Gifted and Talented (7 page)

Richard’s frown deepened. ‘And she’s coming here?’

‘When she deigns to turn up,’ put in the head of the English Faculty, acidly. She was a woman mountain, Richard thought. Her booming tremolo voice seemed to come from some deep cavern within, like that of the Delphic oracle.

Purple Glasses now leant forward and explained Amber Piggott had been allowed into Branston as part of a profile-raising effort.

For all his intention not to get involved, Richard found indignation stirring. ‘Does Branston really need to resort to that?’ he asked. ‘We’re part of one of the most famous universities in the world.’

‘Yes, my dear Master,’ the Bursar replied evenly. ‘But we’re struggling for funds, even so. We need publicity.’

Richard drew himself back. It was up to them; he wasn’t going to get involved. He was here as decoration only. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking that there were better ways to raise money and profile. The American universities he had worked in had had alumni offices that had hunted down former students without mercy and squeezed every last shekel out of them. They had organised ring-rounds with current students calling old students, set up alumni dinners. Amy had been involved with some of it. Perhaps he should mention it; Branston didn’t seem to have a clue about that sort of thing, to judge by the list of merchandise Flora Thynne was sending to Allegra Trott.

Oh, whatever. It was their business. Abruptly, he stood up. ‘I have to go,’ he announced.

The day’s early dullness had, most unexpectedly, melted into a glowing October afternoon. Autumn’s fiery wand had transformed even Branston’s beleaguered acres into a coppery blaze and wherever she looked – so long as it was not too closely – Diana saw radiant trees with light bouncing off every leaf and grass with a hovering layer of gold atop the green.

She was working near a long, low box of grey concrete with a long slit close to the top, which went across the entire width of the building and made it look like an enormous postbox. In the unlikely event that anyone even noticed it, they might have assumed it to be a garage, or perhaps the room where all the electricity cables were gathered. In fact, it was the Branston College Master’s Lodge and the long slit was the building’s main window, although the influx of light was severely compromised by a dangling growth of red-tinged Boston vine, which fringed the edge of the building’s roof. This meant that, for all the building represented in cutting-edge constructional thought, the effect within was, Diana imagined, not dissimilar to the gloomiest of Dark Ages fortresses. She was trimming the vine.

As she worked, she became aware of a growing commotion at the garden’s other side, in the area nearest to the college entrance. Formerly empty, it now held a considerable number of people, mostly men in casual, dark clothes, jostling to get a glimpse of something she could not see. They were calling out and brandishing large, long objects with glass pieces that caught the light: cameras, Diana realised. She recognised the furry things swinging about as sound booms – and wasn’t that a film camera there? What or who were they filming?

The possibility that it was the new Master flashed through her mind. She knew nothing about him, neither his name nor what he looked like. But he seemed the most likely contender.

Drawing near out of curiosity, Diana saw the crowd part suddenly and a beautiful blonde girl came striding through. She wore a mortar board and a dark scholar’s gown with high heels and stockings. And nothing else, a bemused Diana saw. Except some very skimpy underwear, revealed now as, with a dazzling smile, the girl opened the gown wide. There was a roar of approval and the whirr and click of cameras.

Diana, clippers in hand, could only stare. It seemed most unlikely that this girl was a student. This must be some sort of fashion show or something.

A small white fluffy dog was pushing its head out from under the black gown. It appeared to be clamped under the girl’s arm. As Diana watched, she pulled it out, thrust it into the mortar board and, striking another pose, held it up for the photographers. There was another roar of approval.

A liberated man at last, Richard was striding towards the bike racks to the rear of Branston and considering the next likely move of the worms he was using in his research. The experiment involved associating smell with colour, and what that revealed about the brain. The worms, exposed to a certain smell, were supposed to head for a certain colour. So far, however, they were refusing to play the game and match any one colour to any one smell. Perhaps, Richard thought, strapping on his helmet, it was just that these were particularly stupid worms. He brightened. Were some worms more intelligent than others? Another whole new field to explore, potentially.

He swung his leg over the saddle, looking up at the Branston dome framed by autumn trees as he did so. It looked rather uncharacteristically picturesque and Richard was conscious of a brief burst of something almost like affection for the place. Why couldn’t they leave it alone? He could still almost hear the Bursar banging on about the financial challenges Branston faced. Challenges which Amber Piggott’s rich father could potentially help with. There was, apparently, a very brilliant Scottish first-year English student the college was funding. But more such bursaries were needed across all subjects to attract top students who might otherwise go to more prestigious colleges. Wobbling off, Richard almost groaned aloud. If only Branston would just get over it. Unprestigious was good. Drab was good. It was great there was nothing happening at Branston, that it was a quiet place, a backwater.

Or was it? As he wheeled past the college entrance, he was surprised to see a crowd of people standing in front of it. Men, mostly, dressed in dark padded coats and jeans. They looked too old to be students and were shouting and gesturing to someone Richard could not see. There was an aggressive, rather wild atmosphere.

‘Amber! Over here, Amber!’

‘Give us a smile, Amber. Thassit, girl. A bit more leg; yeah, that’s right.’

A loud whirring, clicking sound accompanied these exhortations. Cameras, Richard now saw. Above the heads of the shouters, a slim brown hand, flashing with jewels, could be seen turning slowly in the air.

Half of Richard wanted to go on his way; it wasn’t his business, after all. But the other half shoved his way towards the back of the crowd.

Whatever was going on, he didn’t like the look of it – or the shouty, raucous sound of it. Why did these people have long lenses the size of drainpipes swinging about? There were a couple of grey and furry boom microphones too, as well as what looked like a TV camera. A small, bossy-looking girl was striding about with a clipboard. What on earth was happening?

‘Over here, Amber.’

‘Work that mortar board, babe!’

There was a roar of lascivious approval at whatever action this had elicited. Richard had elbowed his way to the front now and could see, in front of the excitedly opening and closing college entrance, a heavily made-up blonde in a black bikini accessorised by high heels, a black scholar’s gown and navy blue fishnet stockings.

He blinked in amazement.

Her legs were placed wide apart and she was holding the mortar board over the front of her bikini bottoms whilst bending forward to give the assembled cameras the full benefit of her cleavage. Under her other arm was clasped a small white dog. It caught Richard’s eye and started to yap loudly.

He rubbed his eyes. His ears were buzzing. He reached for his mobile phone. Fighting through the throng to the main doorway was out of the question and it was anyone’s guess in which part of the ludicrously over-complex building the Bursar might be now.

When finally he was located, he sounded smoothly unperturbed. ‘Yes, Master? How can I help?’

‘There’s some kind of underwear shoot going on at the entrance,’ Richard gasped. ‘You’ve got to stop it.’

He was surprised to hear his colleague chuckle. ‘On the contrary, my dear Master.’

‘
What
?’

‘I rather imagine,’ the Bursar said in a tone of rich amusement, ‘that you’re seeing Amber Piggott arrive to begin her studies.’

Richard was a man of few words, but rarely was he speechless, as he was now.

‘We have to do what we can,’ the Bursar was saying. ‘Even if it means agreeing to be the setting for a fly-on-the-wall documentary about Amber Piggott’s first term.’

Richard nearly dropped the phone. He cleared his throat to collect himself. ‘I’m obviously hearing things, Bursar.’ He gave a nervous chuckle. ‘I just thought I heard you say “fly-on-the-wall documentary about Amber Piggott’s first term”!’

‘I did say that, Master.’

‘It’s fine,’ Isabel assured her mother. ‘Yes, everyone’s very nice.’

‘You sound a bit – well – flat,’ came the voice from the other end of the mobile.

Actually, Isabel felt irritated. And tired. And probably a bit hung over still – vodka was not her usual tipple; nothing was.

The long journey of the day before had caught up with her, as well as the late night in Ellie’s room, watching films. After
Dog For Christmas
had come
Hide The Sausage
, a tale about romance in a provincial butcher’s. This had been followed by
Happy Accident
, where a female doctor with a broken leg fell for a male nurse. For Isabel, yawning amid the sequins and feeling mildly overcome by the powerful scented candle, they had eventually all merged into one.

‘Really, I’m fine,’ she insisted. Then, changing the subject, ‘How’s Lochalan?’

Her mother launched into the expected sequence of anecdotes. ‘The minister’s wife’s doing her alternative therapies again; she’s at loggerheads with the doctor, apparently . . .’

Isabel chuckled. Mrs Craig, the vicar’s wife, had caused a sensation in Lochalan with her sudden espousal of New Age beliefs and holistic treatments. Those who had experienced the latter, reported that the front room of the manse had been given over to beanbags, whale music and joss sticks.

‘Mrs Robertson’s run out of midge spray . . .’

Isabel smiled. That, from July to November, the hardiest and most macho of Highland stalkers and gamekeepers splashed themselves liberally all over with a sweet-smelling beauty lotion called ‘Skin-So-Soft’ before stepping foot out the door was one of Scotland’s best-kept secrets. And that Mrs Robertson, who ran the supermarket, had run out of the stuff would be nothing less than a local crisis.

As her mother chattered on, Isabel closed her eyes and there was her home village, spread before her like a painting. She was driving into it, on the familiar rain-slicked black road, the bordering grass glowing greedily green in the limited light. Past the white chapel with the pointy windows, past the ancient graveyard with the green-furred mossy stones, past the pitch and putt, past the garage, past the village’s one, rather stern looking, hotel. On the other side was the silver loch stretching to the west and the sea from the shawl of familiar hills, hills covered with thick, green misty heathland broken here and there by secret mountain lochs, or dotted with the occasional high, lonely lodge. There were deer up here, stags and does, as well as tiny flowers with honey-sweet scent and, above it all, wild birds crying and riding the sweeping winds.

Her mother rang off eventually and the feelings of dissatisfaction that had plagued Isabel through the day returned. Partly this was due to Ellie, although things had started well in that respect. She had knocked on Isabel’s door first thing in the morning, fresh faced and all smiles as a bleary, headachy Isabel, dressed in her bedtime T-shirt, stared through her tangled hair.

‘If you’re not doing anything tomorrow,’ Ellie suggested, ‘we could go to the freshers’ fair.’

Isabel had beamed back. ‘I’d love to,’ she said warmly. But – tomorrow? That was twenty-four hours away. What was Ellie doing today?

She soon found out. ‘See you later.’ Ellie had danced away down the corridor. ‘Gotta run,’ she had sung over her shoulder.

‘Where are you going?’ Isabel called after.

‘Seeing some friends in other colleges,’ was the blithe reply.

Isabel had closed her door feeling crushed. Ellie had never mentioned friends in other colleges. If she had so many, why ask Isabel to be her bestie? Had she not meant it, after all? No doubt all these other friends were from St Mary’s, Isabel thought forlornly. They would know how to snog and avoid hangovers.

Alone, tired and out of humour, Isabel spent the day getting her bearings round the college. After all the excitement and movement of yesterday, the day seemed flat and dull. She had felt shy and awkward and had scurried back into her room when anyone else appeared in the corridor.

She went alone to the Incinerator at lunchtime but felt intimidated by the others without Ellie to jolly her along. She stared fixedly at her plate of macaroni cheese and contemplated the disaster that was her date with Olly.

Oh, what must he think of her? He was the real root cause of her bad mood, Isabel knew. She was furious with herself. He would have waited last night; he would have thought she was not coming; he would think she had stood him up, and after all his kindness too. How appallingly rude and ungrateful she must seem.

In fact, she had rushed out from Ellie’s room to the college foyer and hurried about the tarmac entrance outside, peering round every sulphurically lit corner. There was no Olly, however. Then she had asked the porter, but no message had been left.

What could she do to make amends? She had no address for him and he had said he would be leaving town altogether soon – thinking the absolute worst of her. She felt hot with shame.

Towards the end of the dull, tired, heavy afternoon, Isabel decided to have a bath. The panacea for all ills, Mum always said. A tub of hot water, swirled about with a little scented oil, never failed to lift the spirits and soothe the soul. She collected her towel and washbag and set off.

There was a figure outside the bathroom door, a short, rather squat one, wearing nothing but a towel and not a particularly large one at that. She looked oddly familiar to Isabel.

As she got closer, Isabel realised it was Kate, the girl she had met at interview.

‘Hey!’ Kate exclaimed, her small face alive with pleasure. ‘Good to see you!’

A sense of triumphant relief filled Isabel. Here was another potential friend. She need not rely entirely on Ellie, after all.

‘Are you queuing for the bathroom?’ she asked.

Kate reddened with annoyance. ‘I shouldn’t be,’ she grumbled. ‘I’ve been out rowing this afternoon and I was running a bath. I went in my room to get undressed and then I came back. And, guess what? Someone’s in there.’

She cast an annoyed glance at the bathroom door behind her, behind which could be heard vigorous splashing. ‘My washbag’s in there, my bath stuff, my bath towel and everything,’ Kate complained.

A loud, throaty female voice could be heard from within. ‘Whaddya mean, you don’t know what happened? I’ll tell you what fucking happened. It was all going like a dream until that guy turned up.’

Isabel stared at Kate. ‘Who
is
that?’

Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Can’t you guess? Amber Piggott, resident celebrity supermodel genius whatever. Something went wrong with her close-up, by the sound of it.’ She hammered on the bathroom door by way of a reply. ‘Hey! You’ve nicked my bath!’

‘I don’t care if he
was
the Master,’ the voice inside yelled. ‘
You
said it had been green-lighted.’

‘Is she talking to you?’ Isabel asked, puzzled. She wondered when Amber had arrived. But, as she had spent the day avoiding people, it was hardly surprising she had missed her.

‘To some sort of manager, would you believe,’ Kate said crossly. ‘On her mobile. What sort of student has a
manager
? Apart from a bank manager?’ She took a deep breath and roared at the door. ‘And you’re not supposed to smoke in college buildings!’

Isabel now noticed the strong scent of cigarettes.

‘Oh, sod it,’ Kate growled. ‘I’m going back to my room. I’m bloody freezing out here. See you in the Incinerator?’ she added to Isabel. ‘We could have supper together.’

‘That would be lovely,’ Isabel said eagerly.

‘Not sure that’s the word. You’ve seen the food, have you? Anyway, I’ll come and get you. What number room are you?’

As Kate stomped decisively off, Isabel, about to follow, heard the locks on the bathroom door slide back. A strange, sudden urge to go, to avoid the inevitable meeting, fought with the urge to finally see this creature she had heard so much about. She hesitated. Then, remembering Kate’s scorn and deciding to go after all, she started down the corridor. It was too late, however. The door was open.

A cloud of scented steam billowed out, its flowery aroma mixed with cigarette smoke. A spectacularly good-looking blonde lounged in the doorframe.

‘Hi,’ drawled this vision, flashing Isabel a smile of the same dazzling whiteness as the bathrobe dangling open about her. All traces of her recent fury seemed completely gone. ‘And who are
you
?’

‘Isabel.’

‘Amber.’

She had a very direct, appraising gaze and there was something fidgety and impatient about her. She leant against the lintel, flicked her damp blonde hair and gave another high-wattage beam. Isabel, feeling anxious and somehow trapped, could only stare back.

‘Oh, we’re out, are we?’ came an annoyed voice from behind.

Isabel glanced round to see Kate hurrying up the corridor, still in her towel. Held helplessly in the Piggott force field, Isabel admired the fact Kate seemed just as cross as before.

‘That was
my
bath,’ she said accusingly to Amber.

Amber took a long drag of her cigarette and exhaled in Kate’s direction. ‘Seriously? That horrible cheap bath stuff was yours?’

Kate’s mouth opened and shut. She recovered herself quickly, however. ‘Smoking’s banned,’ she snapped. ‘It’ll set the fire alarm off.’

Amber took another slow, defiant drag. ‘No, it won’t. I’ve deactivated it.’

She grinned conspiratorially at Isabel, who reddened guiltily. Kate had of course seen her talking to Amber outside the bathroom; did she think they were friends?

Something pale at floor level shot out of the bathroom and cannoned into Kate’s calves. It was a small, fluffy and rather damp white dog, which began to yap agitatedly. It seized the corner of Kate’s towel in its teeth and started to tug it.

‘Coco! Do get off that, darling. You might catch something.’

Kate glared. ‘Is that your dog? Pets aren’t allowed in college.’

By way of reply, Amber picked up the animal and held it defiantly to her semi-exposed bosom. ‘Don’t listen to the nasty lady being horrid to Mummy,’ she cooed into its fur. The dog did not look especially abashed, however. It regarded Kate with eyes as glittering and triumphant as Amber’s own.

‘I’m going to report you,’ Kate threatened. Ignoring Isabel altogether, she turned on her heel and stomped away. Isabel wanted to follow but Kate’s fury held her back.

Amber, unrepentant, grinned at Isabel, finished the cigarette and, turning with a whirl of hair, threw it expertly into the lavatory bowl in the bathroom behind her. ‘Come for a drink?’ The low-pitched tones clearly did not expect refusal.

Isabel regarded her uncertainly. Amber was wearing only a bathrobe, after all. Did she normally entertain in towels? All Isabel’s instincts were telling her to put as much distance as possible between herself and this alarming stranger. ‘Er . . .’ she began.

‘Come on,’ Amber wheedled. ‘Coco needs cheering up. She hates scenes. Poor darling.’ She nuzzled the dog’s small, bony head.

‘Is it a poodle?’ Isabel asked.

Amber clutched her pet and gasped in horror. ‘Nothing so ten minutes ago. Coco is a Maltese.’

As Isabel searched for a reply, something glittering beneath the dog’s fur caught her eye. A white-leather, jewel-festooned collar. ‘Darling, isn’t it?’ Amber beamed. ‘A little present from me for being such a clever dog and going to university.’

Isabel eyed her uncertainly. Was Amber serious? It was difficult to tell.

‘Come on then,’ Amber urged, turning on Isabel the most dazzling of smiles. ‘The champagne’s on ice.’

Isabel chuckled. This was definitely a joke. Amber meant coffee, had to. No student had champagne in their room. Or fridge.

‘Thanks,’ she said. She would stay five minutes, Isabel promised herself. Then she would make her escape.

Amber and Coco were already stalking ahead down the corridor. Feeling slightly hypnotised, Isabel followed in their wake.

Isabel wondered if she had ever seen so messy a room as Amber’s. The plain college furniture was invisible under the tidal wave of clothes engulfing it. The boutique bags on the floor with their silken rope handles were a roll call of every expensive label Isabel had heard of and many more she had not. One patent ballerina flat lying alone on its side had ‘CHANEL’ printed on the inside of the sole. Coco, having been unceremoniously dumped on the floor, was now scrabbling frantically about in all of this. Looking for something to eat, Isabel suspected.

Dominating the bed was an enormous oblong trunk covered in leopardskin. Its lid was open and more clothes spilled out of here to join the mass on the floor.

Isabel looked longingly at the door, wondering if now she could make her escape. But, apparently impervious to Isabel’s presence, Amber had just almost completely shrugged off her bathrobe. It dangled precariously from her shoulders. Opening the door would expose her entirely to anyone passing by.

Isabel tried to avert her gaze but noticed nonetheless that Amber’s breasts were small but perfect with large dark nipples. What looked like a coat of arms was tattooed on one of her smooth brown shoulder blades. The shield depicted a mediaeval war helmet with the lid down, combined with some bags of money. The motto on the rolling scroll underneath said, ‘
Fronti nulla fides
’.