The Englishman by Nina Lewis Page B

Mayfield. It turns out that Elizabeth will not, after her stint as chair, go back to full-time teaching but proceed up the administrative ladder to the position of Dean of Studies. She graciously accepts our congratulations and encourages us to approach her, notwithstanding her principal duties, should we need her help or advice. There is not a single glance over at Hornberger and his circle of giggling admirers to indicate that she does, in fact, doubt the new chair’s ability or willingness to look after us.
    I decide to take Elizabeth at her word. She seems genuinely upset when she hears about the mess in my office; apparently it was reported clean and empty months ago. Neither of us mentions Andrew Corvin’s name, and I am as certain as I can be that she appreciates my discretion. Relief at her promise to look into it gives me a second wind of sociability, and when Dancey beckons me over, I bound up to him like a trusting puppy.
    Matthew Dancey, I decide after five minutes in which he scolds me with paternal sternness for volunteering to do service that isn’t expected of me and stresses that cooperativeness is of course the first virtue of a valued team member, is a politician. Physically, he is nondescript: below medium height, nearly bald, very thin, a little ill-looking. The only attractive thing about him is his smooth, sonorous voice, but as he speaks I sink into an aural hallucination of this voice as it affably dissects a poor junior professor’s failings and informs her that her three-year tenure review was unsuccessful. This man surely can smile and smile and be a villain . I am too exhausted and too pleased with the prospect of an uncluttered office to worry about the mixed messages that he is sending me. He is very upfront about the awkwardness of Dolph and me working together in the same subfield and suggests we might consider a project that would benefit us both. I can see that Dolphie, standing next to Dancey like a bodyguard with his biceps stretching the short sleeves of his shirt, hates the idea as much as I do, but with the non-tenured obsequiousness that unites us, we both nod and assure Dancey that this is a great idea.
    “Anna, you have heard about the new jewel in our crown, haven’t you?” Dancey continues. “The new Institute for Cognitive Science, Linguistics and Psychology? Nick Hornberger was instrumental in acquiring the necessary funds—well, he and the task force delegated to undertake this project. It would make an excellent impression if the English department were among the first to convene a conference there—perhaps about Renaissance art and neuroesthetics? That’s Dolph’s field, of course, but you have worked on iconography, too, so you wouldn’t find yourself too much out of your depth!”
    I just want to get out of this overheated bar and head back to my quiet little haven on the tomato farm, but I have to be polite. “You wrote your dissertation about neuroesthetics?”
    “Visual art and visual images in Shakespeare, yes,” Dolph speaks up for the first time. “That’s how I cover the early modern requirement and bring cutting-edge theory to the table. I guess you see why it irks me that I lost out to two MILFs who sailed in here on a diversity ticket.”
    I can only stare at him, the last sip of wine unswallowed in my mouth.
    “All search committees have to balance academic excellence and fit with political considerations.” Dancey nods as if he hadn’t heard. “These days, white, middle-class men sometimes get rough deals. That’s only fair, of course, seen in a historical perspective. And Anna, you’d not be doing yourself a favor at all if you allowed this to reflect on your standing at Ardrossan. We are very happy to have you!”

    “He said what to you?” Irene screeches into the phone.
    “I know.” Generally, I enjoy entertaining Irene with Tidbits from Academia , but I’m not enjoying this.
    “He called you a MILF?”
    “Not directly,