Bums on Seats (11 page)

“Very interesting proposition, Simon. Let’s stop for a bite to eat, whilst we think about all that.”

Sally left, then returned with a trolley and loaded the table. There were three small silver trays, each with half a dozen oysters; a plate of buttered brown bread; a plate of small continental pastries and a finger bowl with drifting flower petals. Stuart Mison plucked the remaining bottle, a Chablis, from the ice bucket, picked up three fresh glasses and ushered Simon to the table. It was, Simon thought, exotic and intimate, and a superb mini-feast.

They talked, drank and ate, and decanted oysters straight from shell to throat. It felt primitive and somehow wicked and sexy. Sally was a good conversationalist. But Simon already knew that from his earlier encounter.

They remained at table whilst the VC revisited Simon’s proposal. “An additional income of that magnitude would help enormously with all sorts of projects. But the whole scheme would want managing tightly. I wonder, would you be prepared to take on a new responsibility – a sort of sub faculty? Perhaps occupy a new Chair, say, Professor of International Affairs?”

Simon’s mind literally reeled. “I’d be deligh…” He never finished the words.

“Of course you’d have to look after the University’s best overall interests in the matter. You’d be totally responsible for quality and for audit issues.” Simon’s high became a low. He recognised all too well the problems. And the VC had latched on. “But then you’re a bright, hardworking chap and, no doubt, there’d be lots of help at hand.” Simon brightened at the thought of not being alone with the responsibility.

Sally interjected: “I wonder if there’s not something missing from the proposal. There would be several hundred young people in an utterly foreign environment. That alone could drag down their learning performance. What we need is a small cadre of special helpers for them. A sort of pastoral matters team. The Zombekians could send, say, two aunty figures, mature women; people with a bit more experience of life to sort out students’ mini crises. And we could provide two more people alongside them to help bridge the culture gap. Those two would know their way around the problems of our society. What do you think?”

“Capital,” said Mison. “You’d need to clear that in principle with Nweewe, Simon, and of course get agreement to their funding it.”

It was 9:30pm. The VC gave him a further grilling about the proposed syllabus and how it would be delivered by the staff numbers proposed. Simon felt comfortable about that. “It’s the bread and butter stuff that we’ve drummed into students for years. I’m not at all worried about that aspect. We wouldn’t try to incorporate Zombek economics. It is methods and techniques of business control we’d be teaching.”

At about five minutes to ten, Mison said, “I understand your proposal. You’ve done well. I can see there’ll be much coordination required. But I can also see you’ll be up to it.” Simon glowed. Mison continued, “We must get you help to set up academic administrative procedures. I’ll ask Harold Bellamy, Dean of Mathematics, to put some thought into that area.” That was interesting; Bellamy was a member of the focus group.

The VC surprised Simon by getting to his feet. “Well, unless you’ve anything else Simon, I must be off upstairs to do other things.” He was obviously leaving.

“No, er, Stuart. That’s all been very helpful. Thank you.”

“Good. Good. Sit and have a glass and talk with Sally then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, then.” Mison left the room at precisely 10 o’clock. Sally shared the remains of the bottle between their glasses. There wasn’t much left. After a minute of uncomfortable silence she drained her glass and stood. He did likewise. She smiled, took him by the hand and walked to the front part of the house. He wondered if he was to be peremptorily shown the door to wait for his cab.

But no! She led him into an unlit room and closed the door. The curtains were drawn back. He made out a small settee, a couple of chairs and a television set. They sat on the settee. His heart pounded at a ridiculous rate. Like a schoolboy’s at a first visit with a girlfriend to the back row seats in a cinema.

“You do like me Simon? It’s so rarely that one meets a soulmate. I’m not mistaken am I?”

“You’re wonderful, Sally.” He held her and kissed her. She wrapped herself around him. If anything, his heart beat even faster. “Sally, will Stuart…?” She sealed his lips with hers and he forgot the question.

“Why do you like me, Simon?”

“Because you’re everything a man could ask for.” She gave a small gasp and he felt her heart pounding through his shirt. He stroked her neck and face and kissed her forehead and cheeks and lips. She, in turn, grew more ardent.

After leaving the room, Mison went immediately up to his bathroom. He ran a little water into a glass, opened his pillbox and took a Viagra tablet. It was one minute past ten. He started leisurely preparations for bed.

“You’re a lovely man, Simon.”

He responded by kissing her hands and wrists “Beautiful, beautiful creature,” he murmured and moved a hand to her left breast.

She removed it and placed it back to her face. “Don’t rush me, Simon.”

He returned to interspersing kisses with endearments. She sighed longingly.

The VC gave a final dab with the towel and made towards his bed. It was ten fifteen. Only fifteen minutes to wait for the surge.

Sally gave the tip of his left earlobe a nip with her teeth. It was electrifying. He responded in kind. This produced a sighing moan. Somewhere in the room a clock struck the quarter hour. Simon was so focused he never heard it. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Sally. I’m dying for you.” This produced a swift peppering of kisses akin to a physical assault.

Stuart Mison heard the familiar singing in his ears as the blood started coursing through his veins. Twenty past ten. Not long now!

“I wonder if heaven’s like this, Simon? Kiss me harder.” His lips were already feeling bruised, but he obliged. He could have sworn she purred. It occurred to him that time was ticking on. Hell!

Without further warning a flush spread from the top of Mison’s head down his torso. Only twenty-three minutes. It had arrived early. But Sally wasn’t there! The mere thought of his wife had the immediate effect. He groaned with the exquisite torture.

Sally began to lose restraint. Simon joyfully recognised the signals. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic! His cab scrunched up the drive. The sod was early! Twenty-five past ten.

She made an effort, pulled herself together and said, “Save it Simon, save it. Another time, another place.” Another five minutes and there’d have been nothing to save. His visit ended very quickly. She again led him by the hand, but this time to the front door.

The VC propped himself up on an elbow, threw back the duvet and smiled in delight: a fifty-eight-year-old man with an eighteen-year-old boy’s libido. Wonderful! But where, oh where, was Sally?

The instant Simon was down the steps she slammed the door, shot the bolts and turned back down the hall like a demented thing. Her watch said ten-thirty. She stepped out of one shoe and high-kicked the other halfway to the kitchen. “I’m coming, my darling,” she shouted as she dashed for the stairs.

She’d undone the waist button and zip, reached down cross-armed for the hem and dragged the skirt over her head by the time she touched the second step. “Soon be there my love,” she shrieked, discarding her blouse at the half landing. She did a funny little skipping step out of her tights on the upper steps. “Here I am, Stu,” throwing her bra completely over the banisters, she hopped into the bedroom dragging her knickers over a raised knee.

“God, I’m absolutely gagging for it, darling,” she said as her shoulders hit the mattress! He was very restrained. It was a full two seconds before he was in situ! They had the most wonderful half hour in her entire married life.

Three miles away, at about eleven o clock, Simon disconsolately padded from a self-prescribed cold shower to an unwelcome lonely bed.

CHAPTER 13

Simon was on edge, literally; he fidgeted on the front of his chair at the boardroom table. There were seven Deans present, plus the Academic Registrar In the chair. Harold Bellamy, Dean of Mathematics, broke the ice.

“Good morning Simon. Welcome to this meeting of the Senior Management Executive Committee. Our main business is to consider your proposal for a bulk contract to take in 200 Zombekian students a year, each year, for three academic years, starting in September 1997. Thank you for your paper and for coming. The floor is yours, so to speak.”

Simon had already decided to do his best ‘Tony Blair earnest reforming zealot’ act. “Thank you, I’ve long believed we have a responsibility to help with higher education in emergent third world countries. Probably all British universities take in overseas students. We already do so. But it tends to be on an ad hoc basis. My proposal is that we plan and implement a large scale educational venture with an African country, Zombek.” He beamed at everyone. “It would require close liaison with their Government. Our aim would be to produce honours degree graduates who were competent to make an immediate impact in business in their country.” He beamed again, supporting his smile with strong hand movements in the air. He wondered if he was waving his career goodbye.

“The Vice-Chancellor gave permission for informal contact with Zombek’s Minister of Education. In essence they are keen to proceed and appear able and willing to meet the market price for our services.”

Simon shut up at the end of his opening, sensing it better to take questions in short bursts.

Bellamy obviously felt that too. He said, “Let’s take questions as we go, then.”

Deidre Summers, Dean of Economics, spoke. She was one of those exotic women who festoon their necks with gold chains and other jingle-jangles. Simon mentally dubbed her Ms Bullion Bosom.

What she said though was anything but frivolous. “Chloe Hodgekiss, one of my Principal Lecturers, has been involved in this proposal. We have discussed this at length and are confident that the syllabus is sound and we can deliver it to the students. Are we confident of their ability to absorb it?”

Simon recognised this as a challenge. He fixed his Blair smile and prepared to say ‘trust me’ but was usurped by Veronica Hamlyn, Academic Registrar, a fierce-looking, scruffily dressed woman. It was rumoured that she and her husband wore combat gear and Doc Martens at the weekends. She was known amongst the teaching staff as The Concrete Handbag. She had a reputation for maximising fee-income and for being clever. She proved a formidable ally.

“The Vice-Chancellor asked the Academic Standards and Admissions Committee to look at that aspect and we’ve done so,” she said. “Zombek A levels are accredited by the Pan-African Educational Accreditation Association. Our regional university awarding body, in turn, accredits Pan-African. That being so, it becomes just a question of Pucklebridge deciding which A levels and what grades constitute entry standard to the course.”

Howard Croft, Dean of Human Sciences, adjusted his silk bow tie, smoothed his flowing moustache, hooked his thumbs in the little front pockets of his turquoise waistcoat and fixed the Academic Registrar with what he judged an omniscient stare. In reality he looked supercilious. He didn’t care for her and didn’t mind showing it.

He thought she was money-grabbing at the expense of educational excellence. “Presumably your committee will take a relaxed view about those entry standards?”

Simon thought not only was he a peacock, all plumage and small brain, but he was also foolhardy. He held his breath and waited for the Academic Registrar to ‘handbag’ the fool.

She said, “I’ve often felt that narcissists excessively embellish their exterior to distract one from the stark uninhabited area between their ears.”

Croft’s face turned bright pink. It coordinated beautifully with the grey silk bow tie and the turquoise waistcoat. He hissed, “My standards are consistently high in everything I do. We don’t all wish to walk around dressed like an advert for an army surplus store. I’m only concerned that we maintain a reputation for attracting good undergraduate material. Commerce makes profits. Universities make educated people. Every decision we take should spring from that.”

Simon mentally computed the score at 30–15 to Croft, when Bellamy, in the chair, decided to intervene, even though this was shaping up to be an enjoyable, bitchy contest.

“My dear Howard, Veronica, do let’s keep on track! What about the entry standard for the proposed Zombek students, Veronica?”

“Thank you, Chair,” she smirked.

Simon always found this politically correct form of address amusing. It invited a response of ‘That’s all right, Footstool’ or the like.

She continued, “Our standard entry benchmark for British-born applicants is A levels accumulating to 14 points. That demand puts us in the upper quartile of the new universities. However, in the case of a block entry from overseas, working to a customised syllabus, we propose 12 points. Broadly equivalent to three A levels at D grade.”

Ms Bullion Bosom, who had been lounging, straightened up, thereby redistributing half the nation’s gold reserves. “That sounds responsible and sensible to me, so long as accreditation and selection are overseen in a proper and effective way.”

There followed a lively discussion, which Harold Bellamy wisely allowed to run its course. At one point, when Simon was about to intervene, he stopped him with the merest shake of his head. Eventually, though, he invited Simon to contribute again.

“Thank you, Harold. I propose that accreditation and selection be the business of a joint committee. That committee would comprise an Admissions Tutor from The Business School, an Admissions Tutor from the Faculty of Economics, a Dean from another Pucklebridge Faculty, and two appointees by Zombek’s Minister of Education.” He tried to imbue his words with an appropriate gravitas, whilst briefly smiling at each present. New Labour would have been proud of him.

Bellamy himself responded. “I too have considered this matter. I’m sure your proposal makes good sense and would receive the support of the Governors. If there are no dissenters, we should proceed on that basis.” There were no dissenters. Howard Croft probably had a mental image of the Academic Registrar reaching under the table for her ‘concrete handbag’.