Gifted and Talented by Wendy Holden Page B

Branston faced. Challenges which Amber Piggott’s rich father could potentially help with. There was, apparently, a very brilliant Scottish first-year English student the college was funding. But more such bursaries were needed across all subjects to attract top students who might otherwise go to more prestigious colleges. Wobbling off, Richard almost groaned aloud. If only Branston would just get over it. Unprestigious was good. Drab was good. It was great there was nothing happening at Branston, that it was a quiet place, a backwater.
    Or was it? As he wheeled past the college entrance, he was surprised to see a crowd of people standing in front of it. Men, mostly, dressed in dark padded coats and jeans. They looked too old to be students and were shouting and gesturing to someone Richard could not see. There was an aggressive, rather wild atmosphere.
    ‘Amber! Over here, Amber!’
    ‘Give us a smile, Amber. Thassit, girl. A bit more leg; yeah, that’s right.’
    A loud whirring, clicking sound accompanied these exhortations. Cameras, Richard now saw. Above the heads of the shouters, a slim brown hand, flashing with jewels, could be seen turning slowly in the air.
    Half of Richard wanted to go on his way; it wasn’t his business, after all. But the other half shoved his way towards the back of the crowd.
    Whatever was going on, he didn’t like the look of it – or the shouty, raucous sound of it. Why did these people have long lenses the size of drainpipes swinging about? There were a couple of grey and furry boom microphones too, as well as what looked like a TV camera. A small, bossy-looking girl was striding about with a clipboard. What on earth was happening?
    ‘Over here, Amber.’
    ‘Work that mortar board, babe!’
    There was a roar of lascivious approval at whatever action this had elicited. Richard had elbowed his way to the front now and could see, in front of the excitedly opening and closing college entrance, a heavily made-up blonde in a black bikini accessorised by high heels, a black scholar’s gown and navy blue fishnet stockings.
    He blinked in amazement.
    Her legs were placed wide apart and she was holding the mortar board over the front of her bikini bottoms whilst bending forward to give the assembled cameras the full benefit of her cleavage. Under her other arm was clasped a small white dog. It caught Richard’s eye and started to yap loudly.
    He rubbed his eyes. His ears were buzzing. He reached for his mobile phone. Fighting through the throng to the main doorway was out of the question and it was anyone’s guess in which part of the ludicrously over-complex building the Bursar might be now.
    When finally he was located, he sounded smoothly unperturbed. ‘Yes, Master? How can I help?’
    ‘There’s some kind of underwear shoot going on at the entrance,’ Richard gasped. ‘You’ve got to stop it.’
    He was surprised to hear his colleague chuckle. ‘On the contrary, my dear Master.’
    ‘ What ?’
    ‘I rather imagine,’ the Bursar said in a tone of rich amusement, ‘that you’re seeing Amber Piggott arrive to begin her studies.’
    Richard was a man of few words, but rarely was he speechless, as he was now.
    ‘We have to do what we can,’ the Bursar was saying. ‘Even if it means agreeing to be the setting for a fly-on-the-wall documentary about Amber Piggott’s first term.’
    Richard nearly dropped the phone. He cleared his throat to collect himself. ‘I’m obviously hearing things, Bursar.’ He gave a nervous chuckle. ‘I just thought I heard you say “fly-on-the-wall documentary about Amber Piggott’s first term”!’
    ‘I did say that, Master.’

‘It’s fine,’ Isabel assured her mother. ‘Yes, everyone’s very nice.’
    ‘You sound a bit – well – flat,’ came the voice from the other end of the mobile.
    Actually, Isabel felt irritated. And tired. And probably a bit hung over still – vodka was not her usual tipple; nothing was.
    The long journey