Girl Unknown (25 page)

In the past couple of days I had made several efforts to contact Zoë, leaving messages on her phone, texting her, all to no avail. I had pointedly not been in touch with Chris. He had been at my mother’s funeral and, whatever the time or place, I found it hard to believe that no one had said anything to me about the two of them being an item. I felt the onus was on him to seek me out, and offer some kind of apology for his behaviour.

At the interval, when we streamed out and found our pre-ordered drinks waiting for us, I said to Caroline: ‘So when Chris finally does decide to make contact, what do you think he’ll say?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, with an air of mild resignation. ‘I expect he’ll say something to appease you.’ She sipped her gin and tonic.

‘What sort of explanation could he possibly give?’

We were leaning against a pillar. People were milling past. She shrugged.

‘However you look at it, he’s taking advantage of someone vulnerable.’

That caught her attention. ‘I’m not sure I’d describe Zoë as vulnerable.’

‘She’s a teenager. Her mother recently died.’

Caroline wasn’t buying it. ‘She’s nineteen and pretty savvy – and, whether you like it or not, she didn’t know Linda all that well.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Well, what is the point?’

‘Doesn’t it sicken you – the thought of them together?’

‘There was fifteen years between my parents.’

‘That’s not the same,’ I snapped. ‘When I think of them together, sleeping together … Chris, of all people! I had no idea he was capable of doing something like this. Doesn’t he realize he’s betraying me and our friendship?’

‘I doubt very much you’re on his mind when he’s in bed with her.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said.

‘You know, for a second there, you sounded a little jealous, David.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I took a large slug of my drink, felt the tonic creeping up the back of my nose.

‘Anyway, all of this has very little to do with the reason we’re here, which is Robbie. I hope he’s okay,’ she said. ‘He looked nervous.’

‘It sickens me,’ I continued. ‘Right to the pit of my stomach. If he tries to tell me he’s in love, I think I might punch him.’

She put her glass on the wooden ledge with a sudden angry clink. ‘Could you please stop?’ she said, in a loud whisper. ‘I know you’re upset about this, but it’s all you’ve talked about for the past two days and now I’m the one who’s sick of it!’

The force in her voice silenced me, and for the next few minutes, we stood glancing about at the other audience members, sipping our drinks. When the bell finally rang to signal the end of the interval, it was a huge relief. We could escape each other’s company and return to our seats.

The Arts building was quiet at that time of year, the swell of students on campus having fallen after lectures ended. The libraries were still busy, but a kind of hush had descended as exams began. I spent a good deal of time in my office, gathering together the papers I had published in the previous twelve months to read them before my interview, which had been scheduled for the following week. On that particular day, I was reading through the latest minutes of a student-staff consultative committee when the phone in my office rang. I picked it up and heard Chris at the other end of the line.

‘I’m not going to apologize.’ The first words out of his mouth, which might have been defensive and provocative, but he said them with a kind of casual serenity.

‘No one’s asked you to,’ I said evenly, putting aside my papers and swivelling my chair so that I faced the window.

‘I know you’re upset.’

‘You can’t know what I’m thinking or how I feel, so don’t pretend to, please.’

‘I know it’s not ideal.’

‘She’s my daughter, Chris.’

‘It’s not something I planned –’

‘I’m not even going to get into the age-difference thing,’ I said, ‘because I think you know already how wrong it is. I mean, she’s a teenager, for Christ’s sake –’

‘She’s a grown-up, David.’

‘Only barely!’

‘You don’t give her enough credit. She’s very mature and knows her own mind.’

‘It’s you I’m not giving credit to. What the hell are you thinking?’

‘That I’m in love with her.’

I leaned forward in my chair, as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Through the window, I could see a couple below in the courtyard. She was sitting on his knee playing with his hair. They were only kids. Love at that age – it retained a sort of innocence. But not this. Not what he was suggesting. ‘This isn’t love, Chris. It’s a midlife crisis.’

‘It’s love,’ he insisted.

‘Answer me this,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to hear it from Caroline that not only were you dating my daughter but that you two have moved in together? We’ve known each other for
twenty-six years
, Chris. I would have thought the least you owed me was the decency to tell me to my face.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, trying to sound reasonable and accommodating. ‘I should have told you sooner.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

A pause, as if he was trying to find the words. ‘This might sound crazy, but I was afraid that if I talked about it, the spell would be broken. The magic gone.’

I couldn’t believe it. The guy was talking like he was in a Disney movie.

‘From the start, I knew she was special. That first evening, the way we talked, the way we seemed to connect, not just on a sexual level but –’

‘No,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘I can’t go there, I just can’t.’

‘Okay, fine. I understand that. But the connection we have, the bond, it’s so much deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced before. Even with Susannah –’

‘Does she know about this?’ I cut in. ‘Susannah? Have you told her?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Have you thought about how hurt she’ll be?’

‘Susannah has it in for me,’ he said, sounding aggrieved.

‘She’s going to hit the roof when she finds out,’ I went on.

‘You know what, David?’ he snapped, his tone changing. ‘Since Susannah and I split up, I’ve hardly heard from you. Barely a phone call to see if I’m okay. I could have been at home busily killing myself or losing myself in a bottle, and you’d have had no idea.’

I shifted in my chair, the truth of what he was saying making me uncomfortable.

‘Zoë has been the one person to take an interest in my emotional wellbeing since this whole break-up happened. Not you, not Caroline. You ask me why I didn’t tell you earlier? Maybe if you’d been more interested in how I was, I might have confided in you.’

‘You’re right,’ I conceded. ‘I should have been there for you, and I’m sorry. But I still don’t think that’s a good enough reason to seduce my daughter.’

‘I wish she wasn’t your daughter, but the way we’ve connected, it feels real. It’s not some immature infatuation or midlife crisis. It feels like this is something …’ he struggled to find the right word ‘… inevitable.’

I hated him then. He seemed so sure of himself. Here he was, one of my oldest friends, trying to conduct a conversation with me in reasonable tones and all the while he’d been sharing his bed with my daughter. My daughter fuelling his blood with desire. My daughter satisfying his
flesh. It was too much. I told him I had a meeting, then hung up, dropping the receiver on to its cradle.

Too distracted to continue reading, I went instead to the common room for a mid-morning coffee. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see McCormack on the couch in the corner – I saw him almost every other day – but I was. He had on a formal suit, not the casual garb he wore for the day-to-day grind of university work. The pinstripes and tie made him look more like a banker than an academic. I noticed his hair had recently been cut and he was freshly shaved. Engrossed in reading from a thick folder, he did not see me approach.

‘McCormack,’ I said. ‘You’re a little overdressed for the kind of scrutiny you’re giving those documents.’

He smiled. ‘Dr Connolly,’ he said, examining his watch. ‘Aren’t you up before me?’

‘Up?’

‘Interview day. I’m just glancing over my presentation.’

Two things startled me: interview day, and presentation. Neither made sense to me, but already I was sweating with panic.

‘I’ve chosen not to do a PowerPoint,’ McCormack said, ‘I hate the damn things.’

‘What are you talking about? The interviews are next week.’

‘They changed the date, and added that we should present. It was all in the letter.’

‘I never had any letter.’

‘Are you sure? They sent one out about two weeks ago.’

How had this happened? Was it possible that I had received the letter and simply forgotten about it? Or had
Caroline picked it up and failed to pass it on? My heart-rate doubled, and my mind began to race.

‘I’ve already seen two of the other candidates,’ McCormack said. ‘Barnes from London, and Gillis from Edinburgh. You’re on at twelve. Are you sure you didn’t get a letter?’

I looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty. I excused myself and ran back to my office. I rang Alan, but the interviews had already started. I explained what had happened to his secretary, Mrs Boland, but she insisted the letters had gone out. ‘By registered post. They were all signed for.’

I explained that I had not signed for anything, then listened to her rustling among paperwork for a minute or two before she identified what she was searching for.

‘Here we are,’ she said, then read out: ‘Signed for by C. Connolly.’

Caroline.
A warm rush of anger went through me.

‘Shall I tell the panel to expect you?’ Mrs Boland asked.

I had little choice but to go ahead. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right there.’

It was too late to dash home for a change of clothes. I was wearing an old shirt, a worn pair of corduroys and a jacket that had seen better days. So much for first impressions. I combed my hair, took up my papers, and wondered what on earth I would make a presentation on. My mind went blank. I had to run up the two floors to get to the dean’s office, and when I walked into the room, out of breath, four serious individuals sat at the large oval table before me. Alan was the only one smiling. Acting as
chair, he welcomed me and asked me to take a seat. I sat down and poured myself a glass of water. I drank it straight away, parched.

I made an attempt to explain the lost letter, how I had only just found out that the interview was to take place that day. Alan was sympathetic while the others looked askance, their eyes on my attire. Either way, I’d opened the interview on the back foot with apologies and excuses. It was not the start I had hoped for.

They asked about my publications, which conferences I had attended recently, if I would consider creating a symposium at UCD for combatants and veterans. Alan smiled his encouragement, but the others were tougher. The external examiner asked about enrolment, post-application conversions for our graduate programmes, possible interdisciplinary degrees that could be developed, and PhD completions.

I offered some platitudes about a personal-development programme for doctoral students and a mentoring scheme I hoped to initiate. It was bread and butter to me – until the extern asked his next question. ‘That’s all very good,’ he said. ‘But what about the actual retention of your students?’

All I could think of then was Niki. How she had walked out on me. My star student. He must have found out. Alan would have had to divulge the unfortunate fact of her departure and with it the reasons.

When it was time for my presentation, I rehashed the last paper I had written on the relationship between Roger Casement’s humanitarian work for the British Crown and his role as an Irish nationalist. Suffice it to say,
I did justice neither to the research nor to the subject matter. The questions were routine, until Professor Mary Sinnott took up the reins. She asked about my doctoral work, and brought me back to Belfast. I talked about the Irish Battalion in the First World War, the so-called South Irish Horse, how I had developed my dissertation into my first book.

‘And your media profile, Dr Connolly, how does it impact on your contribution to university life?’ she asked.

I faltered. This is so unfair, I thought. I should have had time to prepare, just like everyone else. The radio interview came back to me, with a flush of shame and irritation. The letter of reprimand was no doubt still being drafted. I waffled, and stuttered, but ultimately re-focused my efforts. I wanted that professorship, after all. I talked about the media’s relationship with history through the years – the chasm between ethical reporting and sensational press. A vagrant image of Chris and Zoë entered my mind. My own daughter, living with him.
Sleeping
with him.

‘The position of professor is not just another rung on the ladder,’ the dean said. ‘It is a position of leadership. We’re looking for someone with the necessary charisma and sang-froid not to be rattled in situations of intense or unpredictable pressure.’

He could not have disguised his disapproval more thinly. I told him I had learned a great deal about pressure in the previous academic year, and how, all things considered, I was learning to use it to my advantage. But that was not true. Look at me now, I thought, struggling to answer these questions, my life falling apart around me. Zoë – taken from me by my best friend.

I thought of Linda, her last lecture, her Angel of History: ‘From Paradise a storm is brewing, and this storm has so much violence that it catches in the angel’s wings and the angel cannot close those wings. The storm grows in intensity, picks up and propels this celestial being into the future.’

Alan ended the interview by asking me what history meant to me – what was history?

A line from Ambrose Bierce came to me: ‘History is an account, mostly false, of events, mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools.’

I said something else.

At home, I asked Caroline about the letter. She was adamant she had not received it.

‘You might not have noticed actually signing for it,’ I suggested. ‘You could have been distracted by something else.’