Page 94 of The Forbidden Fling

“It’s just too clean, isn’t it?” Cilla pressed, nose scrunching as she took in the room around her. “It’s wonderful, of course, but it’s just a bit too perfect for me.”

And this coming from the woman who complained the coffee machine was also too clean.

Diana shared a glance with the young man. She sympathised; she’d been in his position before. Having to mingle and network and build connections with people who only wanted a subservient drinks lackey and often had a stick up their own arse.

“Evan, have you spoken with Dr Moore tonight?” Diana asked. “She’s written a paper on the complexities of antibiotic-resistance evolution, which might interest you.”

His thick eyebrows lifted, relief obvious. “I haven’t yet, but that sounds fascinating.”

“She’s over there. Red dress. Big breasts and lipstick.” She took a sip of her wine to hide her smirk.

“Ah…yes.” He failed to hide the blush creeping up his neck but gave her a genuine smile. “Thank you, Dr Thompson.”

He scurried away, then righted himself, remembering the assembly of significant professors dissecting every move.

The polite chatter resumed. Quiet. Respectful. Boring.

The sooner this was over with, the better.

Diana took in the low-lit familiar faces, the immaculate cream sofas and polished furniture. She took another swig from her glass, relishing the crisp taste. She would miss the wine, if nothing else.

“Have you tried the new hand soap in the faculty toilets?” Cilla asked, her voice droning like a faulty appliance. “The smell is reminiscent of…”

Oh god. Get me away from here.

A loud cackle came from the other side of the room. Selena Borgo threw her shoulder-length dark hair back, her hand on the shoulder of the dean like he’d said the funniest thing in the world.

Another thing I won’t miss about this place.

Before Diana could shift her gaze, Selena locked eyes with her, her mouth curling in a delighted sneer. A year ago, Diana would’ve been up there, competing with her. Who could make the dean laugh the most? Who steered the conversation with the most esteemed group of colleagues?

Who cares? Diana didn’t want it. She knew what she really wanted, but she wouldn’t let herself think about it. About her. Or about the unanswered invitation sitting in her email inbox.

One thing at a time, she reminded herself.

The clink of a glass brought the room to silence. The dean, a man in his sixties, with thick, perfectly coiffed white hair, was standing by the unlit fireplace, flashing his pearly-white veneers. “Thank you for joining us tonight as we say goodbye to our brilliant colleague and friend, Dr Thompson.”

Applause rippled through the room, and Diana lifted a stiff hand in thanks. She wouldn’t consider any of them friends. The dean continued, listing off her achievements like a greedy child’s Christmas list. And yes, they were important, and yes, they were impressive, but…who cares?

Really, it was about the money, the funding, the grades. It wasn’t ever about Diana.

But she let him drone on, anything to distract from the hollow void in her chest that she didn’t know how to fill. When he finally drew to a close, she smiled again through the applause, and the room settled back into chitchat. The food would be served soon, but she didn’t want it. She wanted out of this room.

Unfortunately, everyone and their uncle chose this opportunity to commiserate and congratulate her on the new permanent position at Oxford. She kept her voice light, professional, delivering the rehearsed lines like a seasoned actress and not one in emotional distress. But she was over it; she was done. She just wanted to close her eyes and wake up back in England, without the insufferable seven-hour flight.

When the waiters brought out the food in silver-domed plates, and the crowd flocked to the serving table, Diana had room to breathe. This was her chance. She could slip away unnoticed and let the merriment continue without her.

She plucked up her black Prada handbag—and the leaving card inscribed with names she’d forget in a few months—and quietly slipped out the door. She’d said her piece with the dean earlier, genuinely thanking him for the opportunity to work there. For the most part, she had enjoyed it. It was just time to move on.

The hallway smelt of old polish and firewood, though the fires were scarcely lit. That old-money aura clung to every surface in the building. Something Diana used to admire but now found ostentatious.

She was heading towards the exit, heels sinking into the thick rug underfoot, when a voice called her back.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?”

Fantastic. She stopped, sucking in a breath, and turned around. Selena was standing in the hallway, one hand on her hip, her pencil skirt and red tailored blazer bridging the gap between intellectual and fashionable. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, then slowly swayed towards her, those misleading dewy eyes darting to the card tucked under her armpit.

“I didn’t have you pegged for a runner,” she said, smooth as silk.