Downsizing by W. Soliman Page B

marriage was even more of a fucking sham that he’d
realized. Cassie never had the slightest intention of living on
Broad Street; she’d just made that patently obvious.
    Noah moved away from the door and switched on
the shower, breathing deeply to control his anger. He’d have to
show up at this party, go through the motions or incur the wrath of
his mother-in-law and cause Charles embarrassment that he didn’t
deserve. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. As for
Cassie…well, he’d have it out with her later.
    An hour later all the guests had arrived and
Cassie was swamped with people keen to admire her outfit, or ask
intrusive questions about her sudden marriage. Noah was besieged by
women who seemed undeterred by his marital status. Bored with the
entire affair, he snatched a moment alone and stood on the side
lines, aware of Graham Spiller shooting glances of pure vitriol in
his direction.
    Graham had been devastated when Cassie
blithely informed him—probably with as much sensitivity as she’d
shown when confronting Maxine—that she was marrying Noah. He was
still a close confidant of Cassie’s mother, and Noah suspected that
the two of them were closing ranks against him—much good it would
do them. For all his influence, there was nothing Spiller could do
to hurt him.
    He suspected him of starting a whispering
campaign, suggesting that Noah had exploited Cassie in order to get
close to Charles and benefit from his connections, but he wasn’t
too bothered about it. If anyone in their marriage was guilty of
manipulation, it sure as hell wasn’t him.
    He experienced a moment’s anxiety when Spiller
drifted up to Ryan Watts and started a conversation. Watts and
Spiller were unlikely bed-fellows, and Spiller wouldn’t normally
instigate a conversation with someone he considered to be his
social inferior unless he had an ulterior motive. At that moment
Kitty joined Noah. They fell into one of their easy conversations,
but the disquiet that gripped him as he watched his boss and
Spiller, still with their heads together, casting frequent
speculative glances in his direction, lingered.
    * * * *
    At the end of her first week as an
undergraduate, Maxine felt as though she’d well and truly come
home. The powers that be hadn’t made a mistake; this was where she
belonged. Her fellow law students were an eclectic mix, united by
their alarming air of self-assuredness. They were the elite of the
elite, but she was every bit as worthy as they were. She had earned
her place among them on merit, and refused to feel intimidated,
secure in the knowledge that she was now in a place where her size
wouldn’t count against her.
    Maxine covertly examined her fellow students
as they crowded into a lecture hall, anxious about their
introduction to the delightful world of tort. She knew natural
leaders would emerge, and by the end of that first week she saw it
starting to happen.
    Lance McFee was raffishly good-looking and
exuded an air of self-assurance that left the rest of them in the
shade. He spoke with a distinct upper class accent, but from his
hesitant performances when called upon in lectures she suspected
that his mind might not be as sharp as some of the other
freshmen’s. Cynically, she wondered if he owed his place here to
influence asserted by his obviously well-connected family. If she
was right about his inferior brain, it would explain why he
appeared intent upon persuading some of the more obviously able
students to join him in a study group.
    “ Miss Small, are you able to
define the meaning of tort for us?”
    Maxine blushed, grateful that everyone else
was too scared that they might be the professor’s next victim to do
anything other than glance at her with sympathy.
    “ Well, Miss Small,” said the
professor, tapping his fingers impatiently. “We’re
waiting.”
    “ Sorry professor,” she mumbled,
her head still bowed. “Tort is a legal term—”
    “ We can’t hear you, Miss