Chairs scraped across her classroom floor. Ade gathered her belongings and made for the exit, looking more eager than any of the students to escape Sylvie’s further examination.
“How could you?” Sylvie stormed into her boss’s office without knocking, the frustration of the last half an hour whipping around her like a strong gale.
“Sylvie, Sylvie,” Paul said, as he looked up from his desk. “I’ve been expecting you to drop in. I just made fresh coffee by chance. Would you like one?”
“Your Colombian beans aren’t enough to calm me down this time. What were you thinking sending me a group of Americans unable to string a sentence?”
He offered Sylvie the armchair: a sign of his relative seniority at the university. “Someone has to take care of them.”
“Give them to Richard. He has nothing to do other than tidy his bookcases.”
Paul laughed.
“Well?” she asked.
“Richard is old and becoming more useless with each semester. He doesn’t have the energy to run around after an international cohort.”
“At least find them someone in the sciences.” Sylvie sighed.I can’t deal with that troop of misfits for a whole year.“How do you expect me to supervise marine biologists? The closest I get to the ocean is teachingThe Waves.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps the marine scientists will be of some value to your exploration of setting in early twentieth-century literature? Push those boundaries you’ve been telling me about.”
“I’m not here for your amusement, Paul. What are you going to do about it?”
“There’s nothing I can do for you, my dearest Sylvie. We talked about this before the summer. It’s not about the subject specifically; it’s just pastoral care. They could be a bunch of trainee chefs or budding filmmakers. It makes no difference. You need to ramp up your supervision hours before you can take on any moreresponsibility here.”
The penny dropped, along with Sylvie’s stomach. “Are you telling me that this is a condition of any future promotion?”
“I am simply saying that you’re a junior professor now. When you come to the next opportunity, you’ll need to demonstrate two things to any academic board: that you’ve published a successful commentary on the juxtaposition between French and English literary feminists,” he sipped the piping hot coffee and smiled, “and a bulging portfolio of leadership evidence. Take the chance to build your case.”
This fucking guy.“The so-called mentor they’ve sent couldn’t even get out of bed on time,” Sylvie said through gritted teeth.
“Give her a break, perhaps?” His grin widened.
“I don’t give people breaks. There’s no time for breaks if they’re serious about what they’re doing.”
“There lies your problem, my dear. We’re in the privileged position of being paid to foster people’s potential. They will always have flaws which need addressing. Our job is to nurture improvement.”
“Or perfection.” Sylvie tipped her chin in defiance.
“Ah. That’s where you and I differ. I simply seek improvement. Perfection is a curse. Polishing something until it shines only makes your hand ache. I try to avoid it.”
Sylvie pursed her lips. Of course he avoided pain; he was the king of delegation. They could quarrel over their academic purpose all day. She and Paul had enjoyed hours of intellectual debate, but that’s not what she was there for now. She had to change tack if she was going to walk out of his office with fewer burdens and more free periods. She’d have to meet him in his meandering world of rationale, rather than rely on her straight-talking reason. “Perhaps this requires a collective response? I’m not the only professor at my level, and I wouldn’t wish to deny any of the others the opportunity to excel. It’s a chance for Jean, or André, or even Matthieu, is it not?” She was fed up with sucking up the extra load while hermale colleagues swanned about the faculty enjoying liberty and fraternity, while she was desperate for equality.
Paul steepled his fingers. “It’s decided. The Americans are your babies this year. Congratulations on your new arrivals.”
Sylvie groaned with all the drama of a two-year old denied another cookie.
“There’s more.” Paul leaned in. “The pastoral supervisor who needs a new alarm clock will also need some extra support, because she’s new to all this. The Monterey team suggested regular coaching sessions. I have every faith in you to bring her on.”
“Sure. I’ll squeeze those between my teaching timetable and my editing all-nighters.”
Paul nodded. “It’ll be a productive year for you. I can feel it in my bones.”
Sylvie’s bones already ached with fresh defeat. This year was going to be an impossible juggling act. She wouldn’t mind if the international cohort had been full of energy and ambition, but this morning’s session had proved the exact opposite. Adelaide Poole certainly lacked the driving force of a pastoral care leader, and Sylvie couldn’t get sucked into coaching a PhD student into leadership. It was all a waste of her energy, especially when she had a book to publish. But how could she spend as little time as possible babysitting the Americans without Paul noticing? And how would she spend time on her real purpose this year: securing the promotion that she’d moved south for?
CHAPTER FOUR
“The bubbles are trying to escape.”Ade scraped her shoe against the tiled floor of the laundromat.
