that was just from Alex, not from the voice in my memory.
“Does your leg bother you, driving? I should have asked before.”
“No—it’s fine.” Actually, it was aching a bit, now I thought about it, but it was a different sort of ache to the usual. “Driving’s better than walking.”
“You know, you should try the hot pools here. They’re supposed to be great for that kind of thing. Maybe we could go together sometime?”
“Maybe.” I tried to strike a balance, polite but not encouraging.
Maybe I should just tell him to back the hell off, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to be so blunt. Thankfully, he stuck to general topics of conversation for the rest of the drive, and I relaxed a little, even letting my thoughts drift off to my research.
“Busy tonight?” Alex asked as we made our way from the car to the institute building.
“Well, sort of.” I’d decided it might be a good idea to actually get a bit of work done for a change. “I need to reacquaint myself with the kennings.”
“Oh—English friends of yours, are they?”
I half laughed—then stopped in confusion at his frown. It seemed he’d been serious. “Uh, kennings?” I said cautiously. “You know, the descriptive form found in Skaldic poetry? Like ‘northern kiss’ for a cold wind, or ‘feeder of ravens’ for a warrior?” How could he be studying the sagas and not know that? “Have you actually been to any of your classes here?”
Alex froze for a moment—then recovered himself with a laugh. “Oh— kennings . Sorry. I guess I misheard you.”
I wasn’t convinced. Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder why, if he was in the habit of “doing his homework” on places he planned to visit, he was so bloody ignorant about Iceland, its history and literature.
Chapter Ten
That evening, I sat at home with my aching leg up on the sofa and my notes scattered around me, unread, while the television showed some home-grown drama I hadn’t been paying attention to either. Though I’d have denied it strenuously to anyone who’d asked, I was missing EastEnders . And Coronation Street .
What Alex had said was still bugging me. Getting out my laptop, I checked the history department staff list on the Boston University website. I couldn’t find Alex Winter’s name anywhere. Widening my search to the whole of the university produced no success, either. Frustrated and a little concerned, I typed “Alex Winter Boston” into my search engine. This time, I got results—far too many of them. Damn it, couldn’t his parents have had the decency to come up with a more original name? There was even a Hollywood actor with the same name, virtually ensuring I’d never find one particular needle in the haystack of hits.
Perhaps he was a fairly recent recruit, and their website hadn’t been kept up-to-date. God knew academics could be frustratingly lax about that sort of thing. I gave up and rang Gretchen’s number but got her answer-phone. I hung up without leaving a message, wondering if she was out with anyone special, and if that someone was male or female. Was it maybe someone she’d stayed away from in the months I was living with her?
About to put down the phone, I hesitated. I’d promised to call Viggo, hadn’t I? I wasn’t sure I’d meant it at the time, but now I found myself growing eager. Trouble was, I had no idea what I wanted to say to him. I supposed sorry would be a good start. It wasn’t his fault I’d had an attack of survivor’s guilt. Seen at a distance, my accusations of lying just seemed like paranoia.
I wondered if I needed to apologise to Alex too for my earlier suspicions. God, if this carried on, I’d be accusing Mags and Gretchen of conspiring against me. Probably in league with the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas.
In the end, I took the coward’s way out and sent Viggo a text. Sorry about Monday . Paul .
Half a minute after I put the phone down, it rang. I muted the television and picked up,
“Does your leg bother you, driving? I should have asked before.”
“No—it’s fine.” Actually, it was aching a bit, now I thought about it, but it was a different sort of ache to the usual. “Driving’s better than walking.”
“You know, you should try the hot pools here. They’re supposed to be great for that kind of thing. Maybe we could go together sometime?”
“Maybe.” I tried to strike a balance, polite but not encouraging.
Maybe I should just tell him to back the hell off, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to be so blunt. Thankfully, he stuck to general topics of conversation for the rest of the drive, and I relaxed a little, even letting my thoughts drift off to my research.
“Busy tonight?” Alex asked as we made our way from the car to the institute building.
“Well, sort of.” I’d decided it might be a good idea to actually get a bit of work done for a change. “I need to reacquaint myself with the kennings.”
“Oh—English friends of yours, are they?”
I half laughed—then stopped in confusion at his frown. It seemed he’d been serious. “Uh, kennings?” I said cautiously. “You know, the descriptive form found in Skaldic poetry? Like ‘northern kiss’ for a cold wind, or ‘feeder of ravens’ for a warrior?” How could he be studying the sagas and not know that? “Have you actually been to any of your classes here?”
Alex froze for a moment—then recovered himself with a laugh. “Oh— kennings . Sorry. I guess I misheard you.”
I wasn’t convinced. Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder why, if he was in the habit of “doing his homework” on places he planned to visit, he was so bloody ignorant about Iceland, its history and literature.
Chapter Ten
That evening, I sat at home with my aching leg up on the sofa and my notes scattered around me, unread, while the television showed some home-grown drama I hadn’t been paying attention to either. Though I’d have denied it strenuously to anyone who’d asked, I was missing EastEnders . And Coronation Street .
What Alex had said was still bugging me. Getting out my laptop, I checked the history department staff list on the Boston University website. I couldn’t find Alex Winter’s name anywhere. Widening my search to the whole of the university produced no success, either. Frustrated and a little concerned, I typed “Alex Winter Boston” into my search engine. This time, I got results—far too many of them. Damn it, couldn’t his parents have had the decency to come up with a more original name? There was even a Hollywood actor with the same name, virtually ensuring I’d never find one particular needle in the haystack of hits.
Perhaps he was a fairly recent recruit, and their website hadn’t been kept up-to-date. God knew academics could be frustratingly lax about that sort of thing. I gave up and rang Gretchen’s number but got her answer-phone. I hung up without leaving a message, wondering if she was out with anyone special, and if that someone was male or female. Was it maybe someone she’d stayed away from in the months I was living with her?
About to put down the phone, I hesitated. I’d promised to call Viggo, hadn’t I? I wasn’t sure I’d meant it at the time, but now I found myself growing eager. Trouble was, I had no idea what I wanted to say to him. I supposed sorry would be a good start. It wasn’t his fault I’d had an attack of survivor’s guilt. Seen at a distance, my accusations of lying just seemed like paranoia.
I wondered if I needed to apologise to Alex too for my earlier suspicions. God, if this carried on, I’d be accusing Mags and Gretchen of conspiring against me. Probably in league with the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas.
In the end, I took the coward’s way out and sent Viggo a text. Sorry about Monday . Paul .
Half a minute after I put the phone down, it rang. I muted the television and picked up,
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