The Choice Read Free Page B

called the big door leading onto the staircase. I only caught a glimpse of her visitor, but enough to see that it was a man, of middling height, in his thirties and so almost certainly too old to be a student. What really struck me was his face, which was calm and distinguished but with a hint of something else; amusement, even disdain.
    It seemed very likely that he was her tutor, but her obvious embarrassment at his visit and the urgent whispered conversation between them made me wonder if they were having an affair. I couldn’t resist listening, but the heavy door and their low voices made it impossible to catch more than the occasional word so I soon gave up. After a moment staring at the wall, I found myself scanning her bookshelves as I tried to work out what she’d been reading while she was playing with herself.
    All I could remember was that the spine had been black with white letters too small to be easily read and that there had been some sort of abstract art design on the cover. Several looked about right, but all of them belonged to a collection of French classics I’d never heard of but at least one of which was presumably quite juicy.
La Femme et le Pantin
by Pierre Louÿs seemed the most likely candidate, but I wasn’t even sure what the title meant and if it was in the original language there wasn’t much point in borrowing it, as my schoolgirl French couldn’t get me much further than asking the way to the post office.
    I was just wondering if I dared sneak a closer look when Violet came back in. She looked agitated, and while I didn’t want to seem pushy I felt I ought to say something.
    ‘Was that your tutor?’
    ‘My ex-tutor.’
    She didn’t sound too happy about it, and immediately changed the subject, leaving me intrigued.
    For the next few days I had very little time to speculate on Violet’s private life and not a great deal of time to see Violet. Freshers’ Week is the week set aside for new undergraduates to find their feet, to meet their tutors and colleagues, join whatever societies interest them and generally find out about college life and the university. I knew exactly what I needed to do or, at least, what Dad had told me I ought to do. All his life he’d been a Liberal, always the main opposition party in our neck of the woods, where most people distrusted Labour and thought that Conservatives had cloven hooves concealed within their highly polished shoes. That was all very well, but the chances of belonging to a party in government were close to nil and, besides, I had to go my own way.
    The question was: which way? The two main parties were a lot closer than they’d been in Dad’s day, so if I was going to abandon his ideals it wasn’t easy to decide which way to jump. The Conservatives were on the way up, but with three years before I graduated and perhaps as long again before I could expect to make any real impact it was all too likely that my first chance to challenge for a nomination would come just as they started on their way back down, with maybe ten more years until the situation reversed once more. Labour were unpopular and likely to be out of power within the year, but I might well be able to ride their fortunes back to the top.
    I had a week to make my choice and held back, keeping my own opinions to myself while I tried to decide who to join. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to ignore another piece of Dad’s advice, not to let myself get distracted by the boys. Not that I intended to let myself get distracted, but it was obvious to me that I’d have a much better chance of success in my chosen career if I was with a wealthy and supportive male. I had three years to make my choice and, while I didn’t want to get a reputation as a slut, I could see no reason not to start early.
    The tricky bit wasn’t finding a suitable man, but choosing between them. Just walking around the Freshers’ Fair presented me with a bewildering choice of first-rate masculine