An Extract: Honey - by Imani Thompson

‘Perfect to?’

‘Talk with Finn about it. He needs help wording the questions. And maybe offer any advice.’

Dr Barnett specialises in the study of medieval dream poetry; Yrsa can’t see the point. She also can’t see the point of this Finn, nor his video.

‘I don’t know if you’re free now, but I just came from Corpus and know he’s working on it this afternoon. If you were free, I might mes-sage him that you could pop by?’

Yrsa could so easily not be free. She could go now and feed some ducks, eat an entire cheesecake, go to Twitter with the news about Richardson; but the thought of this Finn encroaching on the peace of students causes her to say, ‘Yes, I can go and talk to him.’

‘Thank you, thank you. He’ll be so chuffed.’

Maybe Finn will be fit. Maybe the universe will reward her for her good consciousness and kind work. Maybe she’ll get her Friday fuck after all.

‘He says he’s in the courtyard by the library. Do you know the one?’

‘I’ll find my way.’ Yrsa stands. ‘You’re really a star.’

Shove it up your arse. She smiles and walks away.

*

Corpus Christi College sits on Trumpington Street, a brick road of cafés and souvenir shops. The college is made up of a number of inter-connecting grass courts. Students pass by her, laughing.

Yrsa’s phone buzzes and she slides it from her bag. Below, a message from her mum that she missed: It would not be difficult to come. You are being difficult.

Candice Her mother signs off every text she sends because, Yrsa presumes, she’s a sadist. She deletes the message. And a text from Ethan:

Wish you were here [a grainy image of Ethan’s bare chest, bed sheets,

and cock]

It’s the first dick pick she’s been sent by him. She zooms in, tilts her phone for the best angle. Poor image quality, poor lighting, and poor form. She sighs. Leaving him on read she opens her chat with Ida, her flatmate.

Drink tonight?

Thought you were seeing lover man tonight. I bought ear plugs [egg plant emoji, egg plant emoji, water splash emoji]

Not seeing him

Why?????

Will explain later did you hear what happened to Nina?

No? What??

Will also explain later

I can do the Punter at 6?

See you then x

Excited for the goss!!

Sliding her phone back into her bag, she passes through the stone archway. In the courtyard just before the library sits a man wearing an ill-chosen corduroy jacket who, Yrsa presumes by the way he is cautiously waving at her, is Finn. Not fuckable then.

‘Hi.’ She sits, shaking his hand as briefly as possible.

‘Thanks so much for coming, sorry if it’s a pain.’ He’s Irish. His accent has the lovely Dublin lilt which, irritatingly, endears him to her.

‘That’s okay. What is it you wanted?’

As Finn describes his project, Yrsa nods along while thinking about what to do with the dick pick. If it had been a good one, then maybe she could have stayed with Ethan, but she can’t be self-respecting and masturbate to such pathetic attempts.

‘So looking at involving maybe seven students. Or do you think that’s too many? You think that’s too many . . .’

But it’s more than just the dick pick. She can’t be self-respecting and stay with a man just because he knows how to whip butter into eggs.

‘I feel students should feel comfortable in applying here . . .’

She considers the list of Ethan’s good points and compares it to the list of his bad. The bad is more substantial than the good, but the good is better than she’s come across in a long while.

‘So, yes, anyway, I’m rambling. But these are the questions.’ Finn opens his satchel and starts rummaging. ‘Feck, I must have—’

‘Have you been ignoring my emails or am I having problems with Outlook again?’ Finn is getting a large slap on the back by a man who – Yrsa realises – she knows.

‘No, they’re coming through. Sorry, busy week.’

The man sits at a chair that no one’s offered him, scraping it across the gravel. He sips a Sanpellegrino, lemon, and doesn’t acknowledge Yrsa’s existence.

Richardson.

‘I’m only messing with you,’ Richardson says to Finn. Happy. Too happy.

He’s also, she can’t help but think it, better looking than she thought. In a Steve Carrell better-with-age kind of way. Richardson, sip, sip, sipping his Sanpellegrino. She tries to imagine him and Nina fucking. She can’t see it. She reckons he gets sweaty before he comes. Reckons he always tells Nina he loves her right after. ‘. . .

And then he said, you just gotta let ’em dangle lower next time.’ He’s come to the end of a joke which has him laughing – Finn laughing too – laughs like static.

‘Anyway, you a student here?’ Richardson turns abruptly to Yrsa.

The sudden attention knocks her off balance.

‘PhD.’

‘You don’t look old enough.’ He laughs, again.

Nina doesn’t look old enough either.

‘What field?’ he asks.

‘Sociology.’

‘Oh yes, my apologies, we have met. You’re looking at the impact of aid in Western Africa.’

‘Not me.’

‘Apologies again then.’

Finn coughs, he seems unsure how to proceed with this social inter-action. Yrsa wants Richardson alone.

She looks to Finn, keeping her tone sweet. ‘I’ve got to get going soon, if you wanted to give me those questions to look over?’

‘I could email them to you?’ he suggests.

‘I don’t have a computer.’ A blatant lie, but one she figures Finn will be too awkward to confront. ‘If you did have a printout?’ A smile.

‘Right, yes, I do actually. Just in my room. It’s not far, I can just grab them for you.’ He stands while trying to get out a number of sorrys and thank-yous. She waits for Finn to turn the corner, looks back at Richardson.

She thinks of Nina’s knickers next to the frying pan. ‘You should know that I kno—’

‘’Scuse me, I think that’ll be the wife.’ His phone.

His fucking phone. Before Yrsa can get a word out he’s up, iPhone on speaker, pacing by the flowers, all darling this and darling that.

How dare he. She lost expensive sushi – and one of the few people she likes in the department today – because of him. Yrsa looks away from him, watches a bee collect pollen, stem to stem.

She’ll bet he’s taken Nina’s best research. She’ll bet he’ll stand up there at lectures, conferences, presenting it as his own. Not only did he get the girl, but he got her brightest thoughts too. The bee, smelling for sugar, flies to the edge of the Sanpellegrino.

‘Alright, darling, see you then.’ Richardson heads back to the table.

‘Yep, got that, yep.’ He rolls his eyes at Yrsa and turns away. ‘No, I can pick up the wine.’

Well, if nothing else, she could give him a sting. She knocks the bee into his lemonade.