Page 3 of Here in My Heart (Here Together #2)

CHAPTER THREE

“Out of the way, please. This isn’t a common room; it’s a corridor.

” Sylvie held her head high past the freshers’ orientation, hoping to set the tone for the coming academic year.

She turned into the relative peace of her classroom and set down her tower of books.

She’d need to get used to the weight of her various tomes after a summer carrying nothing but sunscreen and a beach towel.

The Post-it note on her screen curled up at the corner.

She looked away, not needing the reminder that the international placement students and their mentor would arrive today.

It had been a last-minute addition to her responsibilities, and she’d hoped in vain that Paul would have arranged something else by the start of term.

Sadly, she remained burdened with the extra load.

She sighed. Would she ever climb high enough up the steep academic ladder to deserve her own oak-paneled office and a clear schedule?

Other professors set their working hours.

Christ, some even turned up midway through a semester.

If she cared less, maybe she could too. As it was, she was stuck in a dated classroom with a list as long as her arm of additional leadership tasks.

A stocky young man cleared his throat at the door. “Bonjour. Hello,” he said, gingerly making his way in.

“International group?” Sylvie glanced at the clock, assuring herself of the time.

“Yes, ma’am. Are we in the right place?” He dithered, along with his friends hugging the door frame.

“Absolutely. If this is where you’ve been sent.

Come in and sit down.” Sylvie considered the group as they entered, seeking out their leader.

They were five of the most unlikely specimens, sporting a range of casual wear so unlike the fashions that usually graced the catwalk of her classroom.

Science graduates from California, here to study the marine life off the coast, Paul had said, when he mentioned it before the summer break.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to recall any further details.

“Which one of you is the group leader?” Sylvie asked.

The stocky boy shuffled under her scrutiny and didn’t reply.

“Hello?” Sylvie didn’t doubt her English and refused to repeat such a basic question to her new academic hopefuls.

“Alors, you’ve made it all the way across the ocean to begin your studies here: at least one of you must know who is in charge. ”

“She’s not here yet, ma’am,” one of the girls said as she inspected her nails.

“Sit down.” She wrote her name on the board. “My name is Professor Sylvie Boucher, and I am a specialist in European Feminism. Please introduce yourselves.”

The five of them looked at each other, wide-eyed and mute.

“Monsieur…” Sylvie pointed to Mr. Stocky at the end of the row. “Would you like to go first?”

“My name is Greg Shannon,” he said.

“And you are from…” Sylvie circled her hands, as if the winding motion might illicit more detail from her shy audience. Mon dieu.

“I’m part of the marine conservation program at the University of California in Monterey. We’re here for our year abroad.”

And so it went. Four more forgettable introductions from a quintet of post-acne young adults trying to convince themselves that they weren’t homesick for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

The door creaked, disturbing the awkward moment of silence. A flame-haired, tall woman froze in the frame, scanning the room, her eyes wild with uncertainty. She tilted her head toward Sylvie, clearly identifying her as the authority. “I’m…”

Unwilling to put the latecomer out of her misery, Sylvie held the stillness for several beats.

“I’m Adelaide Poole. I’m so sorry I’m late. ”

“I thought we were lacking a program leader. Please, sit down,” said Sylvie.

Adelaide seemed to contemplate the seating arrangements for much longer than was necessary before taking a seat next to a sporty-looking, broad-shouldered young man.

Sylvie shook her head, despairing at what had landed in her lap this year. Between this and the pressures of her timetable, she was never going to get her book published. “Now you’re here, we can conclude our introductions.”

Silence reigned.

“Adelaide Poole? Can you introduce yourself?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She wriggled in her seat and fiddled with the spinning ring on her thumb. “My name is Ade Poole. I’m in my final year of a PhD at Monterey. I’ve been asked to chaperone these folks, but I don’t really have any experience in this kind of thing.”

“How reassuring.” Sylvie handed each student a binder.

“These are your induction folders. They contain details of the university campus, how to join the library, the access code to the Wi-Fi, timetables—” Sylvie looked up at the class of jet-lagged Americans.

“I don’t need to explain everything. You’re not children. ”

Ade raised her hand as if she was about to argue.

“Miss Poole?”

“Thanks.” Ade avoided eye contact with the students. “I have a guidance sheet which you can all add to your folders. It includes the timetable for my student counselling sessions and my cell number in case you need to get hold of me.”

“Useful.” Sylvie nodded. “Thank you, Ade.”

Six pairs of eyes stared at her, seeking direction.

“Let’s leave it there. My office hours are posted on my door, should you need me. I hope that won’t be necessary. Until next time,” Sylvie said, closing her notebook with finality.

Chairs scraped across her classroom floor. Ade gathered her belongings and made for the exit, looking more eager than any of the students to escape Sylvie’s further examination.

“How could you?” Sylvie stormed into her boss’s office without knocking, the frustration of the last half an hour whipping around her like a strong gale.

“Sylvie, Sylvie,” Paul said, as he looked up from his desk. “I’ve been expecting you to drop in. I just made fresh coffee by chance. Would you like one?”

“Your Colombian beans aren’t enough to calm me down this time. What were you thinking sending me a group of Americans unable to string a sentence?”

He offered Sylvie the armchair: a sign of his relative seniority at the university. “Someone has to take care of them.”

“Give them to Richard. He has nothing to do other than tidy his bookcases.”

Paul laughed.

“Well?” she asked.

“Richard is old and becoming more useless with each semester. He doesn’t have the energy to run around after an international cohort.”

“At least find them someone in the sciences.” Sylvie sighed. I can’t deal with that troop of misfits for a whole year. “How do you expect me to supervise marine biologists? The closest I get to the ocean is teaching The Waves .”

He raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps the marine scientists will be of some value to your exploration of setting in early twentieth-century literature? Push those boundaries you’ve been telling me about.”

“I’m not here for your amusement, Paul. What are you going to do about it?”

“There’s nothing I can do for you, my dearest Sylvie.

We talked about this before the summer. It’s not about the subject specifically; it’s just pastoral care.

They could be a bunch of trainee chefs or budding filmmakers.

It makes no difference. You need to ramp up your supervision hours before you can take on any more responsibility here. ”

The penny dropped, along with Sylvie’s stomach. “Are you telling me that this is a condition of any future promotion?”

“I am simply saying that you’re a junior professor now.

When you come to the next opportunity, you’ll need to demonstrate two things to any academic board: that you’ve published a successful commentary on the juxtaposition between French and English literary feminists,” he sipped the piping hot coffee and smiled, “and a bulging portfolio of leadership evidence. Take the chance to build your case.”

This fucking guy. “The so-called mentor they’ve sent couldn’t even get out of bed on time,” Sylvie said through gritted teeth.

“Give her a break, perhaps?” His grin widened.

“I don’t give people breaks. There’s no time for breaks if they’re serious about what they’re doing.”

“There lies your problem, my dear. We’re in the privileged position of being paid to foster people’s potential. They will always have flaws which need addressing. Our job is to nurture improvement.”

“Or perfection.” Sylvie tipped her chin in defiance.

“Ah. That’s where you and I differ. I simply seek improvement. Perfection is a curse. Polishing something until it shines only makes your hand ache. I try to avoid it.”

Sylvie pursed her lips. Of course he avoided pain; he was the king of delegation.

They could quarrel over their academic purpose all day.

She and Paul had enjoyed hours of intellectual debate, but that’s not what she was there for now.

She had to change tack if she was going to walk out of his office with fewer burdens and more free periods.

She’d have to meet him in his meandering world of rationale, rather than rely on her straight-talking reason.

“Perhaps this requires a collective response? I’m not the only professor at my level, and I wouldn’t wish to deny any of the others the opportunity to excel.

It’s a chance for Jean, or André, or even Matthieu, is it not?

” She was fed up with sucking up the extra load while her male colleagues swanned about the faculty enjoying liberty and fraternity, while she was desperate for equality.

Paul steepled his fingers. “It’s decided. The Americans are your babies this year. Congratulations on your new arrivals.”

Sylvie groaned with all the drama of a two-year old denied another cookie.

“There’s more.” Paul leaned in. “The pastoral supervisor who needs a new alarm clock will also need some extra support, because she’s new to all this. The Monterey team suggested regular coaching sessions. I have every faith in you to bring her on.”

“Sure. I’ll squeeze those between my teaching timetable and my editing all-nighters.”

Paul nodded. “It’ll be a productive year for you. I can feel it in my bones.”

Sylvie’s bones already ached with fresh defeat.

This year was going to be an impossible juggling act.

She wouldn’t mind if the international cohort had been full of energy and ambition, but this morning’s session had proved the exact opposite.

Adelaide Poole certainly lacked the driving force of a pastoral care leader, and Sylvie couldn’t get sucked into coaching a PhD student into leadership.

It was all a waste of her energy, especially when she had a book to publish.

But how could she spend as little time as possible babysitting the Americans without Paul noticing?

And how would she spend time on her real purpose this year: securing the promotion that she’d moved south for?