“Starbucks is fine.”
Within a few minutes of exiting the building, Julia finally found the courage to ask a question that had been troubling her.
“Do you know Professor Singer well?” She tried to sound casual.
“No. I stay away from her.” Paul cursed more than once. “I wish I could unsee the e-mails she sent to Emerson. They’re burned into my brain.”
“What’s her first name?”
“Ann.”
Chapter 20
Julia treated Paul to a coffee that she paid for surreptitiously with a Starbucks gift card — a card that had a picture of a light bulb on it.
When they eventually crossed the threshold of Segovia, they were met by a very pleasant-looking Spaniard who identified himself as the owner. Much to his delight, Paul responded in Spanish.
Segovia’s interior featured sunny yellow walls on which were painted images from Picasso’s drawing of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. A classical guitarist sat in a corner playing arrangements by Maestro Segovia.
And nearby, a series of long tables had been placed in a square in the very center of the room, marking the reserved space for the faculty dinner. Its geometric configuration made it inevitable that all guests would sit facing one another. Julia did not relish the idea of facing Professor Pain, and if she thought she could have escaped without insulting or drawing undue attention from Professor Martin, she would have.
Paul chose seats on one of the far corners of the table; for once again, he was conscious of the class system and knew that his place was not one of honor. While he discussed the menu with the waiter en Español, Julia silently mused about Gabriel’s jealousy and stealthily turned on her cell phone so that she could text him. But there was a text already waiting for her: Don’t come to dinner. Give Paul an excuse.
Wait for me at my place; the concierge will admit you.
I’ll explain later. Please do as I ask. — G
Julia staring at the screen blankly until Paul nudged her.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Um, it’s probably out of season for sangria, but I’d love some if they have it.”
“Our sangria is excellent,” said the waiter before leaving to place their drink orders with the bartender.
Julia gave Paul an apologetic look. “I have a text from Owen. I’m sorry to be rude.”
“No worries,” said Paul, busying himself with the menu while she quickly prepared a reply:
My phone was off. It’s too late, I’m already here.
You have nothing to be jealous of — I’m going home with you.
You’ll have me in your bed until morning. — J
She deposited her phone in her messenger bag, praying silently that Gabriel would not be too cross. Oh gods of all over-protective and jealous (fill in appropriate description of Gabriel and our relationship here), please don’t let him make a scene. Not in front of his colleagues.
Unfortunately for Julia and whoever was texting her, the messenger bag muffled the sound of an incoming message, which arrived shortly thereafter.
Within twenty minutes, the rest of the guests filtered in. Professor Leaming and some of the other professors were seated beside Paul. On the far end, Gabriel was sandwiched in between Professors Martin and Singer.
At the sight of Gabriel and his seatmates, Julia began sipping her sangria a little too eagerly, hoping she’d be able to get a refill to alleviate the tension that crackled in the air. The sangria was delicious and packed with lots of citrus fruit, which pleased her greatly.
“Are you cold?” Paul gestured to the purple pashmina that was wound around her neck in a very chic manner.
“Not really.” She slowly removed the scarf and placed it on top of her bag.
Paul politely averted his eyes as the delicate pale flesh of Julia’s neck and décolletage became visible. She was beautiful, and her body, although small, was blessed with generous br**sts that provided her with very handsome, proportional cle**age.
As soon as she removed her pashmina, a pair of jealous blue eyes darted across the table, hungrily taking in her newly exposed skin before making a hasty retreat.
“Paul, what’s up with Professor Singer?” Julia kept her voice low behind her wine glass.
He saw Singer sitting far too close to Emerson, and he watched as Emerson subtly moved his chair away from her. She moved her chair closer in response. But Julia missed the exchange.
“She and Emerson had an affair. Looks like they’re back at it.” Paul snickered. “I guess we discovered the reason for his good mood this week.”
Julia’s eyes widened, and she felt ill.
“So she was his — girlfriend?”
Paul moved his chair closer so that Professor Leaming couldn’t overhear their conversation. Of course, the fact that a flamenco dancer had appeared and was now dancing to the loud strains of a classical guitar made his task much easier.
“Just a minute.” He passed a tapas plate to Julia. “Try these. It’s chorizo and Manchego cheese, and crostini with Cabrales, a Spanish blue cheese.”
She helped herself, nibbling on the appetizers while she waited anxiously for an answer.
“Singer doesn’t have boyfriends. She’s into pain. And control. You know…” His voice trailed off suggestively.
Julia blinked in disbelief.
“Did you ever see Pulp Fiction?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t like Quentin Tarantino. He’s too dark.”
“Then let’s just say that she likes to get medieval…in her personal life…on people’s asses. And she isn’t shy about letting people know it. She researches that stuff and posts her publications online.”
Julia swallowed a piece of chorizo quickly. “So that means that he — ”
“Is a sick f**ker like she is. But he’s a hell of a researcher, as you saw this afternoon. I try not to think about what goes on in his personal life. I think that lovers should be gentle with one another. Not that love enters into what they’re doing.”
Paul surveyed the room cautiously before whispering in Julia’s ear. “I think if you care enough about someone to have sex with them, then you should care enough to respect them and not treat them as an object. You should be responsible and careful and never, ever hurt them. Even if they’re f**ked up enough to beg you to.”
Julia shivered and took a very large sip of her second sangria.
He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t relate to someone wanting pain at all, let alone during sex. Sex is supposed to be about pleasure and affection.
Do you think Dante would have tied Beatrice up and worked her over with a whip?”
Julia hesitated, then shook her head.
“When I was an undergraduate at St. Mike’s, I took a course on the Philosophy of Sex, Love, and Friendship. We talked about consent. You know how everyone says that as long as an activity is between two consent-ing adults, it’s okay? Our professor asked us if we thought a human being could consent to an injustice, such as selling himself into slavery.”
“No one wants to be a slave.”
“They do in Professor Pain’s world. Some people sell themselves into sexual slavery — voluntarily. So is slavery okay if the slave wants to be a slave? Can someone who is in their right mind consent to slavery, or are they simply irrational because they want to be a slave?”
Julia began to feel more than slightly uncomfortable having this particular conversation so close to Professor Pain and Gabriel, so she tipped back the last of her sangria and swiftly changed the subject.
“What’s your dissertation topic, Paul? I don’t think you ever told me.”
He chuckled. “Pleasure and the beatific vision. It’s a comparison between the deadly sins associated with pleasure — lust, gluttony, and greed — and the pleasure of the beatific vision in Paradise. Emerson is a great dissertation advisor, but like I said, I stay out of his personal life.
Even though he’d probably be a hell of a case study for the Second Circle of the Inferno.”
“I can’t understand why everyone just doesn’t want kindness,” Julia mused, more to herself than to Paul. “Life is painful enough.”
“That’s the world we live in.” He offered her a sincere smile. “I hope your boyfriend is kind to you. Just be grateful you found someone who isn’t into the sick shit.”
At that moment they were interrupted by the waiter, so Paul didn’t see the color drain out of Julia’s cheeks and lips. She involuntarily peeked over at Gabriel and saw Singer whispering in his ear again.
Gabriel’s eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the table in front of him, teeth clenched and jaw set. He picked up his glass of wine, sipped it, and set it down again, all while Julia stared.
Look at me, Gabriel. Roll your eyes, rub your face, scowl…something, anything. Show me this is all a misunderstanding. Show me Paul is wrong.
“Julia?” Paul’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Do you want to share the paella Valenciana with me? They only make it for two. It’s very good.”
Now he noticed Julia’s paleness and the fact that her fingers were trembling.
“Hey, are you okay?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Yeah. The paella is fine.”