The Connoisseur

Chapter 22 - Hetairai

Sophia left home a few days later.  Term didn’t start for another week, but she had work to do.  Master’s degrees didn’t earn themselves.  She packed her bags, bade her Mum and Dad goodbye on the station platform, and set off on the long journey north.

As the bare countryside rolled past, she remembered a phone call.

“I’m looking out over New York Harbour towards Liberty Island.  They’re about to put the head on a certain famous statue.  I was wondering if you’d care to join me.”

The rest of the memory came rolling back – the train home for Christmas, the big man sat next to her with his crisps, and Alexander’s voice in her ear.  No one set next to her now.  She stretched across both spaces, and stared out of the window, her chin resting on her hand.

It was the first she’d thought of Alexander, earnestly, since she had woken up on New Year’s Day.  The instant she had closed the door on him she had cried, certainly, silently railing against his attitudes and his mystery, but she hadn’t really been thinking of him.  It had been a whirlwind of lovelorn hysteria, not real contemplation.  Over the next few days, she had concentrated on reading more articles on toxicology and editing her essay.  Work had banished him from her head.

Today, though, she thought about him.  Where was he now?  Anywhere.  Right now, on January 4th, 2014, he might not exist, or he could exist in fifty places at once.  Her head ached.  This, she thought, is why I do chemistry rather than physics.

And what was he doing?  She imagined him sat in his library, scribbling out the latest entry in the forbidden book: ‘what I learnt about beauty from dating a 21st century girl.’  He’d write the lessons in bulletpoints, draw a big fat line underneath the completed list, and then be off looking for some other fantastical experience, or some other easily impressed girl.  Off into the ether, vanishing into history.

But he had looked so devastated, back in the hotel room.  He had looked so hurt. 

It was a ruse.  Alexander wore masks beneath masks.

She wondered if she would ever see him again.  They had one another’s numbers, but that seemed a pitiful link.  Looking outside, she found that the horizon was too broad, and the sky too high, for her to gaze upon, without feeling sick in the pit of her stomach.  She turned away and put on her headphones.

*

“It’s Death of a Salesman this term,” said Julie.  “I thought you knew that?”

“Slipped my mind,” replied Sophia, sipping her tea.

The two of them had been reunited after the holidays half an hour earlier.  Twenty-nine minutes earlier, the kettle had been turned on.

“I thought I’d stay away from the leads,” said Julie, “Try and get one of the smaller parts instead, or maybe work crew.  What about you?”

“I thought I’d stay away altogether.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah.  I could do with the break.  Need to get on with work.”

“That’s not like you.”

Sophia glared at Julie.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” said Julie.  “Of course you work hard.  I meant missing the play.”

Sophia shrugged.  “Maybe.  I just feel strange about the whole thing.”

“You should give it a week, see how you feel.  Parts won’t get decided for a little while yet.  It’d be a shame to miss out.  Besides, you know you’ll enjoy it once you get going.”