Matlock got to his feet again and returned to his chair. "In the meantime," he said, sitting down heavily, "I am afraid I shall have to deny your request for funding. I do hope you will have a happy Christmas." He uncapped his fountain pen and drew a pile of papers toward him. Years of being a student had trained her to interpret this kind of professorial body language. It was an unmistakable dismissal. She got to her feet.
Then, just as she laid her hand on the door handle, she turned around. "Professor Matlock," she said. "May I ask — if you had discovered evidence of the ice station and it had been stolen, would you have been denied the funding?"
Matlock stared at her over the top of his glasses, unaccustomed to being addressed by someone he had dismissed. "If I had discovered it, Dr. Gould, I would have been seeking funding as an established academic with three decades' worth of reputation behind me, not as someone who has only just finished her doctorate. It makes a great deal of difference, as you may someday find out." He looked down again. "And believe me, I have access to funding streams far superior to this."
"Then you think that making important discoveries should be left to academics at the end of their careers, not the beginning?" Nina was aware of the harsh tone in her voice, but she was beyond the point where she could do anything to control it.
Matlock looked up again, and this time his eyes were steely. "Dr. Gould." His voice was smoothly menacing. "I have given you my decision. Unless you wish to become an academic at the end of her career before you have even got started, I would advise you to leave my office. Now."
With a white-knuckle grip, Nina turned the handle. She forced herself to smile sweetly and thank Professor Matlock as she walked out of the room.
"Oh, and Nina?" he called after her, "Let's have that chat after the new year!"
By the time she got out of the building and onto the street, Nina was shaking with rage. She had known all along that the funding application was a long shot, but Matlock had not just rejected her. He had patronized her. He had humiliated her. He had made it clear yet again that the only way to rise within his department was to suck up to him.
She walked through George Square Gardens, trying to let the icy beauty of the place calm her down. When that did not work, she found herself a quiet corner and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession. Then she pulled out her phone and rang Sam's number.
"Hello?"
"Sam, it's Nina. Look, the funding interview… it didn't go well."
"Ah, well," Sam did not sound disappointed. If anything, he sounded relieved. "Never mind. Other things will come up."
"Mmm." Nina refused to be comforted. "The thing is, I've got this stupid benefactors' ball to go to tonight. The entire department's going to be there, and by this evening they'll all know about my application and the head of my department will be taking the piss behind my back. I really can't face it."
"So blow it off."
"I can't. I'm crap enough at networking as it is. If I don't turn up it'll look really bad, especially after today. Come with me?"
Sam snorted. "Well, you've really sold it to me!"
"I know," Nina groaned. "Sorry… I wouldn't ask, but the invitation is a plus one and I'd feel a lot better about going if I had someone I got on with there. There'll be free food. And lots of free drink."
She was sure that she could hear Sam's shrug over the phone. "Well, if there's free drink…" Sam said. "Go on then. Where is it? Do I have to dress up?"
"Old College," Nina grinned. "Black tie. Do you have a suit?"
"Somewhere."
"Dig it out, then. I'll meet you in Dagda about half past seven."
Chapter 7
Sam lingered by the bookshelves in the Playfair Library, clutching his champagne glass as if it were a shield. From time to time, eager young research fellows would mistake him for someone important and attempt to strike up a conversation, at which point Sam would develop an instant fascination with the books that lined the alcoves. The sweeping central aisle had been designated as a dance floor, where Nina was allowing the head of the classics department to waltz with her while the string quartet played. Sam had no intention of being dragged out to dance, so he identified the optimum position for accosting the waiters who wove in and out of the shelves proffering drink and canapés, and remained there.
Nina scrubs up well, Sam thought, watching her swirling gracefully in the arms of the elderly academic. Her dark-red cocktail dress flowed as she moved, and she danced well. Sam found himself wondering about her. We've never really talked about anything other than the ice station stuff, he realized. I don't even know how old she is. Early thirties, I'd guess. I wonder what she's done with her life, other than have an affair with a married man?
He glanced down at his own attire. It wasn't full black tie — Sam had never owned a tuxedo and never intended to — but it was a suit rather than a pair of jeans. His shirt was ironed and he had managed to borrow a black bow tie from Paddy. He was clean-shaven for the first time in a long time, and he knew himself to look passable.
"Ugh, I hate dancing." Nina appeared at Sam's side, two fresh glasses of champagne in her hands. "Schmoozing is horrible enough at the best of times, when all you have to do is stand around and chat. But all the pawing… ugh."
"But you dance so well," Sam teased. "From what I could see, your footwork is much better than your conversation."
"Shut up or I'll tell them you're a gatecrasher and they'll make you pay for your booze," Nina shot back. "Oh, god, he's coming over — quick, pretend we're in the middle of a really intense conversation."
"What? Who is it?" Sam scanned the room and spotted a tall, thin man striding purposefully toward them. "Who's he?"
"Dave Purdue," hissed Nina. "He's one of the benefactors. At last year's ball he backed me into a corner and tried to get me to go home with him. I really don't want a repeat performance."
Sam did his best to look as if he and Nina were having a deep and meaningful discussion, but he found that his mind had gone completely blank. He began talking at random about the library, the Old College, the construction of South Bridge, anything he could dredge up from the depths of his memory. Nina hung on his every word, doing a good impression of being fascinated.
It did not work. "Nina!" Dave Purdue cried out as he approached. "Lovely to see you again!" Ignoring Sam completely, he took Nina's hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Hello, Dave," Nina said with a strangled smile. "Good to see you too." She detached her hand as subtly as she could and wrapped it around Sam's arm. "Have you met Sam Cleave?" she asked. "He's…" Nina's sentence ground to a halt as she realized that she and Sam had not prepared for this eventuality. Sam was tempted to help her out, but far more interested in finding out what she would say unprompted. "He's here with me," she finished lamely.
Dave Purdue peered at Sam with quizzical detachment. "Is he your lover?" he asked Nina.
"What? No!" Nina was taken aback. "He's a friend, that's all."
"Good," said Purdue. He appeared to consider the matter closed. "Did you say Sam Cleave?" he asked. "Of the Edinburgh Post?"
"That's me," Sam said. Might as well work the advantages while I still have them.
"How fortunate. I was hoping to meet you in the very near future." Purdue registered Sam's bemused expression. "Your paper's editor was in touch with me recently asking for an interview, since I have recently made Edinburgh my permanent home and he seemed to consider this noteworthy. I have yet to agree or disagree, but I had promised myself that I would allow it on the condition that you were the one to write about me. Will you do it?"