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  And I wanted Hugh. Desperately. I wanted all that kindness and gentleness for myself. I needed him to see me not as a student, but as a woman. What if I hadn’t been lost all these years, but instead on a preordained path that led to Hugh? Fiction and solitude had made me dangerous.

  The day I seduced him, we were talking about writers’ retreats. Hugh had written his second novel in a pension near the beach in Cirali, Turkey, and still believed it was the best writing he’d ever done.

  “Weren’t you lonely?” I asked him, regretting immediately the way my question made me sound: young and terribly unsophisticated.

  “I wasn’t, no,” he said, smiling. “There were other writers there, and a good bar on the beach. And a steady stream of backpackers looking for interesting life experiences.”

  “Like sleeping with published writers?” I said, trying to right myself in the conversation.

  “Occasionally,” said Hugh.

  “I was there last summer, on Cirali beach,” I told him. It was true. I would have lied, if necessary, to keep the conversation on a more personal footing, but as it happened, I’d been to see the turtles before moving home.

  “What did you think of it?” he asked.

  “I thought it was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen,” I said. Again, truth. “I had to leave before the turtles hatched, though.” I wondered why I was telling him this story. I could feel a blush rising, could see myself through Hugh’s eyes as a naive student, in over her head.

  “What happened?”

  “I wanted to visit a hammam. Some other travellers I met suggested one that was popular with tourists. But I went at the wrong time, and there weren’t any other women there. I got a male masseuse. Masseur?”

  “He must have thought it was Christmas come early,” said Hugh.

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t celebrate Christmas,” I said. “But he was . . . excited, yes. I don’t think he’d seen a Western woman, or maybe any woman, naked before. It wasn’t very relaxing. And then he showed up at my hotel the next day.”

  Hugh looked fierce, reached out, pulled his hand back. My skin prickled where his hand had almost been. He had wanted to touch me. I knew it. Good sense and propriety had overridden it, but I’d seen the desire in him. I felt incandescent with power. I could have him. I could take him.

  “Nothing bad happened,” I told him. I moved slowly, and put my hand on Hugh’s knee, left it there. “I was fine, really. But it seemed like a good time to leave.” I stroked my thumb back and forth. His breath caught.

  “The turtles are amazing,” he said. “I’m sorry you missed them.”

  He slid his hand over mine, linked our fingers. Our eyes met and held. His eyes were brown, a steady, warm brown, with laugh lines at the edges that crinkled when he smiled. His hair was brown, too, no grey. He had a strong jaw that was clean-shaven, with only a hint of shadow in the later afternoon.

  “Avery,” he said, “I can’t. This isn’t . . . you’re lovely. It’s not that. I’m your supervisor. I’m way too old for you.” But he didn’t let go of my hand.

  “I think I should get a vote,” I said, and I closed the distance between us and touched my lips to his, just the tiniest touch, barely a whisper of contact.

  Hugh stood and walked away. I was stunned, mortified at having so badly misread the situation, until I heard the lock turn. Hugh returned and sat with his hip touching mine. “What was I saying?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t important,” I told him. I kicked off my shoes, tucked one leg under the other, faced him.

  “No,” he said. “Not important.” He cupped my cheek with his palm, then slid it down the side of my neck, stroked my collarbone, cradled a breast. “So beautiful,” he said. “God. What have you done to me?”

  “Nothing you didn’t want me to do,” I said.

  He sighed. His hand continued its slow descent, brushing the curve of my waist, hip, thigh, before coming to rest on my knee. “Every man has his limits,” he said. He gave me a wry smile. “So,” he said, “how did you like the reading this week?”

  I laughed, and so did he. I said, “I think I’m ready for something more hands-on.”

  “Experiential learning,” he said. “They tell me it’s all the rage.” He looked at me, serious, intent. “This isn’t the kind of thing I do, Avery. Sleeping with students. I’m not that guy. I want you to know that. I want you to be sure. We can stop right now and not mention it again.”

  “That’s not what I have in mind,” I told him, lying back, drawing him down with me.

  Months later, whenever I thought of our first time together, I would still be surprised at how hungry we were for each other. It wasn’t tender, the way we came together; it wasn’t playful. Nor was it the best sex I’d ever had: it was cramped and awkward to undress each other on that old couch, and eventually we stood up and tore our own clothes off in frustration; and the conversation about protection was far from smooth (“Are you . . . ?” “No. Do you . . . ?” He did); and the sofa squeaked each time one of us shifted our weight, and we worried that someone might hear us out in the hallway.

  But Hugh paid attention, took his time. He asked again, “Are you sure?” and waited for my answer before he pushed into me. He kissed me as I came, ladies first, and I was renewed in that moment with the possibility of a future stretching beyond that couch, that room, that physical act, a future in which I made sense to myself.

  The next few months were heady. It was cleansing to feel purposeful again. I was doing well in school, too, and working like crazy. My professors (not only Hugh) were generous with their praise. I joined a writing group and helped organize a conference. And I was wildly, recklessly in love.

  “I haven’t seen her in ages,” I said to Jenny as we waited for Tara at the train station that January. Tara was coming for the weekend.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages,” said Jenny.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I haven’t been around much. It’s easier to write at school, at the library.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?” said Jenny. “I know you’re practically living at his apartment.”

  “That is completely not true,” I said. We had to be very careful, Hugh and I, not to be seen together too often.

  “It wasn’t the deal, Avery,” said Jenny. “I didn’t plan on living in a shithole by myself.”

  “I still live there,” I said.

  “Whatever,” said Jenny. “I’m not doing this for another year. Spend more time at home or I’ll find another roommate.”

  Tara came through the gates. Jenny and I grabbed on to her, and the three of us nearly toppled over Tara’s suitcase, but caught our balance just before we fell.

  “Oh my God, you guys,” said Tara. “I missed you so much!”

  “We missed you too,” I said.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” said Jenny.

  We rode the subway down to our apartment and dropped Tara’s things before heading out to dinner. There was an inexpensive Italian place around the corner that reminded me of the trip we’d taken together to Rome. We ordered a carafe of wine, and poured it generously.

  “Tell me everything,” said Tara. “You first, Jenny. How’s the program?”

  “I hate it,” said Jenny. “I should never have let Don talk me out of art school.”

  “Are you making anything?” asked Tara.

  “I’m painting,” said Jenny. “There’s free studio space at the school. Too bad it isn’t for credit.”

  “Is it safe there?” said Tara.

  “Safer than it is in this neighbourhood,” said Jenny.

  “I would worry about you if you didn’t have each other,” said Tara. “I love it that you’re roommates. Oh my God, you guys, how long has it been since we had a sleepover?”

  “Tara,” I said, “I was planning on staying at a friend’s house tonight. You know, so you wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch.”

  “But I don’t mind,”
she said. “Not at all! Please don’t go on my account.”

  “Seriously?” said Jenny. “You’re seriously going to do this tonight?”

  “Our place is tiny, Jenny,” I said.

  “Is that why you never bring him over?” she said.

  “Bring who?” asked Tara.

  “My boyfriend,” I said.

  “Didn’t you know she had a boyfriend?” asked Jenny, who knew the answer perfectly well.

  “No!” said Tara. “Tell me now. Who is he? I want to meet him!”

  “I don’t know if he can do that this weekend,” I said.

  “Why not tonight?” said Tara. “I don’t mind if he crashes our reunion.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “He’s a bit shy.”

  Jenny snorted. Tara looked confused, and worried.

  “You have to preserve your friendships when you’re in a romantic relationship,” said Tara. She’d been married for over a year at that point, which apparently qualified her as an expert. “Ethan was totally supportive of this trip. He encouraged it!”

  “That’s great,” I said. “You seem really happy.”

  “You’re changing the subject,” said Tara. “What’s this guy like? What’s his name?”

  “Hugh,” I said. “His name is Hugh.”

  “And?” said Tara. She turned to Jenny. “Have you met him?”

  “Not exactly,” said Jenny. “I know who he is.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Tara.

  “She’s having an affair with her supervisor,” said Jenny. “So it’s a secret.”

  “Fuck you, Jenny,” I said.

  “Back at you,” Jenny said.

  “What’s going on?” said Tara.

  “You know him, too,” said Jenny. “It’s Hugh Crane.”

  “I . . .” said Tara. “I don’t know what to say. Isn’t he married?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s divorced. He’s been divorced forever.”

  “Just like you’ll be together forever?” said Jenny.

  “Stop,” said Tara. “Stop. Please. I’m sorry, Avery. Obviously, this is a big deal for you.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “It’s only that . . . isn’t he kind of old for you?”

  “You think?” said Jenny.

  “Age doesn’t matter,” I said, with some heat. “Hugh is experienced and mature.”

  “Hugh’s a very nice man,” said Tara, “but a secret relationship? Doesn’t it bother you?”

  It did bother me, in fact. I was sick of living out of a weekend bag and watching videos in Hugh’s apartment. The clandestine thrill had passed and a gnawing irritation had taken its place. A secret affair was inconvenient, even stifling at times, but I could hardly tell that to Tara or Jenny.

  “Don’t be so uptight,” I said. “It’s exciting. Not everyone wants to get married and have babies, Tara. I want to live.”

  “By hiding in your father figure’s apartment?” said Jenny. “Yeah, you’re living the dream.”

  I looked at my watch. “I should go,” I said. Neither of them tried to stop me.

  Later, curled against Hugh’s side, I said, “Is it really such a big deal? We’re adults. It’s a graduate program. There’s no power imbalance here.”

  “Avery, I know you’re frustrated,” said Hugh. “So am I. Don’t you think I want to show you off to the world? But you have to be patient. I love you. But I also love my career. And I can’t give you the life I want you to have if I ruin it.”

  “I could request a new advisor,” I said. This was not a new conversation.

  “I don’t think that would be good for you,” said Hugh, as he always did. “I want you to be taken seriously, which you wouldn’t be if you were caught up in a departmental scandal. And anyway, I don’t think any of my colleagues would be willing to take on additional supervision in the middle of the year.”

  “We’re living in the greatest city in the world and we barely leave your apartment except to get takeout and buy condoms. We can’t go on like this forever,” I said. It was as close as I ever came to crying in front of him.

  “We won’t,” said Hugh. “I promise you.” He smiled, his face full of love. “Forever is a long time, darling.”

  {CHAPTER 5}

  Wednesday, July 12, 2017

  I choose the restaurant carefully. Tara may be my oldest friend and my sister-in-law, but she doesn’t owe me anything. You could say that entering politics is like joining a religious organization, where you renounce worldly connections and possessions to serve a higher purpose. You could also say that politics is an echo chamber where already self-absorbed people become even more so. Tara, I suspect, would take the latter view.

  We go to Malachite. It’s the gorgeous, newly renovated wine bar and bistro at the art gallery. It’s almost impossible to get a lunch reservation, unless you are Bonnie. So now I owe her, too.

  I’m there early, another gesture of supplication. Tara walks in right on time, her chestnut locks looking as Middletonian as they always have. She slides in across from me and orders tap water, a bad sign. She’s all business today.

  “So,” she says, “what can I do for you?”

  This is positively frosty for Tara, and it takes me a second to get my bearings. I’ve clearly screwed up, badly and recently. But admitting that I don’t know what I’ve done will only make things worse. So instead I play it cool. “What do you mean?” I say.

  “Avery,” says Tara. “We’ve been friends for our whole lives. I’m married to your brother. I know you. This isn’t a girls’ lunch. So what do you need that’s such an imposition that you couldn’t ask me over the phone?”

  Busted, I decide to go with the unvarnished truth. “I need you to ask Hugh for a favour,” I say.

  “Hugh Crane?” says Tara. “Cousin Hugh?”

  “Yes, that Hugh,” I say.

  “Remind me why you can’t ask him yourself ?”

  “Tara.”

  “Fine, Avery,” says Tara. It’s always been difficult for Tara to be mean for any length of time, or to hold a grudge, however merited. Jenny and I left her in the dust in that department. “I’m listening.”

  “Roger Wozniak is an aspiring poet,” I say. “His son got the idea that it would be nice to have his poetry published in The Beak as a birthday present.”

  “Roger Wozniak,” says Tara. “Huh. Wouldn’t have called that.”

  “People are complicated,” I say.

  “No shit,” says Tara. Tara never swears.

  “So anyway,” I say, “Hugh isn’t going to publish it.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “I have.”

  “And it’s terrible?”

  “It doesn’t have emoticons in it,” I say. “But yeah. It’s bad.”

  “Hugh doesn’t owe me any favours,” Tara says. “And especially not where you’re concerned, as you know.”

  “That’s why you can’t tell him it came from me,” I say.

  “And why would I be helping the Wozniaks?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You’re in PR. You’re creative. You can make up something convincing, can’t you?”

  “Maybe I could,” says Tara. “But I’ve got a few other things on my plate, actually. To recap: I’m running a division at a PR firm, raising two kids, managing a household, and trying to keep my marriage together. Oh, and I was just elected class parent. Please, don’t congratulate me.”

  “He’s the next Leonard Cohen,” I say.

  “If you think I’m going to have a sense of humour about this, you’ll be sadly disappointed,” says Tara.

  I’ve been warned. It’s time to grovel.

  “Tara, I really need your help. I will do whatever you ask me to do.”

  We both know what I’m offering here. There is only one thing Tara wants from me, the one thing I’ve steadfastly refused to do for the past three years. There is a pause as we both acknowledge the moment that has come.

  “I under
stand that you’re coming to the cottage this weekend,” says Tara.

  “So I’m told.”

  “I want you to talk to Jenny,” says Tara. “I want you to try to make it right with her.”

  “I can talk to her, but I can’t promise miracles.”

  “I said ‘try,’” says Tara.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Then you have a deal.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re also buying lunch.”

  “Peter’s buying lunch.”

  “Even better,” says Tara.

  We place our orders, and with the menus gone, there is nowhere to hide.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” says Tara, “I hear that Martine has decided to sell the cottage.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” I say. “It’s classic attention-seeking behaviour. Mom doesn’t want to sell.”

  “No?” says Tara. “That’s not what I hear. You know she has a boyfriend, right?”

  “Of course,” I say. This is not true, and Tara knows it.

  “She’s been internet dating,” says Tara.

  I take a long drink of water. “I know,” I say.

  “She’s taking pole dancing for fitness class,” says Tara.

  “Yes, I hear she’s enjoying that,” I say.

  Tara eyes me. “I can do this all day, Avery,” she says. “How about you let me know when you’re ready to stop lying?”

  I slump in my chair, defeated. “Is she really taking pole dancing?”

  “No,” says Tara. “But the internet dating part is true. She’s seeing a retired archaeologist named Bernard. He’s an expert in Mayan civilization. They want to do some travelling, maybe live in Mexico in the winters. Martine wants to free up some capital.”

  “Not the cottage,” I say.

  “Not your call,” says Tara.

  “Let’s talk about you,” I say.

  “Well,” says Tara, “it was my birthday on the weekend, so Ethan and I went to the Inn on the Bay.”

  “Fuck,” I say. “Oh fuck. Tara, I forgot your birthday. Oh my God.”

  “Yup,” says Tara. Her eyes are shiny and she doesn’t look at me as she takes a long drink of her tap water.