Honey(2)

Skye frowns. “You look nice.”

“Do I not normally look nice?” Yrsa says.

“You’ve done your eyeliner.”

“So.”

“You only do your eyeliner when—”

Yrsa raises her eyebrows and Skye smiles. “Do you want anything from the kitchen?” she asks, standing. “Hope they’ve fixed the coffee machine.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Yrsa switches on her laptop, annoyed. She should not have spent twenty minutes this morning perfecting her wings—a sharpening to her otherwise soft, open-eyed face.

She’s got emails about late essays, blocked drains, and a sit-in to save the Seeley Library. She ignores them all then looks out over the office. Unlike lots of Cambridge there is no charm to the Sociology department. The entrance feels like that of a sexual health clinic. At least it’s quiet at this time of the day. The other desk beside her, Nina’s, is empty.

Stapling some papers that don’t need stapling, Yrsa then replies to the student wanting an essay extension—saying that it’s fine so long as he doesn’t mind wasting his or his parents’ money.

Skye returns, looking dejected. “The machine was broken. Had to steal one of Oliver’s tea bags.” Both women know how annoyed Oliver will be about this.

Yrsa opens her lecture slides but can’t be bothered to edit them. She wants to check Instagram, she shouldn’t check it, she checks it.

He hasn’t sent a follow-up message.

“Ethan?” Skye is looking at her.

“Maybe.”

“When are you gonna dump him?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t know why you let him give you this rubbish.”

Yrsa isn’t sure why either. Normally it’s two strikes and they’re out. It’s just, you date and you date, and at some point you’ve got to get realistic.

“Have you seen Nina?” Yrsa is deleting emails without reading them.

Skye shakes her head. She’s started marking a stack of essays—always printed off to make sure she doesn’t miss anything. Like most people here, she’s got a touch of the neurotic. She finishes writing her comment before saying, “Haven’t seen her for a few days actually.”

“Strange.”

Polish, pretty; Nina studies genocides but is great fun.

“Nina will tell you to—”

Yrsa sees her supervisor on a path toward her.

“Tell him I’m not here.” She knocks her stapler onto the floor so she has to get down, almost under the desk, to retrieve it.

“I can see you.”

“No you can’t.”

“Literally looking at you.”

Yrsa pulls herself back up onto her swivel chair. “Hi Syed.”

“I’ll take this to mean you don’t have the draft for me.”

She holds her hands up. “You know I’ll be good for it.”

“This isn’t a drug deal.” Syed laughs. He’s wearing yet another hand-knitted jumper; Yrsa doesn’t know how he keeps up the supply.

“Thanks for the invite, by the way,” she says.

Syed looks confused, leaning slightly on her desk.

“For the book launch. I can come.”

“Oh right, yeah, thanks.” He always gets embarrassed when his book is brought up. Maybe because he’s looking at gang violence in London—“The publishers insisted on a launch”—despite having grown up in the home counties. “You’re welcome to come along too, Skye, if you’re free.” Now he’s even more embarrassed.

“That would be great, thanks,” says Skye.

“Speaking of invites, my wife wants to know when you’re coming round for dinner again?” Syed asks.

Yrsa is slightly obsessed with his wife: a barrister with Ruth Ginsburg energy.

“She still talks about the apple cake you made,” he says.

“Rum is the secret.” Yrsa is always pleased when her baking is appreciated. “I’ll get the draft to you next week.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I’ll keep this pen hostage until you do.” And Syed does, indeed, take one of her pens. The four-way Biro.

“Is his book good?” Skye asks once he’s left.

“It is actually. Pretty fucked up what gangs get up to.”

“I don’t want to know.” Skye likes to stick to studying white couples who adopt black babies and make it their social media career. “There’s Nina.” She nods toward the door. “I keep forgetting to bring her jumper back.”

But today Nina isn’t dressed in her usual high-waisted trousers and cropped jumper; she’s in yoga pants and an oversize shirt. Her short black hair is pulled back and falling out of its clip.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hi.” Nina doesn’t look at her friends.

“You okay?” Skye asks first.

“I’m just looking for…have you seen…” Nina is going through her desk drawers.

“You sure you’re okay?” Yrsa asks second.

“Yes, sorry. I’ve just been sick, and now I’m late for a meeting and I can’t find…” Her voice is too emotional. Nina is never emotional. She is calm and she is kind. The sort of person to hide a political fugitive.