Professor Maggie Blake swept her gaze around the seminar room, trying to make eye contact with everyone. She was gratified to see that they were all paying attention. Well, all except the geek girl in the far corner who never raised her head from her tablet, not even when she was expressing her opinions. There was always one who defeated her best efforts to draw them in. Even at a special conference like this, where they'd actively chosen to attend a series of lectures and seminars over a weekend. 'So, to sum up, what we've focused on today is the notion that the very act of describing a geopolitical relationship can bring it into being,' she said, her warm voice animating a conclusion that might otherwise have seemed an anti-climax to the vigorous discussion that had preceded it. Teaching was a kind of theatre, she'd always thought. And her role as the lead actor was always a carefully considered performance. She was convinced it was one of the reasons she'd earned her chair at Oxford by her mid-forties.
'We've seen that when the media polarises a conflict as a battle between the good guys and the bad guys, it shapes the way we understand the participants. The language actually creates the geopolitics. We can watch it happening right now with the Ukraine conflict. Because the West needs to demonise Putin, a regime that is in many respects no better than Russia is turned into the victim and thus, the good guy. The reality is that there is always a disconnect between the push towards a binary between good and evil, and the actuality.'
A hand shot up and without waiting to be invited to speak, its owner butted in. 'I don't see how you can be so dogmatic about that,' he said belligerently.
It would be Jonah Peterson, Maggie thought. Jonah with his carefully confected hair, his low-slung jeans that revealed the brand of his underwear, his designer spectacle frames and his Elvis sneer. She loved students who disputed ideas, who thought about what they were reading and hearing and found logical contradictions that they wanted to explore. But Jonah just liked contradiction for its own sake. He'd been doing it since the beginning of the course and it was wearisome and disruptive. But these days students were also consumers and she was supposed to engage with irritants like Jonah rather than slap them down the way her tutors and lecturers had been wont to do in the face of wanton stupidity. 'The evidence of history supports this interpretation,' she said, determined not to show how much he got under her skin.
Jonah clearly thought he had her on the run. He wasn't giving up. 'But sometimes it's obvious that one side are the bad guys. Take the Balkan conflict. How can you not characterise the Serbs as the bad guys when they perpetrated the overwhelming majority of the massacres and atrocities?'
Maggie's seminars and lectures were always meticulously planned; a cogent construction that built a solid foundation, brick on brick, rising to a clear and supported conclusion. But Jonah's words jolted her, like a train jumping the tracks. She didn't want to think about the Balkans. Not today, of all days. Accustomed to guarding her feelings, Maggie's face revealed nothing. The ice was all in her voice. 'And how do you know that, Jonah? Everything you know about the Balkan conflicts has been facilitated by the media or by historians with a particular geopolitical axis. You have no direct knowledge that contradicts the theory we've discussed this afternoon. You can't know the nuances of the reality. You weren't there.'
Jonah stuck his jaw out stubbornly. 'I was still in nappies, Professor. So no, I wasn't there. But how do you know there were any nuances? Maybe the media and the historians were right. Maybe sometimes the media story gets it right. You can't know either. My view is just as valid as your theory.'
Pulling rank wasn't something Maggie generally did. But today was different. Today her reactions were skewed. Today she wasn't in the mood for playing games. 'No, Jonah, it's not. I can know and I do know. Because I was there.'
Maggie had been aware of the stunned silence as she gathered her notes, her class register and her iPad in one sweep of her arm and walked out. She'd been halfway down the corridor when a fragmented buzz of conversation had broken out and followed her to the front door of the Chapter House, a Victorian copy of an octagonal medieval monastic building now used for seminars and tutorials. She let the heavy oak door click shut behind her and cut down to the river bank that formed the easterly border of St Scholastica's College. Even in early spring, there was colour and texture in the flower beds that lined the path, although Maggie had no eyes for them that afternoon. She breathed deeply as she walked, trying to calm herself. How could she have let Jonah's crass comments breach her personal defences?
The answer was simple. Today she turned fifty. A half-century, the traditional point for taking stock. A day when she couldn't ignore the events that had shaped her. She might have consigned a chunk of her life to history, but today it seemed destined to emerge from the shadows of the past. It would be churlish to pretend she didn't have plenty to celebrate. But thanks to Jonah, her attempts to focus on the good stuff had failed. As she walked back up the path to Magnusson Hall, all Maggie felt was the pain of what was lost.
She'd feared it would be like this. So she'd brushed aside the various suggestions from friends who had wanted to push the boat out with her. No party. No dinner. No presents. Just a day like any other, as far as the rest of the world was concerned. And come tomorrow, there would be nothing to commemorate and she could stuff the history back in its box and consign it to the dark again.
Maggie made for the Senior Common Room. At this time of day, it would be more or less empty. Nobody would be expecting conversation. As she generally did after a seminar, she'd extract a cappuccino from the machine there then retreat to her set of rooms and get on with some work. Take her mind off her memories with something rather more demanding than a student seminar. She pushed open the door and did a double-take. Instead of a peaceful, empty space, a crowd of familiar faces formed a loose arc around the door. She barely had time to register music and balloons when someone shouted, 'Happy birthday,' and a cheer went up.
Her first thought was to turn on her heel and walk out. She couldn't have been clearer about the kind of birthday she wanted. And this emphatically wasn't it. But a second look reminded her that these were her friends. Her colleagues. People she liked, people she respected and even some she admired. However distressed she felt, they didn't deserve to be slapped down for something they'd done out of love and kindness. And so Maggie nailed on a smile and walked in.
The afternoon wore on and Maggie smiled until her face hurt. To an outsider, the party would have appeared the perfect celebration, honouring a woman who was clearly a much loved friend as well as a distinguished academic, prolific author, beloved tutor and efficient snapper-up of research grants. Only Maggie knew that her apparent enjoyment was a lie. She wished she could relax and enjoy herself as much as the other guests were obviously doing. But she couldn't shake off the sadness that was the constant counterpoint to the party atmosphere.
The music changed from Dexy's Midnight Runners to Madness. Someone had compiled a playlist solely from her undergraduate years, which was a blessing. Nothing there to provoke a fresh onslaught of unwelcome memories. Welcome to the house of fun, indeed. As if on cue, the latest arrival made an entrance through the French windows that led on to the back lawn and the river. Raven-black hair with strands of silver that caught the light as if they'd been strategically placed for effect. Pale skin, high cheekbones and eyes set too deep to discern the colour until they were inches away. Tessa Minogue strode in with her usual self-assurance, nodding and smiling her way through the knot of people lurking on the fringes of the party where they could enjoy the fresh evening air. Tessa, who knew more about the dark places than anyone else. Tessa, who had been her best friend, then something more than that, and now was her best friend again.
Maggie moved further into the room, not taking her eyes off Tessa. A casual observer would have thought she was drifting through the party, scattering smiles and greetings as she passed. Maggie knew better. Tessa would be by her side in a matter of moments, her lips brushing the soft place beneath Maggie's right ear, her breath warm, her cheek resting fractionally too long against Maggie's.
And she was right. Before she could count to fifty, Tessa was there, soft words in her ear. 'You look lovely.' Made all the more charming by the remains of a Dublin accent that had been buffed to softness by time and distance.
'You knew about this.' There was no quarter in Maggie's voice.
'It wasn't my idea. And I thought if I told you, you wouldn't come and then everybody would feel like idiots.And then you wouldn't forgive yourself,' Tessa said, linking one arm in Maggie's and reaching for a glass of Prosecco with her free hand.
Maggie felt the bones in Tessa's arm press against her own plump flesh. Christ, any thinner and a hug would break her. 'I wouldn't count on that. And you didn't have the nerve to be here from the get-go.'
'Ach, I was stuck in a meeting at the Foreign Office. International criminal tribunal stuff. How many times have our plans crashed and burned because of long-winded lawyers?'
'You're a lawyer, remember?'
'But not one of the long-winded ones.' Tessa had a point. One of the reasons Maggie enjoyed her company so much was her uncomplicated nature, surprising in a lawyer who dealt in the thorny moral dilemmas of human rights. Now Tessa waved her glass expansively at the room full of people. 'Anyhow, I'm here now and that's what matters. I know you could make a patchwork quilt of your history from all the different recollections in this room right now, but I'm the only one who could make a coverlet out of the whole cloth.'
'There's one missing, Tessa.' And the person who wasn't there was the only one that mattered. His image had been clouding her mind's eye since the moment Jonah had derailed her. Nobody had been insensitive enough to mention his name, but Maggie had felt it hanging unsaid more than once. Obviously, he hadn't been invited. Because he hadn't left a forwarding address. Not when he'd walked out without a final farewell eight years before, nor any time since. Dimitar Petrovic had left without a backward glance. Maggie had told herself a million times that he'd been trying to protect her. But she'd always wondered whether it was more about protecting himself from the complications of an emotional life.
Tessa's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a sneer. 'He could have sent flowers.'
'Mitja never bought me flowers.' Maggie tilted her chin up and faced her party, lying smile firmly in place. 'He never had a talent for cliché, Tessa. You know that.'
'He does, however, have a tendency to repeat himself,' Tessa said briskly.
Maggie half-turned and gave her friend a sharp look. 'Meaning what?'
'He's up to his old tricks.' Tessa disengaged her arm. 'One of the prosecution team told me about it last night. Miroslav Simunovic this time. You remember him?'
'One of Radovan Karadzic's henchmen. Up to his armpits in the dead of Srebenica? That Simunovic?'
'That's the one. He'd escaped the tribunal, you know. They're not taking any more new cases. Simunovic must have thought he was free and clear. He had reinvented himself as a retired history teacher. Living on Crete, in a flat with a nice view of the harbour in Chania. His neighbour across the landing found him three days ago. Lying in the doorway with his throat cut ear to ear.'
Maggie closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them, her dark blue eyes were like flints. 'You don't know that it's anything to do with Mitja,' she said, tight-lipped.
Tessa shifted one shoulder in a faint shrug. 'Same MO as all the others. Look at the timeline, Maggie. Milosevic dies before the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia can find him guilty. Mitja gets drunk for three days and rages against the likes of me for failing his people. The first killing happens six weeks after he walks out on you, all fired up with his mission to put right what we couldn't manage in The Hague. If it's not Mitja, it's somebody else with the same list of names to blame.'
'That doesn't narrow it down. It's not like those names are a secret, Tessa.'
'Three or four of them come into the realm of specialist knowledge. If he's not out there showrunning his own theatre of vengeance, what exactly is he doing that's kept him out of your bed for the past eight years, Maggie?' The words were harsh, but Tessa's eyes were full of pity.
The music segued into David Bowie's 'Let's Dance'. A middle-aged man who should have known better than the drainpipe jeans he'd squeezed into bussed Maggie on the cheek, oblivious to the tension between the two women. 'Come on, Maggie,' he urged. 'Like the man says, let's dance.'
'Later, Lucas,' she said, managing a distracted smile in his direction. Pouting, he shimmied back into the crowd on the dance floor, waggling his fingers at them as he went. Maggie took a deep breath and ran a hand through the shock of thick brown hair that she refused to allow to reveal the hints of grey that lurked in secret. 'You make me sound irresistible. And we both know that's not true.'
Tessa laid a hand on the other woman's shoulder and leaned into her. 'I wouldn't mind giving it another try.'
Maggie snorted with bitter laughter. 'Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.' She patted Tessa's hand. 'We're better off as friends. We only fell into bed together because we were both missing Mitja so much. I lost the man I loved and you lost your best friend.'
'What have I told you about talking yourself down? You were never second-best to Mitja. You and me, we were friends while he was elbowing his way into your life, and you're still my best friend.' Tessa gave a dry little bark of sardonic laughter. 'I sometimes think you're my only friend. The point is, really, that Mitja loved you. Nothing short of a one-man crusade against war criminals could have kept him from you.'
Maggie shook her head, still smiling politely at the room. 'You know what I think.'
'You're wrong.'
'And you're stubborn. Look, Tess, Mitja wasn't a boy when we met. He was a very grown-up thirty-two when we ran into each other in Dubrovnik in '91. I'm not stupid. I knew he must have had a past. A history. A life. But we both agreed that we weren't going to be defined by what went before.'
Tessa made a derisive noise. 'Convenient for him.'
'Convenient for both of us. I wasn't exactly lacking a past myself. But it's not me we're talking about here, it's Mitja. I always assumed there was a woman tucked away in some Croatian backwater. Maybe even kids. I just didn't want to know what he'd left behind to be with me.'
Tessa knocked back the remains of her drink. 'So why would he go back to that? When he had you? He'd already left her for you. He wouldn't have left you for her, he'd only ever have left you because he had a mission that was irresistible. Overwhelming.'
Maggie took a step away from Tessa, letting her friend's hand fall from her shoulder. 'I love that you think so much of me you have to come up with some noble theory to explain why my lover walked out on me.' She looked around the room, taking in the dancers, the talkers, the drinkers. The vista of the people who loved and respected had no hope of chasing the sorrow away. 'Whatever I was to him, Tessa, it wasn't home. That's why he left. Mitja just went home.'
