‘...our programme enables the student to have more freedom with their writing, experiment with form and genre so that they can come to their own critical conclusions. It sets you up to be able to do almost anything…’
Milly scoffs under her breath. The lecturer looks directly at her. Her cheeks flush and she tries to turn it into a cough.
‘...I mean, you could go into teaching and become one of us…’
‘Total fucking pyramid scheme, huh,’ a woman to her left whispers. They share a glance and Milly suppresses a laugh.
‘...advertising and marketing, editing - this opens up doors, particularly with our connections in local & global markets.’
*
His hand comes to rest on her thigh. Milly looks at him through her eyelashes. Even though she orchestrated this moment - she’d spent nearly two hours trying on clothes that allowed enough skin to be tempting but didn’t make her feel uncomfortable sitting down. Laura was sitting on her bed, watching videos on her phone, looking up to give her a thumbs up or thumbs down to each outfit - her heart thuds in her ears.
‘Is this okay?’
She nods. Her breathing hitches up to almost hyperventilating as he moves his hand further up her leg.
‘And this?’
A shiver of anticipation.
*
‘As the co-pilot, you get to choose the music,’ Ceri hands her phone to Milly, stuck in her memory.
‘Oh…you might not be into the same stuff, I’m going through a bit of a 90s/00s revival.’
Ceri laughs and pulls down her sunglasses, her pale eyes wink at Milly playfully.
‘I look deceptively younger than I am,’ she turns back to face the road, ‘It’ll be nice to take a trip down memory lane of my youth.’
Milly looks down at the phone. She ponders, then types. Brow furrowed. Deletes. Types again. Deletes.
Ceri senses her reluctance to commit to a song. Wanting to get it right. Wanting to impress.
‘There’s no wrong answer - go with your gut. What are you feeling?’
Milly takes a deep breath. Moderated reply.
‘I’m feeling…angry. Mostly with myself, I guess. I got myself involved in something that I knew I shouldn’t have, like a total fucking idiot. But that’s a lot to unload on a stranger, let alone find in a song.’
*
At the base of the Little Orme is Angel Bay where, at certain times of the year, the seals congregate to bask in the sunshine & raise their pups. If you do manage to visit, make sure to hike up to at least the mid-level (wearing suitable shoes, unfortunately Milly has a penchant for shoes with terrible grip, requiring Ceri to do most of the heavy lifting).
When the sun is setting, a yolky smear on the horizon, you can hear the soft murmurs of the seals below. The hushing of the waves against the cliff. A few miles out, the wind turbines rotate in the breeze.
Milly and Ceri come to sit near the edge, legs crossed. Milly takes out her earpods and offers one out.
‘I might have a soundtrack for this,’ a coy smile.
Ceri takes it and puts it in her ear.
‘Hit me.’
Milly presses play on her playlist. Thom Yorke’s Dawn Chorus fills her right ear.
*
‘I don’t think this is a good idea -’
She cuts him off with a kiss. So much better when we’re not trying to talk about the logistics of everything, whether it’s right or wrong or just plain morally ambiguous. He’s shocked at first, but his hands betray him. He snakes them from Milly’s waist up her back, into her hair. He takes a handful and grips tighter to deepen the kiss.
They break apart.
‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ puts her thumb to his lips and into his mouth. He bites playfully.
‘I want you,’ she leans in closer, her hot breath on his ear, ‘Don’t you want me?’
He gives a guttural groan. Take that as a yes, then.
She moves her hand down onto his shirt and begins to unbutton.
‘We’ve been having fun together,’ his eyes are closed, ‘I think we’d have a lot of fun together again now.’
His shirt gapes open and she runs her hands over his chest, easing the shirt off his shoulder. The belt becomes her next target and she begins to unbuckle.
A mere whisper escapes his lips: ‘Don’t’
Milly smiles and removes her hands, palms up. See, I’m unarmed. She walks to the other side of the desk and sits in the chair, crossing her legs. This is a move designed for he male gaze as the skirt rides up showing the top of her stockings.
He’s buttoning his shirt, avoiding her eyes, which is unusual. Usually he is the one to instigate them fucking on his desk. Maybe he’s playing hard to get. But she notices he is sneaking glances at her legs. Suspenders were the right choice, then. The reading list he’d set had included Lolita so she’d had her suspicions.
‘What are you doing to me?’ His shirt is half-buttoned. He finally looks into her eyes for a split moment before putting his head in his hands.
‘What do you mean?’ she’s confused. It’s never taken a turn like this.
‘I’m married,’ he goes to a drawer in his desk and pulls out a gold band. He throws it onto the desk with a clatter. They both look at it. Milly immediately feels sick to her stomach.
‘I’m married, I’m your lecturer for fuck’s sake, and you come in here dressed like a…like a whore,’ he spat out the word and Milly recoils. Suddenly she feels the need to hide her body, pulling the skirt over her suspenders.
He stands now, a preacher standing in passion at the service, ‘wanting to talk about fourth wave feminism yet you come in without having done the reading I had suggested that first time, instead wanting to spread your legs - to tease me, to be my own personal…’
He’s searching for the word.
‘Mary Magdalene?’
‘I can think of my own fucking metaphor, thank you!’ he bellows at her.
Milly swallows loudly. She picks up her bag & stands, staring defiantly.
‘Well, thank you so much for meeting with me, Professor Reynolds -’
‘Milly, I-’
‘And thank you for the recommended reading. I think I’ll be looking for a new supervisor for my dissertation.’
She doesn’t wait for whatever else comes out of his mouth. She turns towards the door and leaves, holding in the tears until she’s out into the hallway, until she’s out of view; he will never know that he got to her. Never.
*
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