LITMIR.BIZ

       PROLOGUE

      ‘Oh bloody hell, of all the luck …’

      ‘What?’ I asked.

      I batted a particularly plucky and irrepressible wasp away from my Coke can. Ben was shielding his face with his hand in that way which only renders you more conspicuous.

      ‘Professor McDonald. You know, Egg McMuffin Head. I owed him an essay on Keats a week ago. Has he seen me?’

      I looked over. Across the afternoon-sun-dappled lawn, the professor had stopped in his tracks and was doing the full pointing-finger Lord Kitchener impression, even down to mouthing the word ‘YOU’.

      ‘Er. Yes.’

      Ben peered through a gap in his fingers at me.

      ‘Maybe yes or hell yes?’

      ‘Like a tweedy, portly, bald Scottish Scud missile has your exact coordinates and is ripping across the grass to take you out, yes.’

      ‘Right, OK, think, think …’ Ben muttered, looking up into the leaves of the tree we were sitting beneath.

      ‘Are you going to try to climb it? Because Professor McDonald looks the type to wait for the fire crews at dusk.’

      Ben’s eyes cast around at the detritus of lunch, and our bags on the ground, as if they contained an answer. I didn’t think an esteemed academic getting a face full of Karrimor rucksack was likely to help. His gaze came to rest on my right hand.

      ‘Can I borrow your ring?’

      ‘Sure. It’s not magical though.’ I twisted it off and handed it over.

      ‘Stand up?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Stand. Up.’

      I got to my feet, brushing the grass off my jeans. Ben balanced himself on one knee and held aloft a piece of gothicky silver jewellery I’d got for four quid at the student market. I started laughing.

      ‘Oh … you idiot …’

      Professor McDonald reached us.

      ‘Ben Morgan …!’

      ‘Sorry, sir, I’m just in the middle of something rather important here.’

      He turned back to me.

      ‘I know we’re twenty years old and the timing of this proposal might have been forced due to … external pressures. But, irrespective of this, you are amazing. I know I will never meet another woman I care about as much as you. This feeling just builds and builds …’

      Professor McDonald folded his arms, but incredibly, he was smiling. Unbelievable. The Ben chutzpah triumphed again.

      ‘Are you sure that feeling isn’t the revenge of the sweetcorn and tinned hotdog tortilla you and Kev made last night?’ I asked.

      ‘No! My God – you’ve taken me over. It’s my head, my heart, my gut …’

      ‘Careful now, lad, I wouldn’t go much further in the inventory,’ Professor McDonald said. ‘The weight of history is upon you. Think of the legacy. It’s got to inspire.’

      ‘Thanks, sir.’

      ‘You don’t need a wife, you need Imodium,’ I said.

      ‘I need you. What do you say? Marry me. A simple ceremony. Then you can move into my room. I’ve got an inflatable mattress and a stained towel you can fold up and use as a pillow. And Kev’s perfecting a patatas bravas recipe where you boil the potatoes in Heinz tomato soup.’

      ‘Lovely offer as it is, Ben. Sorry. No.’

      Ben turned towards Professor McDonald.

      ‘I’m going to need some compassionate leave.’