decade or two. My work on prime numbers began with my mother, herself a scientist of some note…”
I get there in the end, one thought lurching into the next, and when the audience claps at the end they sound like they’re on my side.
I get through the official prize-giving ceremony, the refreshments in the dean’s office, the questions, the compliments, everyone politely ignoring my moment of panic. On the way out, I manage to catch the technician, whose name, I learn, is Steve, and I apologize to him. “I don’t want your boss to think it had anything to do with you,” I say. “I’ll call tomorrow and explain.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that,” he says.
Then I’m in my car, feeling ill, reliving the moment when I received the text. I feel betrayed, even though Ryan is a stranger to me. He promised he’d deleted it. He even pretended to do it in front of me.
I pull out my cell, my stomach clenched in knots, and check the texts again. It’s from a private number.
I put the cell away and open the laptop and load up PowerPoint to view my presentation. I scan through the slides, then I do it again.
There’s no photo of me in them, naked or otherwise. I sit back against the seat and start to cry. I was so sure Ryan had found a way to insert that photo so that it would come up. Which makes no sense because it’s my laptop, and I went through my entire presentation a number of times this morning. But then again, he’s some kind of IT professional, isn’t he? Who knows what tools he has at his disposal. And what else could the text have meant? Enjoy your next slide. I know I will! Did he simply want to throw me? Probably, and it worked.
I don’t even understand what Ryan wants from me, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he wants to hurt me. Why? Because I rejected him? Did he feel humiliated by me? I sit up. I wonder if he knows about the prize? Then a thought occurs to me: does he want a piece of it? Maybe he read about it on our website. Is that what this little exercise back there was all about? A taste of what he is capable of?
All this, because he’s after my prize money?
Twenty-Six
June and I had arranged to go to an early movie after work. It was me who suggested we go this evening because, at the time, I thought it would be a nice way to unwind after the Forrester lecture. Right now, the word unwind makes me want to punch someone, but I rally. I text her and say I’ll meet her outside. And anyway, I don’t want to go home. I can’t bear the thought of Luis asking me how it went. The moment when I saw that text, thinking the photo was about to be projected on the screen for the viewing pleasure of the country’s foremost scientists, is still burnt into my brain, making me smolder with humiliation.
On the way to the cinema June asks me about fifty times if I’m okay, and every time I say I’m fine.
“Is it because of your mother, that you’re upset?”
“What about my mother?”
“That she didn’t come to your talk? I assume she didn’t come, am I right?”
I snort. “I would have been surprised if she had.” Then I say I don’t want to talk about it right now and keep walking. She pats me on the shoulder and gives a nod of understanding, and I’m grateful we leave it at that.
The movie is about a man who searches for his son but it’s much deeper than that. It’s about how relationships, no matter how solid, can turn on the smallest of events. Something you thought was strong and anchored and for ever can unravel in the blink of an eye. Which is when you realize that all along it was weak and unmoored and ephemeral and you were just a moron to believe otherwise.
There is nothing about this movie that reminds me of Isabelle, and yet I’m not thinking about my shame anymore; I’m not thinking about Geoff, either. All I can think of is her, smiling back at me as she kissed my husband. That’s the moment my mind keeps lurching back to. It’s the image that is imprinted on my retina: Isabelle, her hands on either side of his face, her lips on