Gifted and Talented by Wendy Holden

instantly, perhaps inevitably given the topic, they routed to Amy and a huge, hopeless wave of longing swept over him.
    He lowered his eyes; such private thoughts in a public place were doubly difficult. He tried to remain scientific and detached and examine this fascinating close personal evidence of how mere patterns in the brain folds could produce such intense physical misery. But the scientist, as always, was instantly overwhelmed by the man, and mental images of cortices were replaced by pictures of her soft brown hair in the sun, the scent of her skin, how happy they had been together.
    ‘. . . look to alternative sources of funding and ways of raising the college’s profile . . .’ the Bursar was intoning in his fruity voice.
    Richard, now drowning in memories, realised the agenda had moved on. He battled his way back to the surface. This could not continue. He must find a permanent way to cope.
    Last night a bottle of cough medicine spotted in the bathroom cabinet had reminded him how drinking the whole lot would produce a neuronal blockade detaching sensory information from meaning. But he knew also that the effect would be short term and it would eventually become reattached. Harder drugs like heroin, mimicking as it did the chemicals produced by the brain to alleviate suffering, was another potential source of comfort. But he would hardly be solving his problems by becoming a drug addict.
    He forced himself to think of the labs, of work, and felt the coiled spring within him give a little. Amy was gone, he was far from home, but at least he had his research. If he could ever get to it. The temptation to kick his legs against this ridiculous round table was almost irresistible. Would this meeting ever end? Looking at the agenda, he couldn’t work out where they were. There was an item called ‘Amber Piggott’ – was that a person?
    The college admissions tutor, a combative-looking woman with claret hair and purple glasses, was expressing her hope that one of the new students might attract some of ‘the right sort of attention’ to Branston.
    They were discussing this Amber Piggott, Richard realised. She seemed to be a person. She was very rich and, for some reason, famous.
    ‘An “it girl”?’ he echoed, puzzled.
    The Bursar leant over. ‘Goes to lots of glamorous society parties.’
    This made no sense to Richard. ‘What sort of societies?’ His frame of reference was firmly academic and none of the societies he could think of was remotely glittering.
    ‘Oh, you know,’ the Bursar said vaguely. ‘Nightclubs with Prince Harry, that sort of thing. She’s always in the gossip pages.’
    Richard’s frown deepened. ‘And she’s coming here?’
    ‘When she deigns to turn up,’ put in the head of the English Faculty, acidly. She was a woman mountain, Richard thought. Her booming tremolo voice seemed to come from some deep cavern within, like that of the Delphic oracle.
    Purple Glasses now leant forward and explained Amber Piggott had been allowed into Branston as part of a profile-raising effort.
    For all his intention not to get involved, Richard found indignation stirring. ‘Does Branston really need to resort to that?’ he asked. ‘We’re part of one of the most famous universities in the world.’
    ‘Yes, my dear Master,’ the Bursar replied evenly. ‘But we’re struggling for funds, even so. We need publicity.’
    Richard drew himself back. It was up to them; he wasn’t going to get involved. He was here as decoration only. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking that there were better ways to raise money and profile. The American universities he had worked in had had alumni offices that had hunted down former students without mercy and squeezed every last shekel out of them. They had organised ring-rounds with current students calling old students, set up alumni dinners. Amy had been involved with some of it. Perhaps he should mention it; Branston didn’t seem to have a clue