The Love She Left Behind by Amanda Coe Page A

marking. Consequently, I’ve spoken to Harbinder Singh, lecturer in communications, who has agreed to take over supervision for you and some of my other MA students. As you know, Harbinder’s an excellent tutor and very excited at the prospect of being on board with your work, which is in her field. I’ve copied her into this email, as she’ll also be at the meeting on the 8 th .
    Please let me know you can attend as soon as possible, in case we need to rearrange an alternative time for that week.
    I look forward to hearing from you,
    Jonathon
    Mia clammed the lid of her laptop. Some other of my MA students. Harbinder Singh. It wasn’t as though she’d had feelings for Jonathon, but his lack of flair was painful. She should never have ignored the warning of the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ poster the first time she went to his flat, instead of deluding herself because of his Missoni scarf, which turned out to have been a present from a tasteful ex-girlfriend. As you know. Jonathon had a nervous habit of folding things—napkins, receipts, seminar notes, takeaway menus—as he spoke to you, drawing attention to the tapering deftness of his fingers as he drew them along the edge of the crease as precisely as origami. She’d noticed this at the beginning; along with the scarf, it had seemed to promise delicacy, a discerning capacity for attention. In fact, it was just a random nervous habit.
    Keep Calm and Carry On. What the fuck was she going to do?
    It was so unfair, the way some people were just given things. Jessica lived in Thailand now, a remote if aggravating Facebook friend. Her parents had sold the house and opened a resort hotel outside Phuket. Mia had never yet received an invitation solid enough to convert into a visit.
    With unnecessary concentration, Mia spooned a perfect, crusted mound of shepherd’s pie on to the exact centre of Patrick’s warmed plate and carried the tray into his study, which was where he preferred to eat. Handing him his cutlery as she balanced the tray on one spread palm, she announced her progress in nailing down the best quote for repainting the kitchen.
    â€˜I’ll make sure I’ve got paper quotes, though,’ Mia reassured him. ‘I don’t think any of them will be able to start before the week after next and I’ll be gone by then, but as long as you’ve got it in writing, they’ll have to stick to it.’
    Patrick grunted assent as Mia leant to slide the tray down in front of him. As she always did at this moment, Mia ignored his canine alertness to her breasts and glanced past him through the window into the garden. It was a beautiful evening, full of opaque, eliding Cornish greys and greens and creams, the scrap of sea as lively as an eye. She had Instagrammed this very view shortly after arriving. Talking to Patrick about the painting work made the thought of not being there in the house to see what only she cared about even more desperate: 8 October loomed. Harbinder Singh loved an argument and, despite being a lesbian, had had no time at all for Mia when she had taken, and got that bare pass in, her undergraduate Feminism and Film module.
    Below her eyeline, Patrick mouthed his shepherd’s pie. Silence from him always meant enjoyment. Keep Calm. Still intent on thegarden, Mia tussled with the miniature button below the collar of her blouse, which was rather stiff (usually, she pulled the teasingly prim garment on and off over her head without troubling herself with its fastenings). The buttons were heart-shaped, a little retro. Releasing the next button exposed the bruise-coloured lace of her excellent bra. Rigby & Peller. They rarely had sales, but it was worth waiting. And they fitted you properly: she had surprisingly full breasts for her narrow back.
    Without looking down, Mia could feel Patrick relax; less aroused, apparently, than relieved.
    â€˜Might I?’
    His tone was unusually