She found herself walking towards Zoe’s room, to find Zoe and confront her. But the moment she reached the archway leading to Eros Court, Mariana paused.

She had to handle this carefully. Not only was Zoe fragile and vulnerable, but also, for whatever reason – and Mariana couldn’t help thinking it had to do with Edward Fosca himself – she felt unable to confide the truth to Mariana.

And Fosca had just deliberately betrayed Zoe’s confidence – in an attempt to provoke Mariana. So it was imperative Mariana did not rise to the bait. She mustn’t barge into Zoe’s room, and accuse her of lying.

She needed to support Zoe, and think hard about how to proceed.

She decided to sleep on it – and talk to Zoe in the morning after she had calmed down a bit. Mariana turned around; and, lost in thought, she didn’t notice Fred until he stepped out of the shadows.

He stood on the path in front of her.

‘Hello, Mariana.’

She caught her breath. ‘Fred. What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you. I wanted to check you’re okay.’

‘Yes, I am, just about.’

‘You know, you said you’d get in touch when you got back from London.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. I – I’ve been busy.’

‘You sure you’re alright? You look – like you could use a drink.’

Mariana smiled. ‘I could, actually.’

Fred smiled back. ‘Well, in that case – how about it?’

Mariana hesitated, unsure. ‘Oh, well, I—’

Fred went on quickly. ‘I happen to have a very impressive Burgundy, stolen from formal hall. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion … What do you say? It’s in my room.’

What the hell, Mariana thought. She nodded. ‘Okay. Why not?’

‘Really?’ Fred’s face lit up. ‘Okay, great. Come on—’

He held out his arm, but Mariana didn’t take it. She started walking – and Fred hurried to catch up with her.

16

Fred’s room in Trinity was larger than Zoe’s, although its furnishings were slightly more threadbare. The first thing Mariana noticed was how tidy it was: no clutter, no mess, apart from paper everywhere – pages and pages of scribbled writing and mathematical formulae. It rather looked like the work of a madman – or a genius – connected by arrows and illegible notes going up and down the sides of the pages.

The only personal items Mariana could see were a couple of framed photographs on the shelf. One of the photos had a slightly faded look, as if it had been taken in the eighties: an attractive young man and woman, presumably Fred’s parents, standing in front of a picket fence and a meadow. The other photo was of a small boy with a dog; a little boy with a pudding-bowl haircut, and a serious look on his face.

Mariana glanced at Fred. He still had the same expression now as he concentrated on lighting some candles. He then put on some music – a recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He gathered up all the papers from the sofa, stacking them in an unsteady pile on his desk. ‘Sorry it’s such a mess.’

‘Is that your thesis?’ she said, nodding at the piles of paper.

‘No.’ Fred shook his head. ‘It’s – just something I’m writing. A kind of … book, I suppose.’ He seemed at a loss as to how to describe it. ‘Won’t you sit?’

He gestured at the sofa. Mariana sat down. She felt a broken spring underneath her, and shifted slightly.

Fred pulled out the bottle of vintage Burgundy. He displayed it proudly. ‘Not bad, eh? They’d have killed me if they caught me nicking it.’

He reached for a corkscrew, and wrestled with opening it. For a second, Mariana thought he’d drop the bottle. But he successfully uncorked it with a loud pop – and poured the dark red wine into two chipped, mismatched wineglasses. He gave Mariana the less damaged of the two.

‘Thank you.’

He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Mariana sipped some wine – it was excellent, of course. Fred evidently thought so. He sighed happily, a tinge of red wine around his lips.

‘Lovely,’ he said.

They fell into silence for a moment. Mariana listened to the music, losing herself in Bach’s rising and falling scales, so elegant, so mathematical in construction; presumably why they appealed to Fred’s mathematical brain.

She glanced at the stack of pages on the desk. ‘This book you’re writing … What’s it about?’

‘Honestly?’ Fred shrugged. ‘No idea.’

Mariana laughed. ‘You must have some idea.’

‘Well …’ Fred averted his eyes. ‘In a way, I suppose … it’s about my mother.’

He glanced at her shyly, as if afraid she might laugh.

But Mariana didn’t find it funny. She gave him a curious look. ‘Your mother?’

Fred nodded. ‘Yeah. She left me … when I was a boy … She – died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mariana said. ‘My mother died too.’

‘Did she?’ Fred’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know that. Then we’re both orphans.’

‘I wasn’t an orphan. I had my father.’

‘Yeah.’ Fred nodded and spoke in a low voice. ‘I did too.’

He reached out for the bottle and started refilling Mariana’s glass. ‘That’s enough,’ she said. But he ignored her and filled it to the brim. She didn’t mind, really – she was relaxing for the first time in days, and felt grateful to him.

‘You see,’ Fred said, pouring himself more wine, ‘my mother’s death is what drew me to theoretical mathematics – and to parallel universes. That’s what my thesis is about.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Not sure I do either, really. But if there are other universes, identical to ours, it means that somewhere, another universe exists – where my mother didn’t die.’ He shrugged. ‘So … I went looking for her.’

He had a sad, faraway expression in his eyes, like a lost little boy. Mariana felt sorry for him.

‘Did you find her?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘In a way … I discovered that time doesn’t exist – not really – so she hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s right here.’

As Mariana wrestled with this, Fred put down his wineglass, took off his glasses, and faced her.

‘Mariana, listen—’

‘Please, don’t.’

‘What? You don’t know what I’m going to say.’

‘You’re going to make some kind of romantic declaration – and I don’t want to hear it.’

‘A declaration? No. Just a question. Am I allowed a question?’

‘It depends.’

‘I love you.’

Mariana frowned. ‘That’s not a question.’

‘Will you marry me? That’s the question.’

‘Fred, please shut up—’

‘I love you, Mariana – I fell in love with you the first second I saw you, sitting on the train. I want to be with you. I want to take care of you. I want to look after you—’

That was the wrong thing to say. Mariana felt her temperature rise; her cheeks burned with irritation. ‘Well, I don’t want to be looked after! I can’t think of anything worse. I’m not a damsel in distress, a … maiden waiting to be rescued. I don’t need a knight in shining armour – I want – I want—’

‘What? What do you want?’

‘I want to be left alone.’

‘No.’ Fred shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that.’ And then, quickly, he said, ‘Remember my premonition: one day, I’ll ask you to marry me – and you’ll say yes.’

Mariana couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Sorry, Fred. Not in this universe.’

‘Well, you know, in some other universe, we’re married already.’

Before she could protest, Fred leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against hers; she felt the softness of his kiss, its warmth and tenderness. She felt both alarmed and disarmed by it.

It was over as quickly as it began. He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. ‘I’m sorry. I – I couldn’t help it.’

Mariana shook her head; she didn’t speak. She felt affected in some way she couldn’t quite explain.

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Fred.’

‘I don’t mind. It’s okay if you hurt me, you know. After all – “’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”’

Fred laughed. Then he saw Mariana’s face fall, and looked worried. ‘What? What did I say?’

‘It’s nothing.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s late, I should go.’

Fred looked pained. ‘Already? Fine. I’ll walk you downstairs.’

‘You don’t need to—’

‘I want to.’

Fred’s manner seemed to have changed slightly; he seemed sharper. Some of his warmth had evaporated. He stood up, not looking at her.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

17

Fred and Mariana walked down the steps in silence. They didn’t speak again until they were on the street. Mariana glanced at him. ‘Good night then.’

Fred didn’t move. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

‘Now?’

‘I often walk at night. Is that a problem?’

There was a prickliness, a hostility to his tone. He felt rejected – she could tell. Perhaps unfairly, she felt annoyed with him. But his hurt feelings were not her concern. She had more important things to worry about.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Goodbye.’

Fred didn’t move. He kept looking at her. And then, suddenly, he said, ‘Wait.’ He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a few pages of folded paper. ‘I was going to give you this later, but – take it now.’

He held it out to her. She didn’t take it.