Chapter 2: Emily’s side of the story

A Faithful Friend

The VP (Research) breezed into the meeting Bill had called with a beaming smile on his normally sour face. “Relax chaps – and chapess – crisis averted. Stuart has resigned with immediate effect. In fact, I’m told he’s at reception now handing in his keys.”

I’m not sure exactly how I got there, but I found myself in the lift on my way to the ground floor. I reminded myself to remain cool and in control, but I could do nothing to stop the rage that engulfed me when I saw Alan standing there clutching a domestic appliance to his chest. After all I had done for him, he was deserting me and I felt I would never be able to forgive him.

He looked so woebegone that my instinct was to clasp him in a warm hug; instead, I searched the depths of my vocabulary to find the cruellest things to throw at him. It was some time before I took notice of my surroundings. Alice was standing staring at me, her mouth hanging open in shock, while Alan just stood there looking sheepish.

The tableau shattered when he turned on his heel and made for the door; Alice dashed forward to hold it open since he had both arms full. As the door closed behind him, my rage dissolved into despair: my future had just walked away from me without uttering a word.

When Alice returned, I stumbled into her arms, where she held me tight while I cried my heart out. I was surprised to find that she was also weeping. “I fancied him too, although not nearly as much as you do,” she sobbed. Then she gave a damp chuckle: “That bitch Cheryl is going to be furious that he took the coffee machine.”

For some reason, that caught my attention. Cheryl is the PA Alan couldn’t get along with, but what she had to be furious about, I had no idea. Alice explained that the coffee machine was confiscated when Alan brought it in. According to rumours, Cheryl wanted it for herself and was hoping that he would forget about it. That cheered me up.

Alice and I had hardly exchanged a word before today but as we were settling to a friendly chat, her telephone shrilled so she had to leave me to have a ponder. I was still standing there like a knotless thread, as my granny used to say, when Mrs. Paterson emerged from the elevator and walked over to enfold me in her arms. “I suspected something, Emily, but I had no idea you had got it so bad. I want you to take the rest of the day off and we’ll have a nice long chat tomorrow.” Next instant, I was out in the street.

My warm winter coat was still on its hanger in my office, so I set off briskly to my room. I had gone about halfway when I realised that going home meant the chance that I would meet Demi. In the mood I was in, such a meeting could end in death or serious injury. I scuttled into a café where I ordered the largest mug of coffee they served.

As I sat there sipping at the reviving drink and letting the warm surroundings ease my tension, I was able to admit that everything was my fault. I had set Alan up with Demi, knowing she was totally wrong for him. I was hoping he would see how much better I would be for him than she ever could be. I cursed myself for not anticipating the consequences of the inevitable break down. Nor was it the first time I had misread the situation.

The problem began with my hormones. In Year 6 I began to get boobs, so I started secondary school with larger hooters than the other girls in my class. The combination of male lust and female envy drove me to disguise my bounty under shapeless clothes several sizes too large. By the end of Year 7, my hormones switched off and my precocious development was later exceeded by most of the other girls.

Meanwhile, I discovered that my disguise benefitted me with the teaching staff. I was recognised as an intellectual, a blue stocking, whatever that was. I was everyone’s favourite pupil, respected by the boys and liked by the girls because I did not challenge their sexual attraction. By the time I left school, I was thoroughly sick of myself.

When I went up to university, I had a new, sexier image. On the first day of Freshers’ Week, I spotted the man of my dreams. He was a senior student drafted in to help the newbies to settle. Three of these newbies, in outfits barely concealing their assets, were in close attendance; my new persona fell a long way short.

Rather than blunder in, I studied the opposition. Blatant sexual display was the norm, and I simply didn’t have the equipment to beat them. I consoled myself that they would get fat and their boobs would droop to cover their navels, but I didn’t have years to wait. I also observed that Alan Stuart (I had made sure to learn his name) seemed to be impervious. I decided to readopt the strategy that had worked so well in school.

I went back to my student flat and got out my unflattering clothes designed to conceal everything but my face and hands. Returning to the fray, I had immediate success. Alan not only talked to me, he expressed his preference for my company. “It is such a pleasure to talk to someone who dazzles me with her conversation rather than try to poke my eyes out by thrusting her nipples in my face.”

If that was a bit less than I hoped for, I accepted the opening. It helped that we were both physicists. He helped me to settle to my studies and we became friends. Well, Alan became a friend always ready with a helping hand, which he never laid on me; I was madly in love and wanted his hands on my erogenous zones. While he was calmly explaining how gyroscopes work, I was wondering how he would react if I whipped off my damp knickers and pushed them into his mouth.

His help over the next few years helped me to gain a better degree than I probably deserved. It was certainly good enough to win me the offer of a doctoral place. Alan and I spent hours finding a research topic for me. There was money available in my education fund to cover the shortfall in grants.

Into each life some rain must fall, as people say.

In my case it was a flood of biblical proportions. My parents congratulated me when I dashed home with news of my First-Class Honours but there was no hiding their sombre mood. While I was studying, they had kept from me the news that dad had cancer now advanced to the point where the National Health Service could do no more. The last remaining hope was an experimental treatment in the United States. My education fund which was to pay for my research degree could give dad the chance for life.

I agreed at once and it was only to Alan that I expressed my selfish feelings at having to abandon my planned studies. For the first time ever, he took me in his arms and held me until I stopped sobbing. “If I had the money, I would give it to you,” he whispered. I think that was when my love became adoration. The worst aspect was that he would continue at university as a junior lecturer while I would have to seek paid employment elsewhere.