I'm Normally Perfect (re-upload)

Chapter Three

I closed the door quietly behind me, hesitant to breathe—I don't know why, it wasn't like she had Mission Impossible motion detectors in there. I stood absolutely still, trying to get a feel for her, as though her presence was infused in the room. The part of the room that I could not see from my table had an overstuffed sofa and three mismatched chairs situated around a low table, several dark wood bookcases (the room was pretty much floor-to-ceiling bookshelves), a marble chess set ready for play and a small potted tree in the corner. I sank down into one of the chairs and observed the perspective her students would have, imagining her sitting across from me, asking how my studies were going. 'Oh they're going just fine, thank you, Professor Brookmyre. Probably because you're such a brilliant teacher.'

'You do flatter me, but a teacher is only as good as her students.'

I glanced over her bookshelves, she seemed to have them arranged in a hectic sort of order: On the wall at the back of her office she had Old English together then the Middle English Period, but did not separate the Anglo-Norman, Age of Chaucer or the Revival of Learning within that period. Next were the Elizabethan authors with some Jacobeans thrown in, as I expected. Then the Puritan Age, incorporating the Caroline Age and Commonwealth Period in no particular order. Then the most disorganised thus far: The Neoclassical Period, ironic that that was the most dishevelled, as it was the Age of Reason, the Restorationists were mingling with Classicism which was unabashedly associating with the Age of Johnson. The Romantics were all together, thank goodness, but then the Victorian period began and chaos once again ensued. For a person as in love with order as myself, seeing Tennyson and the Brontës commingling with Wilde was nearly enough to warrant smelling salts. The twentieth century began and progressed more or less uninterrupted through the Edwardian, Georgian and Modern periods, with very few books represented in the Post-modern Period. Within each period or age there was no discernible order. Neither by title nor author. I had a sudden urge to re-organise everything, but managed to restrain myself. I could do that in my journal when I got back to my rooms.

Along the wall the door was on she had myriad reference books, on quotes, anecdotes, writers, trivia, and a complete Oxford English Dictionary, all twenty volumes. In fact, she seemed to have every reference book published by the University press. One in particular, The Oxford Guide to British Women Writers caught my eye and I vowed to search one out for myself when I left. In the bookshelves behind her desk must have been her personal collection, as the subject matter was more varied and less concerned with English literature, though she did have a few shelves of romantic poets and belles-lettres. She had several philosophy and history books, a large collection of Irish literature and Russian literature, some with Cyrillic lettering on the spine, picture books for far-flung destinations and many over-sized art books. A book of Pre-Raphaelite prints was open on a bookstand and after taking note of the page it was opened to, which was Millais' Ophelia, I flipped through it. She apparently had an affinity for Rumi, as there were several collections of his work alongside Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. Seeing that we had some of the same books made me practically dance with glee. If she'd had books on nuclear fission or calculus I probably would have done myself in from despair.

Once I'd perused the library in her office, I began inspecting the parts of the room I was familiar with. Usually I find people who handle everything they see uncivilized and lacking in self-control, but this was an exception. After all, outside of my mind, when was I ever again going to be in her office? I gave myself permission to touch the bookcases, books, sofa and chairs, the intricate pieces of the chess set. I replaced everything as I found it, but there was so much to look at—she had all sorts of things on the bookshelves besides the obvious—including a beautiful plaster sculpture of a nude woman stretching up on her tiptoes, arms behind her head, face turned up as though worshipping the sun. It was about a foot tall, flawlessly white and silky to the touch. I ran one fingertip along her smooth thigh and stomach, avoiding her tiny breasts. I gave the floor globe a spin, then realised with a jolt of panic that I didn't know which country had been visible and hoped she didn't keep track of that, but turned it so Great Britain was on top, that seemed safe.

In the part of the room that was visible from the library, there were several diplomas framed on the wall, including one from Moscow State University, according to which her first name was Alexandra (of course!), her middle name was Alyana. On the wall directly behind her desk there was painting of marshland under a full moon. I didn't have the luxury of studying it up close because to do so would require standing directly in the window, which I tried to avoid—with my luck someone who knew her would walk by and notify security.

However, I couldn't resist sitting in her chair. I sat down gingerly and leant back then turned and smelled the place where her head would rest. Jasmine. I took out my handkerchief and compared the scents to see how closely they matched. Bang on. I felt a surge of pride at having chosen correctly. I pulled open the drawer she kept her tea things in. The cup and saucer were bone china and quite delicate.

I opened the other drawers; each one was impeccably organised. One had hanging folders in it, Masters' papers. I removed one to see her notes. Her script was elegant; sloping and curving like ballet positions, perfectly spaced. I ran a fingertip over one of her marginalia and replaced the sheaf and stood, pushing the chair back into place. I smelled the flowers on her desk (white roses) and plucked a firm, velvety petal from one and placed it in my pocket with the handkerchief. I had one last look around before taking my leave. I strolled out of the room as if I had every right in the world to be there and thanked Professor Brookmyre aloud. I didn't meet anyone until I was back in the entrance hall—feeling utterly comfortable with the building—and fairly skipping to my rooms to commit the entire episode to my journal.

But not before dashing over to Blackwell's for a copy of the Oxford Press book about British women writers. After I made my purchase I wandered about the shop for a while, lingering over the art books, searching out the ones the professor'd had near her desk and perusing them, undisturbed by the staff. I came upon the book of Pre-Raphaelite paintings that she had, and examined the Ophelia again, but as it was out of my price range (perhaps Noni would give me the money for it at Christmas) I contented myself with studying it for some time. All the while, in my mind, Lavinia sat beside me and looked over my shoulder at the prints, occasionally resting her chin on my shoulder. I caught a hint of jasmine in the air and, almost laughing at the strength of my imagination, checked to be sure my handkerchief was still in my pocket without taking my eyes from the book. When I finally took note of the time it was getting on in the evening and I meandered back to my hall; once again energised by the mere proximity of the professor. She was so real to me that if I concentrated, I swore I could feel her presence.