A Matter of Trust Page 3

  Markie Kendall laughed, a genuinely amused gurgle of merriment. ‘Oh you lot! You’re always trying to pair me off with someone! How many times do I have to tell you? I’m currently foot-loose and fancy free. Honest! Cross my heart,’ she said cheekily, and did just that. Of course, the flash photography went wild again as she made the provocative gesture over her left breast.

  And she was in fact, telling the truth. She’d never been married, and had in fact dated relatively little so far. Most of the times when she was seen out and about with this film star at a premiere, or with that pop star at a rock concert, or eating with a television presenter at a top restaurant, they’d been ‘dates’ arranged by her publicist and the PR people of the other parties concerned.

  It was far harder to meet a genuine ‘normal’ man when you always had to drag around ‘Marcheta’ with you than most people would imagine, Markie mused a trifle sadly. Some men found her fame too much to bear and quickly ran a mile when the media began to sniff around their personal lives. And the ones who liked the limelight tended to be jealous when she, inevitably, was always the biggest star. All of which meant that her love-life to date had hardly been anything to write home about.

  The truth was, Markie Kendall led a much more sedate and scandal-free existence than any of her fans would be willing to believe!

  ‘Actually, I’m here to give a party. Well, not me personally, but Oxford University. My late grandfather, as you know, attended here back in the thirties, at St Bede’s College, and when he died, he endowed the University with the Kendall Prize.’

  Several of the journalists nodded their heads, marking them out as locals, whilst the majority merely looked bored or disinterested. Markie gave a mental sigh. That was the trouble with the media—they went wild for the shallow and meaningless, but give them anything genuinely interesting to listen to and they didn’t want to know!

  Nevertheless, she was determined to do a good job. ‘The Kendall Prize is given every five years, and is awarded to a psychology Fellow of the University. It’s a substantial amount that funds the winner for a five-year period in their area of research. It’s hotly contended. This year, my father asked me to attend the award Dinner and present the Prize. But don’t ask me who’s won it, because even I won’t know until the Dinner!’

  That last was rather a fib, but she’d been sworn to secrecy.

  ‘What’re you going to wear, Marcheta?’ a voice demanded, and Markie bit back a groan of annoyance. What on earth did it matter what she was going to wear, she thought crossly. Didn’t they understand that a five-year research grant was heaven to an academic? Every time the Kendall Prize became available, the Oxford University psychology Department fairly boiled with excitement!

  But as she looked around at the crowd of bored or eager journalists, the seasoned hacks and the still-keen newcomers, she realised that it was pointless trying to tell them how really proud she was to be here on behalf of her family to award the prestigious Prize. None of the rest of Markie’s family had followed her illustrious grandfather into the academic world, but her father especially was proud to uphold the family’s heritage. And she’d been genuinely touched and proud when he’d asked her to award the Prize, for the first time.

  But if fluff was what they wanted, fluff was what she’d give them. ‘Oh nothing too see-through,’ she said, with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I don’t want to give any of the older College Dons a coronary.’

  There was an explosion of laughter as she turned pertly on her pretty Jimmy Choos and with that parting and daring riposte disappeared into the hotel. A professional doorman kept the media from pursuing her inside, and once she was booked in and shown to her room, ‘Marcheta’ could disappear, and Markie Kendall could once more take her place.

  She took a quick shower and changed into a simple beige pants suit with an orange blouse. She competently rolled up her long tresses into a loose chignon, and tied it up with matching orange scarf, and donning a pair of sunglasses went outside to explore the city.

  Unusually, she’d arranged her calendar so that she had no work scheduled for the next two months.

  It had been ages since she’d had any proper time off, and the idea of autumn in a new city, killing several birds with one stone, had appealed to her.

  She would oversee and give final approval on her choice of perfume, give the Prize, find her future fashion designer for the Marcheta Casual range, and take a holiday, all at the same time.

  For Markie Kendall, that relatively leisurely schedule would be a walk in the park!

  Or so she thought.

  * * *

  On the first day of October, Sir Vivian left the Bodleian library with a weary sigh, shivering as a cool autumnal breeze teased the flaps of his raincoat and sent chills across his legs.

  As he waited in the queue for the Summertown bus, he transferred the heavy briefcase from his left hand to his right, and wished that his arms and legs didn’t feel quite so weak and tremulous. He stumbled as he mounted the bus, and all but fell into his seat. He closed his eyes briefly as the shops and pedestrians of Cornmarket Street sped by the bus windows.

  It had been six days since Nesta Aldernay had come to visit him, but it felt like so many years.

  Tonight, he would go to the hospital to speak to his wife. He badly needed her right at that moment. His whole world felt as if it was crumbling around him. Her tumour had turned out to be malignant, and was to be operated on as soon as she was strong enough to withstand surgery. He didn’t know what he’d do if the worst came to the worst and he had to live life without her.

  But he knew, no matter how black things looked now, just the sight of her face and brave smile would make life worth while again. Even when he told her about Nesta Aldernay, and her father’s thesis.

  For there was no doubt now—none at all.

  And soon now he was going to have to take the first step on a very unpleasant journey.

  He looked across the green expanse of a small churchyard, and picked out the rooftops of his college—St Bede’s—towering over Little Clarendon Street. He still kept his room there, and tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, he would take in all his papers and related research. Keeping them on college premises would be better in the long run, of that he was sure. If he was to have the backing of his college before going to the Vice-Chancellor, it was only fair that Lord St John James, the Principal of St Bede’s, had the opportunity to bring in other, independent eyes, to run over his findings.

  In truth, it would be a relief to hand over the whole mess to other, younger, more robust hands.

  Sir Vivian sighed and leaned his tired head against the window. An old lady, who knew him and his stop, nudged him awake helpfully when the bus reached Park Town.

  * * *

  Dr Rosemary Naismith smiled at the two undergraduates who were gathering their things together. ‘Don’t forget, I want those essays by the end of the month,’ she warned them.

  Her two students mock-groaned but nodded, and when she walked with them to the door and opened it, she glanced at her watch and her heartbeat picked up pleasantly.

  He was almost certainly going to be on time. He always was. That was one of the many things she remembered about him from her time as his tutor. He would be a challenge, and she liked challenges. Especially when they looked like Dr Callum Fielding.

  She left the door ajar for him and went back inside to run a comb through her hair, and touch up her lipstick. She squirted some of Dior’s ‘Poison’ behind her ears and hastily turned around when she heard a tap at the door.

  She checked that her white slacks were wrinkle-free at her curving hips and moved forward to throw the door open wide. Immediately her whole vision was filled with him. He was so damned big. Six feet six easily, with white-blonde hair and sea-green eyes that could turn a cold stormy grey, on occasion. Classically square-jawed, with a not-quite aquiline nose, he looked like the ex-rugby and rowing blue that he was.

  ‘Callum, thanks for co
ming.’

  ‘Dr Naismith.’

  Rosemary hid a wince, and stood aside to beckon him inside. ‘Oh come on, Callum. It’s been three years now since you were my student. Surely you can call me Rosemary?’

  Dr Callum Fielding smiled dryly. ‘Of course. Rosemary. I was surprised to get your message.’

  Rosemary shut the door behind him, and gestured to one of three large leather armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Oxford prided itself on its tutorial system. Most Dons had a room at college (or a suite of rooms, since some of the unmarried ones preferred to live in.) Here they gave tutorials to one or two students at a time, in a relaxed, homely setting. Rosemary Naismith had found this system very beneficial over the years. It had meant she had her pick of handsome young male students, for she had a voracious sexual appetite.

  Unfortunately for her, the gorgeous Callum Fielding had always been the one who got away.

  ‘But not an unpleasant surprise, I hope?’ she teased, raising an eyebrow.

  Rosemary was now forty-two years old, but she looked younger, with long honey-blonde hair, brown eyes and a trim figure. She’d married and divorced young, had no children, and had been tutoring for her college, Truman Hall, for the last fifteen years. To all outward appearances she was a hard-working but possibly unspectacular academic.

  Callum smiled briefly. ‘Of course not. I was just a little puzzled, that’s all.’

  He’d always felt a little wary around Rosemary Naismith, and the fact that he was now a Doctor in his own right and a Fellow of St Bede’s didn’t make him feel any less cautious.

  He knew that, when he’d been working for his D.Phil, several of his friends had been envious that one of his tutors had been Rosemary, whose repuation had a habit of going before her. But Callum had never found her particularly helpful as a tutor, and he certainly didn’t want to become just another notch on her bedpost. All of which meant that he’d been relieved to earn his doctorate and move on out of her orbit.

  ‘Yes, I dare say you were,’ Rosemary said, her eyes moving over his large, powerful frame. ‘Still keeping up with the rowing?’ she asked, but she could see from his powerful arm muscles and the impressive width of his chest, that he was.

  ‘Some,’ Callum said briefly. ‘But my glory days in the Boat Race are far behind me nowadays.’

  Rosemary could have told him differently. As a young twenty-something, Callum had been quite a sight to behold, but now into his thirties, Callum Fielding had matured into a truly heart-stoppingly masculine presence.

  ‘I was just hoping to have a quiet word. Since you left Truman for that rabble over at St Bede’s I hardly ever see you.’ Her college was one of the newer ones (only three centuries old) and the high-ceilinged, square, elegant room overlooked a quad and velvet-soft green lawn. She saw him glance down briefly, but St Bede’s was even older, and had far more extensive grounds.

  Callum said nothing. The truth was, he’d taken the offer of Experimental psychology Fellow at St Bede’s, rather than a similar post being offered to him by Truman Hall, simply because he didn’t want to work or live in the same College as this woman.

  Not that she’d actually stalked him or anything, but Callum had always felt like a tasty worm being eyed by a particularly hungry starling, whenever he’d gone to her for a tutorial. And since he’d always intended to make Oxford, and academe, both his career and lifestyle choice, he’d been determined to find another college in which to put down his roots.

  And he’d never regretted his choice. St Bede’s had been good to him, and for him, over the years.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ she offered.

  ‘Thank you—coffee would be fine,’ he said, folding his large, powerful form into one of the—thankfully—strong and sturdy armchairs.

  Rosemary disappeared into a small kitchenette and, once the drinks were made, came back and took the chair opposite him. Beside her on the coffee table was the photograph of a handsome, dark-haired man dressed in the athletic garb of Great Britain’s Olympic team. He was holding up three silver medals to the camera, and smiling widely.

  She noticed his gaze on it, and smiled. ‘That’s my partner. Well, about to be ex, I think,’ she sighed. ‘I have the feeling he’s about to leave for pastures new.’ In fact, she knew he was, the rat. ‘He’s an archer. He won three silvers at the last big show, and is hoping for better things next time. One gold at least. He’s about to leave for the States to do some serious training with a coach there that he’s been raving about.’

  Callum smiled. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Oh you don’t need to be impressed by anyone, Callum,’ Rosemary said, her voice caressing.

  Callum blinked and took a sip of his coffee. ‘So, Rosemary, why am I here?’ he asked calmly.

  Rosemary smiled. That was another thing she remembered about Callum Fielding His sometimes unnerving habit of coming right to the point.

  ‘It’s about the Kendall Prize,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, puzzled. ‘I’m not quite sure . . .?’

  ‘Please, Callum, you know we’re both in the running for it this time.’

  ‘I thought it was always kept very hush-hush. You know, nobody but the Chancellor knows who’s won it until the Kendall family representative hands over an engraved crystal bowl at the party.’

  ‘Together with that lovely enormous cheque, yes I know,’ Rosemary laughed. ‘But I know people who vote on the committee, and between you, me and the bedpost, I’ve seen the short list. You’re on it, and so am I. Then there’s Dr Ngabe, and Felicity Ollenback of all people.’ Nervously she began to twirl a tress of hair around and around her middle finger. She shifted in her chair, crossing one leg at the knee, and hugging onto her shin with the other hand.

  Callum felt a bolt of excitement lance through him. Was he really in with a chance to win the Kendall Prize? The thought was a heady one indeed. For the next five years he could do any research he chose, and be fully funded. His college would even be happy to reduce his teaching commitments, because it would be a feather in their cap for any college to have a Kendall Prize winner on their prospectus. He could travel the world in his chosen field, and the Kendall name, a well-respected one in all circles of psychology, would open the doors to give him access to private libraries and collections that he would otherwise only be able to dream about.

  Then he abruptly came back down to earth. Even if he was short-listed, there was no saying he would win it. Dr Ngabe was doing very interesting research right now, and would have to be one of the major contenders. Of course, his own D.Phil thesis had been a spectacular success, and had been the reason he’d had his choice of several posts with Oxford University. But that had been over eight years ago now, and he couldn’t rest on those laurels for ever.

  He’d had two books published since then though, both very well received and lauded.

  On the other hand, perhaps Rosemary Naismith was up to something. He wouldn’t put it past her—she’d always been a woman with a plan, as he recalled.

  ‘What’s going on, Rosemary?’ he asked bluntly. For although he could understand why Ngabe, Ollenback and himself might be Short listed, he couldn’t quite see why Dr Naismith was. He’d never found her a particularly inspiring teacher and she hadn’t been published for years. And apart from producing a blinding D.Phil thesis of her own, she’d done very little since to merit catching the attention of the Kendall Prize Committee.

  Her big brown eyes became abruptly shuttered and she stiffened in her chair. ‘Nothing!’ Rosemary shrugged casually, but her eyes darted about the room, unable to settle.

  The truth was, she’d been bedding one of the adjudicators on the Kendall Committee, and he’d let it slip that she wasn’t on the short list at all. But since it was never published, and only the winner of the Prize was announced at the Dinner, nobody was to know that. Of course, her indiscreet bedmate had, with a little persuasion, given up the names of those who were on the short list, and as usual sh
e’d come up with a plan to profit by such hotly-guarded knowledge. ‘But I had this great idea.’

  She leaned forward in her chair and put her hand on his. Callum watched her, coolly amused. ‘What if you and I were to strike up a deal?’

  Callum’s grey-green eyes flickered. ‘Such as?’ he asked, his voice neutral. Trying to disguise his distaste, he very gently moved his hand out from under hers.

  Rosemary’s eyes flashed dangerously, and then she laughed. ‘Oh come on, Callum! Live a little for once. You always were so straight-laced. I’m not proposing anything scandalous. It’s just that I thought we could maximise our chances of getting something good out of this. Now, either one of us could win the Prize,’ she lied, ‘which would be nice, or both of us could miss out. But we could double our chances, by agreeing to share it, if one of us wins it. What do you think?’

  Callum felt like laughing. Trust Rosemary to try and beat the system. She’d always been something of a rebel, and this was another reason why her colourful ways made him the envy of his friends. But Callum had always been aware of a touch of cruelty in her breezy way with the truth, and the way she had of trampling over anyone or anything in her pursuit of having fun, and, rather than attracting him, it had always repelled him.

  Now he said flatly, ‘I think you haven’t changed, Rosemary.’

  He saw her lips thin. ‘No, I don’t suppose I have,’ she said boldly. ‘And you’re still standing in judgement on us lesser mortals, aren’t you, Callum?’ she taunted. ‘I was hoping you’d have loosened up a little by now!’

  Callum felt himself wince. Once or twice before he’d heard similar things from other people. His own mother was openly despairing of him ever marrying and producing children, warning him he was in dire peril of becoming a curmudgeon of an old bachelor in the worst Oxford style, if he wasn’t careful.

  He shrugged the thought off uneasily and finished his coffee. Carefully placing the mug on the table he rose from the chair. ‘It’s been nice to see you again, Rosemary,’ he said politely, if less than thruthfully.