“Why?”
“Molly and Jack are taking her to the theater,” Franz replied.
“No,” Clive said, snatching the dress.
Franz got mad and yanked the dress back from Clive. He stopped in the doorway and looked at his father.
“I don’t understand you anymore,” he said. “Not that I ever really have. But now I don’t understand you at all.” And he was gone.
Clive spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to think about Kay going to the theater with Molly and Jack. It was impossible. Jack in black tie, clean-shaven, his hair freshly cut, a look of concentration in his guarded eyes, his mouth relaxed and soft for once. Next to him, Kay in that black dress, pale and beautiful, sitting in an upholstered seat surrounded by expectant theatergoers, Molly’s hand resting on hers in sympathy.
The four of them had been to the opera that spring, and it had been a magical evening. During intermission they had drunk a little too much prosecco and after the intermission, Kay accidentally sat down first, so Clive ended up between her and Jack. Clive was so thrilled to be sitting between the two people who meant the most to him in all the world that he could barely concentrate on the second act. Kay had slipped her hand in his, and all down his right side he could feel a quivering heat from Jack when he shifted in his seat, when he laughed, when he leaned forward.
Jack and Kay going to the theater without him was an unforgivable act of betrayal.
This conclusion calmed him down. The human animal was fundamentally lonely, but in contrast to sentimental daydreamers, he had faced up to it. His priority now was the restoration of his professional reputation. Kay would come back sooner or later. Besides, she had no money.
Three weeks later, Clive was back at the department of Bird Evolution, Paleobiology, and Systematics. He cycled to the university and strode down the corridor. Michael emerged from his laboratory.
“Clive, my man,” he said. “Good to have you back.”
“Good morning,” Clive said, marching past the younger man to his office. The air was dusty and stuffy, so he opened the windows. His secretary entered shortly afterward with a pile of letters. Rumors of his return spread quickly, and at lunchtime Clive accepted Michael’s invitation to join him and the rest of the team in the cafeteria. They were all delighted to see him.
After lunch they started preparatory work on their poster. Clive and Michael reviewed the results from the cartilage condensation experiment, which looked very hopeful. Michael showed him microscope images of the various developmental stages. It was clear the primary cartilage formation in embryonic birds resulted in the carpal bone, the fourth metacarpal bone and the development of the fourth finger, which meant the bird hand couldn’t have evolved from the dinosaur hand, unless it was an example of mutation in both the symmetry of the fingers and in the hand’s existing central axis, and that was highly unlikely—obviously. Clive whistled softly. It was all very encouraging. The scent of cologne rose from the V-neck of Michael’s T-shirt and tickled Clive’s nose. If Michael hadn’t had a wife and two children, it would have been tempting to assume . . . Clive edged away from Michael a little.
“I’m buying you all dinner at the steakhouse,” he burst out. “Time to celebrate!” Besides Michael, he invited John, Angela, Piper, his secretary Ann, the two PhD students, and two new masters students. His loyal team.
None of them could make it. Michael had promised to babysit.
Clive spent the evening trawling through the program for the 27th Bird Symposium on the web. Tybjerg, that egomaniac, was giving no fewer than four lectures, which came as no surprise to Clive, but he was extremely surprised to discover that Helland’s name didn’t appear anywhere. Helland, who never attended symposia outside Europe, finally had the chance to put forward his nonsense ideas in his home country, so why not take it? Very odd. On checking his inbox, Clive realized that it had been a while since he had last heard from Helland. He started rereading their correspondence but soon stopped. He knew no one as snide and mean as Lars Helland, and it ruined his good mood.
It was mild outside and when Clive had opened the French doors, he called Michael to discuss the poster. Michael’s daughter picked up the telephone.
“I’m sorry, Professor Freeman, I’m afraid my dad’s not here,” she said.
“So who’s looking after you?” Clive asked.
The girl laughed.
“I’m fifteen and my sister is thirteen, so we can manage on our own.”
Clive was affronted.
“So where’s your father?” he asked.
“I think he had a meeting at the university,” the girl replied.