Page 53 of Love and Other Paradoxes

“Great!” His roommate smeared jam carefully around the rim of another envelope. “That’s all sorted, then.”

Joe stared out of the window. “Aye,” he said. “All sorted.”

Chapter Eighteen

Next Friday. Ten days away. He could have taken Dr. Lewis’s advice and filled the time with work. But he had so much to catch up on that getting started seemed impossible.

It shouldn’t have been so hard. The Joseph Greene who did the work to get his promised 2:1 undoubtedly existed. He would have to turn into him any day now. But like the poet who stared out from his mug as he drank endless procrastinatory cups of tea, that successful version of him felt increasingly distant from who he currently was.

To distract from all the ways he was failing to live up to himself, he overprepared for his meeting with Diana. He went over and over the script Esi had suggested until the future felt like it had already happened. On the day, he woke tingling and nauseous. He put on an actual shirt, and made an attempt at applying goop to his hair, but the effortless swoops Esi had crafted were impossible for him to re-create. He gave up and headed for the door, doubling back to pick upMeant to Befrom under his pillow.

As he waited outside Whewell’s Court, he felt the slim weight of the book inside his jacket, a talisman anchoring him to the future. No time travellers were watching: Vera had led them back to the wormhole earlier than usual. He tried not to let the change in routine worry him, but these days, every little thing struck him as a harbinger of disaster.

He had texted Diana as soon as he arrived, but she had obviously decided to keep him waiting. Someone pushed past him, holding up their card to open the gate. Joe caught it before it closed and slipped inside.

He climbed her staircase and knocked on the door. After two minutes of ostentatious shuffling—he resisted the urge to knock again—she finally opened it.

“Joseph. How wonderful to see you.” At the sight of her, luminous in a black cashmere sweater, his annoyance evaporated. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” Before he could accept, she added sweetly, “As long as you promise not to throw it all over me.”

Apologies leapt to his tongue like frogs in a fairy tale. He brushed them away.Act like you meant it.“So that was just a line?” he asked, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway. “You’re not actually offering me tea?”

She put her hands on her hips. “No, I’m not offering you tea! You poured wine all down my boyfriend!” When he failed to wither under her glare, it shifted into curiosity. “What exactly were you thinking?”

He remembered what Esi had told him to say.Passion blah blah blah, jealousy blah blah blah.He couldn’t do a convincing performance of those, not yet. But when he thought about the Crispin in the book, the misery hidden in the few terse words describing their marriage, it already made him furious. “I was thinking about how he doesn’t deserve you.”

She sighed. “Joseph, respectfully, you don’t know anything about mine and Crispin’s relationship. What are you basing this on? An overheard phone conversation, and the fact that he called you my Scottish stripper?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry about that, by the way. It was uncalled-for. But hardly proof that he’s some sort of storybook villain.”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying he takes you for granted. And if you get back with him, it’s only going to get worse.”

“Get back with him?” She affected a look of confusion. “Sorry, I wasn’t aware we’d broken up.”

Not yet.He was getting ahead of himself. Time to get back on script. “Look. You’re right. Maybe I should have thought about it, taken a step back. But the truth is, I can’t think straight when it comes to you.”

She smiled a rich, exulting smile. “Is that so.”

Hating himself a little for having said it, hating her a little more for liking it, he nodded.

She came closer, invading his space. He flinched—he couldn’t help it—and she laughed. She slid her arms around him. “Is this what you want?” she asked curiously.

His heart was hammering.Finally, here it was, said the narrator,the fateful moment when muse and poet would—

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a book in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” She reached inside his jacket.

“No. Not a book.” He stepped back. Panic flooded his veins. If she saw, it was all over. Her picture, her name on the cover—

“Joseph. I’m an English student. If I’ve learned nothing else from my degree, I hope I can at least reliably identify a book.” She made a playful grab. “Why are you being so cagey about it? Is it pornography?”

He danced away, letting out a nervous laugh. “Yes, it’s a hardback book of porn. What am I, a pervy Victorian lord?”

“Perhaps. You do have a certain timeless charm.” She pinned his arm with a surprisingly strong grip. “Let me see it!”

Desperate, he burst out, “It’s a philosophy textbook!”

She made a face like she’d smelt something rotten. “Well, that killed the intrigue stone dead.” Sighing, she went to stand by the window. “So. Shall we get into it?”

“Sure.” As she began to recite the poem, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his heart thudded. A string of messages from Esi: the first time he’d heard from her since he’d left the café ten days ago.

Just saw my mum go into Trinity

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