body weight had to be made up of hair, that trademark wild explosion of titian curls that today she wore piled up on top of her head in a messy bun.
‘Here you go.’ She pressed a packet of frozen peas onto his hand. It was an entirely maternal gesture, but Horatio seized the moment, and the physical contact, and clasped her hand in his.
‘Have dinner with me,’ he mumbled.
Theresa looked up at him, surprised, but said nothing. The tap was still running. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him?
‘I love you,’ he said, more loudly, just as Theresa turned off the tap. The words boomed around the small room like a public announcement in a railway station waiting room. Blushing, Horatio continued. ‘I’m in love with you, Profe … Theresa. I adore you. Have dinner with me.’
Now it was Theresa’s turn to blush. It had not escaped her notice that Horatio Hollander was one of the more attractive of her students. Not handsome in any classical sense, but tall and kind and intelligent, the sort of man she might have gone for had he been twenty years older, and had she been in the market for a man, which, quite plainly, she wasn’t.
‘May I have my hand back, Horatio?’ she said kindly.
Horatio thought about saying, ‘Not till you give me an answer!’ the way all the dominant, manly heroes did in romantic fiction novels. Mentally, he tried the words on for size, but from him they simply sounded ridiculous.
‘Of course.’ He released her hand. ‘I meant what I said, though.’
‘I can see that.’ He looked so earnest, Theresa couldn’t bear it. Part of her felt like kissing him right then and there, but it was a small part and she squashed it. ‘You do realize how old I am?’
‘I’ve no idea how old you are,’ he lied. ‘All I know is how beautiful you are.’
‘I’m forty-three,’ said Theresa. ‘How old is your mother?’
Horatio hesitated. ‘Older.’
‘How much older?’
‘Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you.’ He smiled, Theresa laughed, and mercifully the tension was broken. ‘How can I persuade you? There must be something I can do.’
‘There isn’t,’ she said, passing him back the peas and walking back to the sofa where she taught her supervisions. ‘I’m your supervisor. I like you very much, Horatio. I mean that sincerely.’ His face lit up. ‘But you have to forget about this, or I won’t be able to teach you any more.’
Morosely, he followed her into the sitting room and sank into his usual armchair. ‘You think I’m an idiot for asking you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Theresa. ‘I’m flattered. But you don’t need an old woman like me, for heaven’s sake. I’m sure you have a queue of drop-dead-gorgeous twenty-year-olds lined up outside your rooms as we speak.’
I wouldn’t bet on it, thought Horatio.
‘Now come on. Macbeth. Impress me!’
He watched her eyes light up, the way they always did when she spoke about Shakespeare, and felt himself fall a few feet deeper into the bottomless pit of unrequited love. One day, he vowed, she’ll look that way for me.
There was a key to Theresa O’Connor’s heart. There had to be.
All he had to do was find it.
At dinner that night with Jenny and JP, Theresa told them the whole story.
‘I think it’s adorable,’ said Jenny, knocking back a second glass of Bordeaux. They were at Henri’s, a new French bistro on Jesus Lane that JP had pronounced ‘acceptable’, his equivalent of at least two Michelin stars. ‘ “ From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, A pair of star-cross’d lovers! ” ’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Theresa. ‘Horatio Hollander and I are nothing like Romeo and Juliet. And please don’t use the word “ loins ” when we’re talking about my students. It’s enough to put me off my foie gras.’
‘Methinks thou art protesting too much,’ teased Jenny. ‘I’m sure you’ve mentioned this kid to me before. Admit it, you think he’s cute.’
‘He is cute. For a kid,’ said Theresa. ‘You aren’t seriously suggesting I accept a dinner invitation from one of my students? My top student, as it happens.’
‘But not your “ on-top ” student. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Jenny!’
‘Theresa’s right,’ said JP, scraping the last scraps of perfectly cooked entrecote onto his fork. ‘This is a line it is best nevair to cross. Especially when one ‘as ambitions.’ He raised an eyebrow cryptically.
‘Eh?’ said Jenny
‘What ambitions?’ said Theresa. ‘You make it sound like I’m running for office.’
Jean Paul reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping from the latest Varsity. ‘Per’aps you should be. Take a look at this.’
Theresa read the clipping. ‘It’s about St Michael’s. Anthony Greville’s finally stepping down as Master next year. I can’t believe that old goat’s still going. He was about a hundred years old back in Theo’s day.’
‘The college is inviting applications for the Mastership.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You should apply.’
Theresa laughed so hard she almost choked on her foie gras toast. ‘Me?’
‘Why not you?’ asked Jenny.
‘Why not me? Why not the dustman? Why not my mother? Why not Lysander, for God’s sake! I’m far too junior. I don’t have nearly enough experience.’
‘Sure you do,’ said JP. ‘Graham North’s put himself forward. He’s in my department, engineering. I wouldn’t hire Graham to unblock a drain, never mind run a college. The rest of the list are older but distinctly uninspiring: Andrew Gray. He’s been at St Michael’s so long they’re about to name a library after him. Hugh Mullaney-Stoop from Robinson, which isn’t even a real college.’
‘Old Mulligatawny Soup’s put his name in the hat, has he?’ laughed Jenny. ‘He’s the dullest man in Cambridge. You’d be miles better than him, Theresa.’
Theresa laughed too. Some PA to the gods had obviously sent a celestial memo round that today was her day to be flattered. ‘Thanks, guys. I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I am much too young, much too insignificant and, last but not least, much too female to stand a snowball’s chance in hell of becoming Master of St Mike’s. Now, who’s for pudding? The hazelnut soufflé’s supposed to be out of this world.’
* * *
Later that night, in bed in Willow Tree Cottage with the wind rattling the ancient leaded windows, Theresa lay under a mountain of blankets, thinking about the day. She’d managed to get through the rest of the supervision with Horatio Hollander, largely by avoiding eye contact as much as possible, but the poor boy’s embarrassment was contagious. Afterwards she’d wondered guiltily if perhaps she’d somehow given him any encouragement – unconsciously, of course. The truth was she did enjoy his company. Theresa had come to look on her supervisions with Horatio as one of the highlights of her week, though in the past she’d always put that down to the thrill of working with an undergraduate capable of challenging her intellectually, of pushing the boundaries. Well, now the boundaries had been well and truly pushed. It was her job, her responsibility, to push them back. Even so, she couldn’t help but take a tiny sliver of pleasure from the fact that this kind, brilliant, golden boy had fallen for her of all people. At her age, it was quite a compliment.
Then