Claustrophobia by Tracy Ryan

in their cardigans, floral dresses and court shoes, their knee-length twill shorts with socks unevenly hitched. Surely it wasn’t for her sake. It must be the free nibbles – somebody had laid out platters on the coffee-stained laminated benches. Or the excuse to avoid going home for a while …
    Crusty old Leon Masters, to her surprise, gave her a squeeze that was almost a hug.
    â€˜You’ll be well rid of us,’ he said. ‘Onward and upward, or whatever the motto is. Haven’t you got something like that in Latin?’ he asked, turning to dig Derrick in the ribs. Derrick looked bemused.
    â€˜But seriously, Pen,’ Leon said, ‘I hope it goes well for you.It’s about time you took your own part against the world,’ and he raised his glass of cheap wine to her.
    She stared at Leon, thinking for a minute he had seen right into her.
    â€˜How do you mean?’ she said.
    â€˜Well, I have this theory,’ he said. When Leon did talk, it was to expound his theories, pithy and unpopular, in the staffroom or at meetings. Probably to the students, too. Pen smiled.
    â€˜I reckon that men,’ he went on, ‘take their own part against the world. Whereas women always seem to take the world’s part against themselves.’
    â€˜Sounds like the vino talking,’ Derrick put in.
    â€˜ In vino veritas ,’ said Leon drily.
    â€˜So you think we women are passive defenders of the status quo.’ Pen was laughing now.
    â€˜That’s not quite what I meant. But it will do.’
    â€˜Well,’ said Pen, ‘I’ll have to rise to the challenge, then. Cheers.’
    And with a glance at Derrick, she picked up a glass of red from the table and drained it.

6
    In the basement of the multistorey library building there was a small café. It was really for the public – students and teaching staff, people the library called ‘users’, which struck Pen as funny.
    My ex-boyfriend was just a user , the girls at school would say, when Pen was a teenager. Meaning he only wanted you for what he could get. Meaning he didn’t love you.
    Maureen, who was on desk shift with Pen and had showed her the ropes for the first few weeks, said, ‘In the old days, in the public library, we didn’t say users , we said readers . But it’s got nothing to do with reading anymore.’
    During breaks, though library staff had their own private tea room, they sometimes went down to the public café to buy cream buns or chocolate bars. Pen preferred to sit in there for her breaks because they had real coffee, and benches where you could sit and read and nobody would bother you. Observe the comings and goings.
    Only today, she had her back to the room because the last spot left was facing the wall, on a high stool. So the warm ‘Hello’ took her by surprise.
    She turned. It was Kathleen Nancarrow.
    Pen swallowed, mute.
    â€˜Weren’t you in my winter-school group?’ Kathleen smiled. ‘We had a long chat afterwards, didn’t we. Are you taking another course?’
    She was leaning against the jutting table, idly scooping the creamy foam from her coffee with a teaspoon and licking at it. She wore a crisp, white collared shirt with darts at the waist, over soft black tailored pants. She smelled of tropical fruit, some kind of fresh perfume.
    Pen shook her head. ‘I didn’t think you would remember me.’
    â€˜Of course I remember you. You were very keen. Pen, isn’t it?’
    Pen turned slightly back towards her book, torn between the urge to hide in it again, and the wish to seize the moment, say something outrageous, since now she had her chance. But Kathleen reached forward and turned the book over.
    â€˜Oh, Highsmith,’ she said. ‘I haven’t read this one. You know she was very popular in France? She even lived there for a while.’
    â€˜I don’t know about her life,’ Pen said at