G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

The Master and the Bursar wiggled raised eyebrows at one another over the Dean's head. Everyone except the Master held the Dean in the highest regard but he was without question the most useless Fellow about the place.

The Master said, "Even without that particular complication, I do so hope there won't be any friction. These old boys-and now, of course, girls," he added, mournfully, placing an emphasis of distaste on the word. He was one of the old school that remained unreconciled to the admission of women to Cambridge. He might have been discussing an infestation of mice. "These old-boys' get-togethers… I do wish we didn't have to be bothered, really-bound to be trouble, however minor."

"Why do you say so, Master?" asked the Reverend Otis, again wide eyed, this time at the thought that anyone would choose strife when peace was such an easy alternative.

"Because," the Master replied with exaggerated patience, knowing it was breath wasted, "only a certain type is drawn to these weekend reunion events, don't you see? People with something to prove, people with something-whether a spouse or a car-to show off, people with…" His voice trailed off.

"With?" prompted the Bursar.

The Master had been about to say, "People with a score to settle." The thought had emerged in his mind full blown, unbidden. Uncomfortable thought. Thank God he had not spoken it aloud. The Bursar was a solid man, if a bit excitable at times. As for the Dean, well… The Dean had been born to demonstrate the meaning of the word "suggestible."

"Nothing, nothing," the Master said now. "I do rather wish the whole thing were over and done with this time, I must say."

"Soon enough," said the Dean beaming on him kindly. "Soon enough."

It was early July, usually nature's cue for everyone to have long since decamped a University town for the beaches, the lakes, or the mountains. But Cambridge is so much more than a University town. For every student who leaves, five tourists tumble out of trains and buses and other conveyances to take his or her place. This yearly migration and renewal system is a welcome tradeoff for most of the town's tradespeople, students by and large having no money.

The curved staircase in the entrance hall of St. Michael's College also seemed to smile a greeting, sweeping up from either side of the walk-in fireplace to the landing-a landing from which the Master liked to issue the occasional sonorous proclamation; a landing which had been the scene of many an impromptu, ribald undergraduate performance. The elegance of the carved wood balustrade, the stained glass depiction of the college arms, and the thickness of the carpeted stairs were lost on most of that weekend's visitors to St. Mike's, however, occupied as they were with their own thoughts. Even the sight of the academic gowns hanging on pegs in the entrance, reminders that they were entering an established if not hallowed seat of learning, went unnoticed and unremarked. Besides, they had seen it all before, years before, several times a day over the course of their studies.

Two of the visitors, Sir James Bassett and his wife, having arrived not by train but by Bentley, were already in their assigned room in the Rupert Brooke wing, continuing a conversation that had begun in London and kept them occupied all the way down the M11 to Cambridge from their much-admired townhouse (which, to their mutual delight, had been featured just the month before in Tatler). Rather, they were in India's room, the college never since its monastic days (and never until the last trumpet sounds) being organized for couples. Sir James would spend the weekend in the room next door to his wife. Needless to say, there was no adjoining door.

"What I don't understand," Lady Bassett was saying now, and not for the first time, "is how you could not have realized?" She held up a gauzy peignoir in a shade of dusky rose and gave it a good shake, staring at it critically as if she couldn't quite decide what to do with it. This was likely true, as she was not used to unpacking: She always left all that to her maid. She gave the garment one more critical squint, then rolled it in a ball and stuffed it inside one of the drawers of the room's massive oak bureau.

"I mean, you must have known she was going to be here," she continued.

She held out to him a sheet of paper letterheaded with the college's crest. Shook the list at him, rather, as if it were another puzzling garment from her suitcase. It contained the names of people attending the weekend gathering. With one finger, which trembled with outrage, she pointed at the offending name halfway down the list: Lexy Laurant.

Foolish of me not to have told her before, Sir James thought now. That was a miscalculation. But he'd been hoping to avert or at least delay the scene that was almost certain to arrive. He'd really doubted Lexy would attend, and couldn't believe it when he saw the name on the final, official list. Even now he thought there was a chance she might not show. She'd claimed an undying hatred for the place at one time. It was the type of dramatic statement Lexy was given to. He spoke the thought aloud.

"She spoke of her 'Undying Hatred' of the place, India. Capital U, capital H. I never dreamed she'd even reply to the invitation." He shook his head ruefully. "Dear old Lexy. Always one for melodrama."

"Yes, dear old Lexy," repeated India.

"She may not show up."

"She will, if only to annoy me. If I'd known, I wouldn't have come. I'll spend the whole weekend avoiding her, or being forced to pretend how thrilled I am to see her. And after the letters she's sent you, I would think you would be less than thrilled, too."

Sir James sighed. "I know. She can't help it, you know. She gets depressed, and she was used to thinking of me as someone she could talk openly with. 'Share her feelings,' is I'm sure how she'd put it."

"You shouldn't have burned those letters she sent. I have a bad feeling about this. It's like she's, well, stalking you. Us."

He took her hand in his, and traced the blue veins showing against the sun-warmed skin. He didn't think India's concern was whether or not he loved her-that she knew. India was not a woman given to jealousy, one of the reasons he had grown to love her more than life. But he told her now, just in case.

"You know you are my life, my heart, and my soul. Don't worry. It's only for a couple of days. It will be fine."

She disagreed, but she kissed him anyway. -- Several doors away, the topic of this marital conversation had indeed shown up and was removing her clothes from the scented tissue in which her maid had wrapped them for the trip. She wasn't thinking of Sir James, however, or even of India (who she refused, in any case, to think of as Lady Bassett. Stuff that). She was thinking of all the bullshit mantras her astral therapist had given her. She'd tried, really she'd tried. The gods and goddesses knew she'd tried. But what good had it done, really?

May good befall me. Sure, fine, all right.

May I be fit for perfection. Well, she was already a size four, wasn't she? She worked out every day. Her clothes and hair were perfect, and widely imitated. She was perfect. It wasn't helping, though. None of the Eastern religions, in fact, seemed to have grasped the essence of her particular set of problems.

Most annoying and useless of all were the little platitudes. You must learn to be in the moment, Madame Zoerastra had told her, completely missing the point. It was the moment that Lexy so often couldn't bear to be in. The past was better, painted rose-colored over time as only Lexy could manage. And dreams of the future were way better.

It was the Now that sucked.

In the distant and unexplored recesses of her mind, she knew her unhappiness was, on its surface, irrational. She lived in a big, white Kensington townhouse of light-filled rooms offering views into the gardens of her millionaire neighbors. She had a hectic and well-documented social life. She had, if not friends, people she could call on to take her places. She was young and admired. Sought-after, even. What more could anyone ask?