Part 15 (1/2)
Becky put her hands on the table and leaned in, eyes wide and serious. ”Karina. You've heard the rumor, haven't you, that they got married?”
”Ferrara told me herself.”
”Oh no! Is it true?”
”He says it's not, that it might all be a ploy to get him into court.”
”Yuck! That's even worse!”
”He also says she's bats.h.i.+t crazy.”
”Oh my G.o.d. So is he going to pay her off or something?”
”Well, I guess that's what this whole production is about. You know the Huntingtons divorced, right?”
”Yeah.”
”Well, he told me that she actually got the record company in the split. So she's technically the one in charge now. She's the one who is insisting his contract isn't fulfilled, that he needs to record a new song and has to perform in support of the alb.u.m release. He said he wouldn't tour but he would do this series from Vegas, which will be broadcast all over the world. Hey, would it be helpful for your research to interview people in the production?”
”You know, it might.” She bit her lip, looking hopeful. ”But I don't want to impose.”
”Well, how's this for an idea? Your idol wants to be our new landlord.”
”What do you mean?”
I kept her in suspense a moment while the waitress dropped off dessert menus for us to look at. When she was gone, I explained. ”He's offered us the apartment above the 624 Gallery. Rent free.”
Her eyes got very wide. ”That would be... awesome. Simply awesome.”
”It's even got a little bit of furniture in it. There's a couch. And it has big windows overlooking the street.”
”And he's okay with cats?”
”I'm sure he's fine with cats.”
”Fantastic!” She clapped her hands together, but then looked at me seriously again. ”But, Rina, wait. If you and he are back together now...”
”Why am I not moving in with him?” I decided I wasn't up to explaining that in my mind James was sort of on probation. This real-world relations.h.i.+p thing was new for us, and so was figuring out our real-world boundaries. Merging our lives was going to be tricky enough. ”He's going off to London to record new material any day now. He might be gone for a month. Can you imagine me wandering around some empty penthouse for a month waiting for him to get back? No, thanks.”
”I suppose. Well, I'm happy. It was really dull living alone the past few months. I'm so happy you're back. When can we move in?”
”Anytime, I think. I'll ask. I'm starting dance training with him tomorrow.”
Becky squeaked and put her hands over her mouth. Her fingers shook as she took them down. ”That is so exciting!”
”Yeah.” I smiled. ”It'll be a lot more fun than the other thing I have to do tomorrow, which is meet with the department.”
”Oog. Yeah. I bet.” She looked up as the waitress returned. ”Oh no. If you're starting dance training, does that mean we can't have dessert?”
”I have a feeling with the number of calories I'll be expending I can have more dessert than usual,” I said. ”Let's get the molten chocolate cake and split it.”
”With vanilla ice cream on the side?”
”Of course.”
The waitress approved of this choice with a knowing smile.
Nine.
I'll Paint You Mornings of Gold My meeting with Esther Carmichael, the head of the art history department, went better than I expected. I slept fitfully, nervous about how it was going to go, and arrived at her office feeling muzzy-headed and out of sorts. Her office was in the corner of the art history building, on the second floor, and the sound of traffic came through the open windows. It was an older building, with high ceilings and dark wooden molding around the windows, her walls lined with bookshelves of matching wood.
She had gray hair and wire-rimmed gla.s.ses whose perfectly round lenses reminded me of an old bicycle. She offered me some vanilla-flavored iced tea and we chitchatted about the tea shop in the Village where she had bought it. She poured the tea from a thermos that kept it cold and ice clinked into the gla.s.s. I barely tasted it, though.
She drained her gla.s.s and folded her hands. ”I was trying to put you at ease with some conversation, but I can see that isn't working. So I will get to the point.”
”Um, thank you.” I sipped the tea, trying to stay calm.
”Renault will not be returning. Two other students have come forward in recent weeks to say he made inappropriate advances, and we have received a few anonymous letters as well. Though none have made quite as outrageous a claim as yours...” She paused and took a breath. ”Pardon me. I misspoke. Your claim is not the outrageous part. None have yet claimed he acted as outrageously as to offer a pa.s.sing grade in exchange for, ahem, favors, but there are few here now who doubt you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. To know I wasn't alone was huge. To know that I was believed was even bigger.
”In addition, you may wish to know that some of our colleagues who acted inappropriately in reaction to your accusations have been censured, as well.”
”Thank you.” I a.s.sumed she meant the faculty and employees who had done things like e-mail me telling me I was a s.l.u.t and writing ”wh.o.r.e” on my department mailbox.
”Frankly, I'm tired of tolerating all forms of s.e.xist shenanigans and my only regret is it took this long to blow the lid off, which brings me to my next point, regarding your dissertation.” She looked at me over the top of the gla.s.ses. ”I don't know if you've seen the numbers, but we have a terrible success rate with female degree candidates. And by 'we,' I don't just mean the art history department. I mean female students receiving advanced degrees in universities across the nation. Plenty of women start programs. Fewer of them finish than their male colleagues, though, and it can't all be attributed to marriage attrition.”
”Surely it can't all be the fault of creeps like Renault, though.”
”Oh, certainly not. There must be many factors. And I cannot change the world. However, I am in charge of this department. You are a female degree candidate. I am not going to lose you.”
I held my breath hopefully.
”You seem like you would appreciate receiving the degree that you worked so long to get.”
”I would.”
She stood. ”As you may know, I'm not one to compromise academic standards. Not even for the sake of overcoming s.e.xism.” She picked up a manila envelope from her desk and thrust it at me. ”It's sloppy. In the middle it loses focus. You can do better. Rewrite it.”
”I always intended to.” I took the envelope and peeked inside. I could see a printout of my dissertation, her handwritten notes filling the margin of the first page. ”This was meant to be a first draft.”
She sat and gave me a satisfied nod, her lips tight as if she were holding in a smile. ”Good. You have until the end of November if you want to graduate in January, or early April if you want to graduate in May. Stay in touch about the paperwork. Call or make an appointment if my notes are unclear.”
Her tone made it clear she was dismissing me, and I hopped up, grinning. ”Thank you.”
She stood also and we shook hands. ”My pleasure. The Pre-Raphs are such a fitting subject for a young romantic like yourself. Enjoy them.”