Dead Romantic (16 page)

He thinks I need to pull a sickie in order to finish the job application. How mortifying is this? I’m the girl who’s never missed a deadline in her life and I’m not about to start now. No way.

“Actually I have the application with me,” I tell him, patting my rucksack. “I just need to go to my office and pick up a couple of supporting documents. I really want the job, Paul, and I’m the right person for it. I know I am.”

He nods slowly. “I’m very glad to hear it. In that case, why not work from home for a day or two? Just make sure you drop that application off before you leave. I need it in soon.”

“I will. Thanks,” I say. But the Professor isn’t listening to me anymore: he’s preoccupied with his work again, ancient civilisations being far more interesting than present-day staff. I back out quietly and leave him in peace.

To my great relief my office is quiet today. My papers remain neatly stacked on my desk, the rubber-band ball is exactly where I left it and the telephone receiver is sitting snugly in the cradle. It isn’t until I breathe out slowly that I realise I’ve been holding my breath. Sunshine trickles through the blind and dust motes whirl and dance in the air, but apart from those everything is still. There are no cats, little boys or dead archaeologists in sight: everything is exactly as it should be.

I unpack and boot up my laptop, then pull up the supporting documentation for my application and send it to the printer. While that buzzes away to itself I take advantage of this little chunk of normality to gather up a couple of books to take with me. To be honest my office looks and feels just as it always did before my unusual experiences started, and I start to wonder again if I’ve been imagining everything. This time, however, I’m not prepared to risk being proven wrong. I have far too much at stake. Putting all thoughts of the supernatural firmly to one side, I open my desk drawer and pull out the large dossier I’ve prepared to accompany the application.

Crikey. I must have been in a really bad way the last time I put this away. The front of it is all creased and the introductory pages are out of sequence too, which really isn’t like me. Annoyed with myself for being uncharacteristically slack, I try my best to smooth out the title sheet before rearranging the pages in their correct order. Once the printer has finished I gather up all the documents and clip them neatly together. Then I hoist my rucksack onto my back, return my laptop to its bag and shoulder that too, and make my way to the Professor’s office.

It’s locked. Unfortunately while I’ve been faffing about with my printing he’s wandered off, and I know from experience that locating him won’t be easy. The Wellby isn’t the biggest museum in London – it’s nowhere near as vast as the British Museum or the V&A – but there are all sorts of winding passageways connecting a jumble of buildings together, and countless spaces and nooks where treasures are stored. He could be anywhere. I decide to find Dawn instead and leave my application with her.

It’s ten to ten now and Dawn, who’s scheduled to work on Sunday this week, should be at her desk – but there’s no sign of her. Since Dawn is to timekeeping what Mr Spock is to emotional outpourings, she could roll in at any time between now and eleven, full of tales of car breakdowns, Tube strikes or forgotten packed lunches. She’s so good at creating works of fiction she should be working for one of the publishing houses, not a museum.

I try the Prof’s door again but there’s still no answer. Hmm. What to do? I could pop down to the lab and see if any of my colleagues are about. Alternatively I could leave my application with Dusty Dave, the museum’s librarian. The trouble is, some of my colleagues can be very vague at times and I daren’t run the risk that they might forget. Dave is likely to bury it under a pile of manuscripts, which is not what I need. My hands tighten on my file. I’ve an idea written inside that I feel sure will clinch the job: a fantastic exhibition which has actually been inspired by Aamon and, in a weird way, Alex. It would be an exhibition showing the real lives of some of our mummies, with all the interactive features and human dramas our visitors love. Seeing the past colliding with the present, or more accurately chasing a rubber-band ball around my office with Alex, has truly made me think of my subjects as real people. Obviously I’ve always known that they were once alive and as full of their own hopes, dreams and fears as the rest of us – that’s what makes my job so fascinating – but this has added a whole new dimension to my work.

Anyway, I can’t bear the idea of somebody putting the file down and losing all its contents while I’m away. I think the bottom line is that I don’t trust anyone to do this apart from me.

God, Susie’s right: I am a control freak. Rafe Thorne should be very afraid.

I’m still dithering in the corridor when Simon comes striding towards me, his handsome face all smiles of delight. I glance over my shoulder to see who the lucky recipient of this greeting might be, but there’s nobody there. Goodness. It seems it’s
me
he’s so pleased to see. I’m a bit taken aback. The last couple of times we’ve met we’ve hardly parted on good terms – and I still haven’t forgiven him for insinuating that I’m not a viable candidate for the Assistant Director post. Still, it’s hard to hold a grudge against somebody who beams at you as though you’re the only woman in the world, and I find myself smiling back. If Dawn could see me now she’d be envious – as green as my new sweater, even – because Simon has pulled me into his arms and is dropping a kiss on my cheek. She’d probably burst.

“Hello, stranger,” Simon says. With his hands on my shoulders and his deep blue eyes staring down into mine, he steps back slightly. “Hey! You look different. Nice, but different.”

I’m in jeans and a duffle coat and my hair is loose. I look a wreck. Still, it’s sweet of him to try.

“Where are you off to?” he continues, lifting the label on my rucksack. “Cairo? Seriously?”

I laugh. “Nothing quite as exciting as that. I’ve got to go and see my father for a few days, so I was just letting the Prof know.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Simon’s voice is feathered with concern and I can’t help feeling bad for fibbing.

“Just family stuff,” I tell him quickly. Well, this isn’t exactly a lie. I am going to Bucks on family business; the family just happens to be Alex Thorne’s and not mine.

“And how are you feeling?” His hands are still on my shoulders and he’s so close that I can feel his minty breath on my cheeks. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

Actually I’m not sure I like way his hands are clamped on my shoulders. Being this close to Simon isn’t all it’s cracked up to be after all. I feel odd. Trapped. Wiggling away and pretending that I need to adjust my rucksack straps, I say briskly, “I’m fine now, Simon. Honestly. Once I’ve sorted out this family stuff it will be back to work as per normal. In fact I’m just about to give Paul my job application. Or I would do if I could find him.”

Simon whistles. “You are feeling better! I’ve just passed the Professor on his way to see the Principal Director, probably about this very matter.”

I pull a face. “Great. No Dawn and no Professor Paul. I guess Dusty Dave it is.”

“Dave? Christ! I wouldn’t leave a shopping list with him,” Simon shudders. “Look, don’t waste time hanging about here. I can see you’re in a hurry to get to see your family. Let me take it for you. I’ll catch the Prof later on and make sure he gets it.”

Simon holds out his hand for my folder. I pause.

“I’m not going to read it,” he says softly. “My application went in several days ago. Don’t leave it with me if you feel uncomfortable, but please don’t leave it with Dawn. That girl has a brain like a Swiss cheese.”

He looks so worried on my behalf that I’m touched. “OK, I promise I won’t give it to Dawn.”

“Phew!” Simon mimes mopping his brow. “The future of the Wellby’s Egyptology Department is saved. How about you and I grab some breakfast to celebrate? We never did make it out for lunch, did we?”

I glance at my watch. It’s almost ten o’clock already. If I’m going to find Rafe Thorne before dusk I’d better get going.

“I’d love to, but I really need to get to Marylebone.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t want to hang out with me,” he sighs, pulling a mock sad face. “What do I have to do to persuade you? Look, I’ll even buy. Come on Cleo, you know how much lattes cost in this place – and me on an academic’s wages, too. What more can I do?”

How can I resist? Even the stone statues in the exhibition rooms would be moved. We make our way to the café by the stairs, where I sit and text Susie while Simon fetches the coffees. By the time we’re drinking them and sharing a Danish pastry, I’m feeling much more relaxed. Bloody Alex; this is his paranoia about Simon, not mine. I really need to get a handle on this.

“I really must go,” I say finally, once we’re saturated with lattes and have covered our tray in flaky pastry crumbs. “I’ll probably have caffeine shakes for the rest of the day.”

“Spare a thought for those of us here,” Simon sighs. “I’ve got a paper to finish before I get to enjoy my Sunday.”

He helps me put my coat on and offers to accompany me to the station. Then, when I decline, he kisses me on the cheek and wishes me a good stay.

“If there’s anything you need me to do,” he says softly, “then just ask, Cleo. I’m only a phone call away.”

I’m clutching the folder in my left hand, and both of us drop our gazes to look at it. Simon raises a quizzical eyebrow and shrugs.

“My offer to deliver that still stands,” he says. “And leave your laptop with me too, just in case the Prof needs to see anything on it. It’ll save him having to call you and ask. You know how that drives him wild – and he’s useless at downloading files.”

I do know this. But abandon my laptop? I’m not sure. I know my files are password protected and backed up on the office computer as well as on a USB stick but, even so, abandoning my laptop would feel a bit like losing an arm…

“I don’t know,” I say. I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to tighten my grip on the strap of my laptop bag. “What if I need it for work?”

Simon’s chiselled face is a picture of concern and he shakes his golden head at me.

“Cleo Carpenter, what am I going to do with you? You’re supposed to be going home for a rest and to spend time with your family, not to work. Besides, what is there left to do? The application is done, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say reluctantly.

“So what will you need your laptop for? Hacking into NASA? Or maybe your online poker habit? No, don’t tell me, because I’ll be devastated: you have countless online admirers on some dating site or other,” Simon teases, and I can’t help laughing in spite of the odd clawing sensation in my stomach. I’m being ridiculous. Simon just wants to help.

“Seriously, Cleo,” he says gently, “you have your iPad for browsing and your Kindle for all that weighty reading or your secret chick lit! Don’t lug anything more onto the train than you have to. I’ll lock the laptop away for you and if there’s anything that Paul needs he can always ask the techies for your password. Or guess it!
Rumplestiltskin
, right?”

Aamon
actually. Not the most original choice, I guess, but I’m hardly the Pentagon. I glance at my laptop bag, torn between hanging onto it and leaving it safely locked away. My laptop isn’t a bright and shiny MacBook Air almost light enough to float, but an ancient contraption that runs on steam and is the size of a small table. The department issued it when I first started at the museum and it’s so heavy that when I have it slung over my shoulder and across my back I resemble one of the Ninja Turtles. I’ve kept it partly because it works and partly because I’d prefer that we spent money on my research rather than on gadgets. Simon does have a point: it weighs a tonne and, combined with my rucksack, will probably be responsible for a couple of trips to the chiropractor when I return.

“It’s up to you,” Simon says. He glances at his watch. “Christ! You’d better decide one way or another because your train’s leaving in about half an hour.”

“I’d no idea we’d been here so long! I’d better get going,” I agree.

Simon nods and says nothing. Again I glance hesitantly at the folder containing my application, and then at my laptop bag. What is the matter with me? I never used to be this emotional. He’s right: travelling light makes far more sense and I need to get to the station on time for my train.

Right. That clinches it. I’m being ridiculous. Come on, Cleo; just give this nice, sex-on-a-stick Egyptologist your job application and laptop. That way, rather than playing hunt the professor, you can just get on with your journey, see Rafe Thorne and get rid of Alex. Then your life goes back to normal.

I pass the folder and the bag containing my laptop to Simon and try to ignore the sense of panic tightening around my chest. I never, ever let anyone else handle my research; it’s as though I’m parting with a baby. Once the folder is in his grasp and the laptop bag is slung over his shoulder, my heart starts to hammer against my ribcage and I have to stop myself from snatching them back. This is crazy behaviour, and yet it’s how I feel. Even when I arrive at Marylebone half an hour later I’m still uneasy about the whole thing – but by then, of course, it’s far too late.

The matter is literally and metaphorically out of my hands.

Chapter 15

The feeling of unease stays with me after I board the train at Marylebone; try as I might to tell myself I’m being irrational, I just can’t shake it off. As the guard blows his whistle and the train begins to creep out of the station, I’m wondering whatever possessed me to leave my research and job application with Simon. I never leave my research with
anyone
. I’m realising now that my decision is more evidence that I’m not myself at the moment – as if seeing ghosts and having conversations with imaginary rock stars isn’t enough proof of that already. I’ve never been one for gut instincts and intuition before, but having made such a rash choice, now every cell in my body is urging me to turn around and snatch my laptop back. I’m beyond irritated with myself.