“Well done, darling.” The strange endearment reminded him of their agreement. Over the phone, not recorded in any email, they’d agreed a ‘contract’, mainly for their own amusement. At least two trysts of at least 90 minutes, at least once fucking that great ass, and at least once bringing her off with his mouth. In exchange, Emily would ensure his transfers and food and half his flight were covered — her old lab had chipped in a few pounds each — and of course, he’d have a bed for the night…
It wasn’t like he was going to suffer in the least — it was just a shame he couldn’t double or treble the money by getting her to sign up for more!
In reality, she and he might well both be up for more ‘services’, but even Emily’s post-doc salary wouldn’t run to reimbursing him for what he’d happily provide for free!
Six weeks later, Brad rode the bus to Newark airport, took a cheap European airline to London — no meals offered and little in-flight entertainment, but he’d gone straight to sleep anyhow — collected his check-in bag, balanced his carry-on upon it, and, poster canister slung over his shoulder, blearily navigated himself into Gatwick Airport railway station. Emily had sent him a code, which apparently with waving any credit card would give him a paid ticket for the train.
An official seemed delighted that Bradley both spoke English and had a ticket to collect. He was steered to the correct platform, where he spotted a dozen more scientists. There was always something recognisable about groups of them, even without their tubes carrying their precious presentation posters and these ones’ conversation about constituents of the extracellular matrix to give it away. Hovering near and joining in, he happily accepted some British cash, in exchange for his performing the purchase of coffees and pastries from the platform kiosk.
“Where are you staying?” asked an Italian woman, who had been most relieved the coffee was drinkable.
“Me? The conference hotel,” Bradley answered.
“The Grand?” An older man suddenly became much more interested in Bradley’s work.
Brad had mentioned he was about to start a post-doc position in Canada, but not that it was his first one. If this guy was impressed — the hotel was prioritised for speakers, but he didn’t need to know that Brad hadn’t qualified for the room on his own merits — Brad wasn’t going to disillusion him! Besides, Bradley thought defensively, he had done some good work recently. It might even be published in Cell.
A younger Australian couple interrupted, asking if Brad knew about particular reagents which could highlight a certain molecule in certain situations. He knew enough to make some suggestions, and listened as they explained their work.
“D’you know anyone working on those receptors, who might be here?”
“I’m not sure who’s going to be here — I only sorted out coming at all, kinda last minute. Oh — Richard Pardoe, of course — he’s speaking. Talk to him.”
“Pardoe? Isn’t he that arrogant twat who recently went to the LMB, who thinks everyone else is an idiot?”
Bradley chucked. “His bark is worse than his bite! Really. Half the time he doesn’t actually mean to be be rude. The rest of the time, he respects anyone who argues with him. He just isn’t good at small talk. Any talk, actually, unless it’s purely blunt facts. Don’t take it personally. Tell him I said to ask him, if you like.”
The group all looked impressed. Which was nice. Bradley was reminded that science really was about who you knew…
He wasn’t, however, going to tell anyone how he’d met Richie: the man had wandered in while Brad was in the middle of fucking Emily, who had become Richie’s sort-of girlfriend. Richie had accepted this with the same impassive face as he did everything else, followed by teaching Brad what Emily really liked from oral sex.
“Richie likes to be helpful when he can,” Bradley explained truthfully. “He edited my PhD thesis, for example.”
More eyebrows raised in awe; something Bradley could get used to. He exchanged terse emails with Richie every couple of weeks, mainly about Bradley’s work, but more recently, checking to ensure Brad could have another rendezvous with Emily, this time without Richie moseying in. The previous time had turned out well, but Bradley swore the shock had had a long-term effect on his blood pressure!
The last email had read, ‘I’m not her keeper. Enjoy Em in your room. How did that 3H15 antibody work? R.’
Succinct and to the point, as ever. The guy might be tactless and frequently offhand, but he had zero jealousy or possessiveness. Even if he had thought of Emily as a possession, he’d likely be generous with her! She’d be the jewel in any harem…
The train reached Brighton station, a Victorian wrought-iron shed where white-painted curlicues juxtaposed with a shiny modern terminus interior, all nestled into the side of a cliff. Outside, a very long line of scientists and tourists queued for lurid turquoise-and-cream taxis.
Bradley realised only four passengers would fit in each car. In any case, it was a beautiful sunny March morning. A stroll might alleviate his jet-lag.
Emily had said to walk straight down the hill to the sea. It was obvious which road that was, the glinting sky reflecting glimmers of reflections from the water even at this distance. He pulled his case along the sidewalk — pavement, they called sidewalks, confusingly — past small cafés and sandwich shops, stores selling hippy clothing reeking of patchouli, rental agencies, and oddly, multiple shops specialising in stamps and coins.
Soon the small businesses gave way to larger ones selling the kinds of beach crap he was familiar with, and then larger white-plaster buildings yielded to High Street chain stores as he reached the ornate Clock Tower standing proud in the center of a crossroads.
Fast-food joints proliferated, adding grease and vinegar to the sea air. Cawing seagulls swarmed as he approached the seafront, the Palace Pier and Sea Life centre to his left, and to the right, many restaurants and hotels. A dozen brown stumps stuck out of the sea in that direction. Bradley recalled Emily’s instruction: if you get to the ruins of the West Pier, you’ve gone too far.
The facade of the Victorian building was impressive. Eight floors, six of which had beautiful balconies with ornate railings, belonging to the suites. Emily had warned him they wouldn’t have a sea view from their standard room, but on the other hand, it should be quieter.
Bradley checked in, and was assured his ‘companion’ had claimed her key already.
“Could you call up and tell her — he lowered his voice, so no-one would hear his embarrassing lack of doctoral title — Mr Owens is on his way? Thank you.” He fretted over whether he should tip someone, realised that all the uniformed doormen and porters were assisting elderly guests, recalled Emily and friends assuring him you only tipped waitstaff and non-racist taxi drivers, and hauled his wheelie case over impractical deep plush carpet to the discreet brass elevators. A plaque mentioned that when installed,they had been the first UK lifts outside London, known back then as ‘vertical omnibuses!’