to walk me home, but by then all I had wanted was to be alone, not reminded of how awful I was by my too-nice, too-perfect roommate. So I pushed her away with a final verbal shove, and it seemed to have done the job.
If she was going to hate me, I wanted it to be on my terms.
As quietly as I could, I slipped on the same black turtleneck and beige cigarette trousers I’d worn the day before, put the day’s textbooks into my monogrammed leather briefcase, and headed out to my first seminar.
Introduction to philosophical theology, like all lectures and seminars, was held in the old convent building. Room 26B was a high-ceilinged, tall-windowed space with old-fashioned school desks arranged in neat rows. The slatted wooden floorboards creaked moodily under the weight of thirty students piling in.
Professor Anton Le Conte stood at the front of the classroom, studying the blank blackboard intently. He held a piece of brand-new white chalk between his thumb and forefinger like a pen, as though contemplating the first mark to make with it; as though that first mark was symbolic, somehow. I supposed it was. This was a blackboard left blank for ten years. It seemed to matter how that hiatus was broken.
I took a seat in the front row, wincing as I unfurled my fist from around the handle of my satchel. Punching peoplehurt. It was a strangely pleasant ache, though, like tired legs after a long walk.
Dressed in a sharply cut waistcoat and perfectly pressed slacks, Le Conte was a lean, spritely man with pale olive skin and flecks of silvery grey in his black hair. I knew he’d spent the last few years editing theEuropean Journal of Natural Theologybefore being lured back to the place he first established his name in the philosophical theology sphere. A paper he published during his tenure here, on the impact of modern philosophy on hermeneutics, was widely hailed. He put Carvell’s floundering philosophy programme on the map, and merely being in the same room as him carried an almost electric charge.
As he finally turned to address the room, a hush fell over the giggling back row. His gaze was intense, his movements careful and quiet. Authority emanated from him in waves.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, not with the insistent boom of a classics professor but with the soft restraint of a man who knew his own power.
The question was met with silence; even the creaking radiators were afraid to breach the taut quiet.
‘I know whyI’mhere,’ he said, gesturing around. ‘We natural theologians provide arguments for the existence of God based on reason and rationality. Where better to do so than a former convent?’ He smiled out of the high window at the woods and the crags beyond. ‘The place is steeped in all the inspiration I’ll ever need. But why areyouhere?’
He looked around, taking in each of us individually, weighing us against some invisible measure. Then he asked again, ‘Why philosophy?’
Forcing any tentativeness out of the action, I raised my hand. He nodded for me to continue.
‘I want to be a judge.’
His eyes bore into mine, dark and hawk-like. ‘So why not a law degree?’
I met his intensity, leaned into the earnest core of myself, and hoped to hell he would approve of it. Because if I couldn’t be myselfhere, where would I ever belong?
‘Before I learn what to think,’ I say, voice low and clear, ‘I want to first learnhowto think.’
It was the kind of statement that would have earned sniggers and eye-rolls in high school, would’ve had me labelled pompous and pretentious, but Professor Le Conte gave a small, satisfied nod. The other students didn’t look at me with ridicule; in fact they seemed begrudgingly impressed.
This is the feeling, I thought.This is the feeling I would have all the time as a judge. Like people care about what I have to say.
The rest of the class, though, left me a little deflated. I quickly realised I was already way ahead in terms of background reading. All Le Conte did was draw the lines between civil, natural and mythical philosophy for those who’d never heard of any of them. Concepts I’d been exploring since I was fifteen were presented as brand-new information. Still, part of me enjoyed the feeling of superiority it gave me. I’d always placed so much importance on my intellect, and having it affirmed gave me a much-needed bolster.
Five minutes before the end of the seminar, however, there was a lazy knock on the door. It croaked open before Le Conte could even address it.
In the opening stood Professor Dacre, in his brown corduroy suit, mustard-yellow tie and off-white shirt.
The head of the programme, who’d seen me verbally abuse a member of staff not twenty-four hours earlier.
For a fleeting moment, my stomach sank. Was he here to kick me out? Had he heard what I’d done to the guy in the Refectory? Coupled with the way I’d spoken to the woman in the entrance hall, I wouldn’t blame them for eviscerating me from the programme.
Yet he didn’t even look in my direction. He smiled broadly around the room, exposing coffee-stained teeth, then nodded at Le Conte as he crossed over to the front of the classroom holding a single sheaf of white printer paper. They exchanged a few hushed words before Dacre crossed back to the door and left, leaving the sheet of paper in Le Conte’s wiry hand.
He held it up and raised his eyebrow in a perfectly groomed arch. ‘Private tutor assignments.’ He laid it down on his squat walnut desk. ‘Come and find your name at the end of the session.’
There was a faint flutter of excitement just below my ribs. Who would be my private tutor? Students worked closely with their tutors throughout their entire time at Carvell – it was really more of a three-year mentorship. I’d have been happy with Le Conte, but my top choice was Professor Lucille Arundel, who was doing ground-breaking work in the field of applied aesthetics. She was known for floating around campus in Grecian gowns, and had many thousands of pounds worth of nineteenth-century art hanging in her office. I’d mentioned her specifically in my personal statement when I applied to the academy.
As soon as the bell rang, I shoved shamelessly past my ambling peers and reached the list first, hoping beyond all reason that it would be Lucille’s name next to mine.
But it wasn’t.
It was Dacre’s.