17

At ten o’clock the next morning, Mariana went to meet Professor Fosca.

She arrived at the Fellows’ Garden as the chapel clock struck ten. The professor was already there. He was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a dark-grey corduroy jacket. His hair was down, falling around his shoulders.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘I’m here.’

‘And so punctual. What does that say about you, Mariana, I wonder?’

He smiled. Mariana didn’t smile back. She was determined to give away as little as possible.

Fosca opened the wooden gate and gestured into the garden. ‘Shall we?’

She followed him inside. The Fellows’ Garden was only for use by the fellows and their guests – it wasn’t permitted for undergraduates to enter. Mariana couldn’t recall having been inside before.

She was immediately struck by how peaceful it was, how beautiful. It was a low Tudor sunken garden – surrounded by an old, uneven brick wall. Blood-red valerian flowers were growing in between the bricks, in the cracks, very slowly ripping the wall apart. And colourful plants grew all the way around the perimeter, in pinks and blues and fiery reds.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

Fosca nodded. ‘Oh, yes, indeed. I often come here.’

They began walking along the path as Fosca mused on the beauty of the garden and Cambridge in general. ‘There’s a kind of magic here. You feel it too, don’t you?’ He glanced at her. ‘I’m sure you felt it from the start – as I did. I can picture you – an undergraduate, fresh off the boat, new to this country – as I was – new to this life. Unsophisticated – lonely … Am I right?’

‘Are you talking about me or you?’

Fosca smiled. ‘I suspect we both had very similar experiences.’

‘I doubt it.’

Fosca glanced at her. He studied her for a second, as if he were going to say something – but decided against it. They walked in silence.

Eventually, he said, ‘You’re very quiet. Not at all what I was expecting.’

‘What were you expecting?’

Fosca shrugged. ‘I don’t know. An inquisition.’

‘Inquisition?’

‘Interrogation, then.’ He offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘No one does any more – except me. I’ve tried and failed to quit. No impulse control.’

He put a cigarette in his mouth. It was an American brand, with a white filter on the end. He struck a match, lit it – and blew out a long line of smoke. Mariana watched the smoke dance in the air and disappear.

‘I asked you here to meet me,’ he said, ‘because I felt we should talk. I hear you’ve been taking an interest in me. Asking my students all kinds of questions … By the way,’ he added, ‘I checked with the dean. As far as he is aware, he never requested you talk to any students, informally or otherwise. So the question is, Mariana, what the hell are you up to?’

Mariana glanced at him and saw Fosca staring at her, trying to read her mind with his piercing eyes. She evaded his gaze and shrugged. ‘I’m intrigued, that’s all …’

‘About me in particular?’

‘About the Maidens.’

‘The Maidens?’ Fosca looked surprised. ‘Why is that?’

‘It seems odd, having a special set of students. Surely it only fosters rivalries and resentments among the others?’

Fosca smiled and took a drag on his cigarette. ‘You’re a group therapist, aren’t you? So, of all people, you should know small groups provide a perfect environment for exceptional minds to flourish … That’s all I’m doing – creating that space.’

‘A cocoon – for exceptional minds?’

‘Well put.’

‘Female minds.’

Fosca blinked and gave her a cool look. ‘The most intelligent minds are often female … Is that so hard to accept? There’s nothing sinister going on. I’m a tame fellow with a generous alcohol allowance, that’s all – if anyone is being abused here, it’s me.’

‘Who said anything about abuse?’

‘Don’t be coy, Mariana. I can see you have cast me as the villain – a predator preying on my vulnerable students. Except now you’ve met these young ladies, you can see there’s nothing vulnerable about them. Nothing untoward happens at these meetings – it’s just a small study group, discussing poetry, enjoying wine and intellectual debate.’

‘Except now one of those girls is dead.’

Professor Fosca frowned. There was an unmistakable flash of anger in his eyes. He stared at her. ‘Do you think you can see inside my soul?’

Mariana looked away, embarrassed by the question. ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean—’

‘Forget it.’ He took another drag of his cigarette, all anger apparently gone. ‘The word “psychotherapist”, as you know, comes from the Greek psyche, meaning “soul,” and therapeia, meaning “healing”. Are you a healer of souls? Will you heal mine?’

‘No. Only you can do that.’

Fosca dropped his cigarette onto the path. He ground it into the earth with his foot. ‘You’re determined to dislike me. I don’t know why.’

To Mariana’s annoyance, she realised she didn’t know why either. ‘Shall we go back?’

They started walking back to the gate. He kept glancing at Mariana. ‘I’m intrigued by you,’ he said. ‘I find myself wondering what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m not thinking. I’m – listening.’

And she was. Mariana might not be a detective, but she was a therapist, and she knew how to listen. To listen not only to what was being said, but also to everything unsaid, all the words unspoken – the lies, evasions, projections, transferences, and other psychological phenomena that occurred between two people, and that required a special kind of listening. Mariana had to listen to all the feelings Fosca was unconsciously communicating to her. In a therapeutic context, those feelings were called the transference, and would tell her everything she needed to know about this man, who he was – and what he was hiding. As long as she could keep her own emotions out of it, of course – which wasn’t easy. She tried to listen to her body as they walked, and could feel a rising tension: a tight jaw, teeth clenched into a bite. She felt a burning sensation in her stomach, a prickling in her skin – which she associated with anger.

But whose anger? Hers?

No – it was his.

His anger. Yes, she could feel it. He was silent now as they walked – but underneath the silence, there was fury. He was disowning it, of course, but it was there, bubbling beneath the surface: somehow, Mariana had angered him during this meeting; she had been unpredictable, hard to read, difficult – and had triggered his rage. She suddenly thought, If he can get this mad, this fast – what happens if I really provoke him?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

Then, as they reached the gate, Fosca stopped. He glanced at her, weighing something up. He made a decision. ‘I’m wondering,’ he said, ‘if you’d care to continue this conversation … over dinner? How about tomorrow night?’

He gazed at her, waiting for her response. Mariana met his gaze without blinking.

‘Okay,’ she said.

Fosca smiled. ‘Good … My rooms, at eight? And one more thing—’

Before she could stop him, he leaned forward— And he kissed her on the lips.

It only lasted a second. By the time Mariana could react, he had already pulled back.

Fosca turned and went through the open gate. Mariana heard him whistling as he walked away.

She brushed away the kiss with her fist.

How dare he?

She felt as if she had been assaulted – attacked; and that he had won somehow, succeeded in wrong-footing, intimidating her.

As she stood there, feeling hot and cold in the morning sun, burning with anger, she knew one thing for certain.

This time, the rage she was feeling wasn’t his.

It was hers.

All hers.

18

After leaving Fosca, Mariana took out the beer mat Fred had given her. She rang his number, and asked if he was free to meet.

Twenty minutes later, she met Fred by St Christopher’s main gate. She watched him chain his bike to the railings. He reached into his bag and pulled out a couple of red apples.

‘I’m calling this breakfast. Want one?’

He offered her an apple. She was automatically about to refuse when she realised she was hungry. She nodded.

Fred looked pleased. He selected the better of the two apples, polished it on his sleeve, and handed it to her.

‘Thanks.’ Mariana took it and bit into the apple. It was crisp and sweet.

Fred smiled at her, speaking between mouthfuls. ‘I was happy you called. Last night … you left a bit suddenly – I thought I upset you or something.’

Mariana shrugged. ‘It wasn’t you – it was … Naxos.’

‘Naxos?’ Fred peered at her, confused.

‘It’s – where my husband died. He … drowned there.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ Fred’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry—’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘How could I know? Of course not.’

‘So it’s just a coincidence?’ She watched him carefully.