in any man who isn’t Giles Cleveland, and I feel appropriately guilty when I make my excuses and flee without having encouraged anyone to even ask me for my phone number.
“You’re choosy,” Bernie remarks, a little reproachfully, when he sees me to my taxi.
“I’m in the wrong place. I’m sorry, Bernie.”
The second party is the annual Ardrossan Christmas fête. The original tradition, which required guests to turn out in Victorian costume, has been relaxed to allow all sorts of period, vintage or fancy attire, but I am warned that Not Making an Effort is frowned upon. So once again I am sitting in the back of a cab, all dolled up, this time in a dark burgundy taffeta sheath dress with lace detailing, knee-length, a little Givenchy, something Audrey Hepburn might have worn in the early sixties. And yes, I have long, burgundy gloves to go with it, and tonight I will wear them. What nobody knows except me and the little devil sitting on my left shoulder is that the sheer black pantyhose I seem to be wearing are actually a pair of thigh-high stockings with very fancy lace tops. I have never worn them, and tonight they will keep the gloves company.
The façades of all buildings between Rossan House and the Observatory have been decorated with festive garlands of light bulbs; enormous Christmas trees are ablaze by the two main entrances, and an area has been fenced off in the yard for a huge log that will be lit on fire when the President, from his stage up on the portal of the Observatory, has welcomed us to the party. Incongruous but mouthwatering smells are wafted on the mild winter breeze, of gingerbread and mulled wine, hot baked goods and, less appetizing to a vegetarian, frying meat. It’s a splendid sight; smiling people admire each other in their elaborate costumes, and in the firelight, the neo-gothic buildings look more like a fairy-tale film set than ever. It is a pity that I have no prince to guide me through the crowd.
I take my coat and a bag of books up to my office and on the way there have the dubious pleasure of receiving a wolf-whistle from one of the security guards posted on each floor. They are not taking any chances this time.
“Baby, you look ab-so-lute-ly fabulous!”
Being enveloped by Tim’s enthusiasm in his cobalt blue suit and tie with a dark blue shirt underneath is like being hugged by the Cookie Monster; it’s a great comfort, but one gets a little breathless after a while.
“Get yourself a drink,” he urges me. “You’re behind by two cups of punch!”
“Yes, I think I need some liquid fortification. This is overwhelming!”
“Yeah, you can say what you like about the old place, but it does look pretty. Pity there’s no snow. Two years ago we had snow before Christmas, and a lot of it, so someone organized a sleigh drawn by four horses. What a sight! Enough to bring tears to the eyes of all the alumni. Unfortunately it all got out of hand when a couple of drunken undergrads dressed up the horses as reindeers and one of them bolted and knocked over half the madrigal choir. One of the horses, I mean, not one of the students. Come!”
“Tim. Tim!” I grab his arm and force him to look at me. “I’m not bein’ ’orrible, darlin’, but you reek of gin. And you can’t. Not on campus, not even today. Especially not today. Consider who you might end up talking to.”
I can see that his first impulse is to tear away from me, but he manages to control himself.
“Shit!” He inhales deeply and runs his hand through his short curls. “It’s this confounded waiting! I can’t bear it anymore!”
“Yes, you can. Almost done now.”
“No, it’s not almost done, damn it! Three more hoops, and I can’t even—there’s nothing I can do, except help cover up a case of sexual assault!”
“I know. Come on, we’ll buy you a baked apple. That will take the smell away, and then you can have some horrible sausage.”
When Tim has had his baked mouthwash and we have provided ourselves with a German sausage for Tim and punch and a big pretzel for me, I ask conversationally, “Where’s Martin?”
“Don’t start, Anna. I may meet him later on. There’s no—”
“Hey, you two!” Erin and Yvonne slowly work their way toward us as if they were wading through a strong current. “Seen any graffiti?” Yvonne murmurs when she