A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews SwingingOnAStar, Anon, The Auburn Girl, Mad Hatter Massacre, Guest, UrieNanashi, RandomCitizen, Cammiarity, Southern Cooken, CeliaSingsSongs, Turtle Kid the Woolgatherer, TheInsanityThatHidesWithin, yourhappyplace, Guest, demonqueen7, TheVengefulMermaid, K9Train, d0ct0rwh0l0ckf4n, Courtney-Tamara, Qeani, ajsmiles, Guest, Yuki Suou, and Christineoftheopera. I'm so sorry this update is so late. I hope the new year has been good to your guys so far. I'm not totally thrilled with this chapter, but I really hope you enjoy the update either way. :)

The Curious Misunderstanding

Chapter Four

/

Jim. Jim.

It was a name sounded inside my head several times during the day, whispered and left lingering on my lips when I was alone, as I laid in bed awake at night; it played between my fingers as I twirled a pencil, when I washed my hair, when I walked home from the shops, like a sing-song rhyme I couldn't bear to let out of my head. Jim Mo-ri-art-y. Jim Mo-ri-art-y. Like a mantra repeated to calm my thoughts and focus my mind, while reddening my cheeks and fluttering my heartbeat, all at once. Mo-ri-art-y. Jim. Jim.

Slowly the spring turned into early summer, and I followed's Nigel's instructions as best to my abilities; I took my manuscript ant huffed it around London, getting on the Tube to spend the day at the library, stopping into my favourite Chinese food restaurant for green tea, dumplings, and editing, even going downtown to spend time working at one of the spare desks in Dad's office. But truth be told, the thesis was the furthest thing from my mind. I worked at the abstracts, I read and reread, I edited, just as Nigel had instructed, but past that, it floated to the back of my mind and there it stayed.

It'd been two weeks since my meeting with Nigel, two weeks since the breakfast. Two weeks since Jim. The card he'd given me sat on my bedside table like some sort of treasured keepsake, guarded over as I slept; I sometimes looked at it and wondered what would happen if I called him, what he would say. I knew that the number he gave me would likely go to Sebastian and from there he would deem whether or not Jim would call me back. That's why I hadn't called it, that and the fact I didn't have anything for him, and he was probably busy, I didn't want to bother him. Someday, perhaps someday soon, I could call him and listen to his voice on the other end of the line.

"You seem rather distracted," Dad said. "Everything all right?"

We were at the shop down the street from his office, a welcome change of scenery and a chance to give my eyes a break from the manuscript and my pages of notes. But I was distracted, I'd been distracted since the breakfast at Dayler Rowley Suites, distracted by memories of Westwood and French toast and dark, hypnotic eyes and the feel of Jim's fingers grazing mine...distracted, oh my, yes. Very distracted.

"I'm fine," I told Dad, easing him a little smile. "Just thinking about everything."

He gave me half a smile, guarded but sympathetic. "Is it going all right?"

I shrugged. "Okay enough."

"Well," Dad said, smiling. "It's good you're keeping at it. I'm sure there's been many who would have given up by now."

I eased him a little smile in return. It was Dad's job to whip people into shape, judicially, but he was only ever nice about it with me. "Yeah, well, Nigel would probably kick my arse if I tried."

"Have you spoken to Nigel since he left?"

"No," I said, sipping my coffee. I was too embarrassed to email Nigel for anything, let alone indulge him in idle chitchat while he was still on vacation. "He's in Knossos, he's got way better things to do than check up on me."

Dad made an affirmative noise in his throat as he nodded and sipped his own coffee, and then he gave me a full smile. "Perhaps you'd like a trip to Knossos, when all this is said and done."

I returned his smile halfheartedly, though in reality I didn't feel like I deserved a graduation gift. "What I'd really like is to sleep for a month and a half."

I took his arm, the way I did ever since I was a little girl, as we walked down the street back to his office. By then his mobile was buzzing uncontrollably, likely his aides looking for him to clean up some small calamity. But he remained ever the gentleman, keeping his attention on me as we made our steady way back.

"Have you spoken to your mother at all?" Dad asked at one point, when the noise from the street had calmed enough to hear one another.

I tightened my grip on his arm. "Not since the defense. She knows that I'm reworking it."

"Good," he said, though he was careful not to ask about her any further. "I'm glad you've had a chance to talk to her about it. With Nigel in Knossos and me working all the time, I worry you don't have anyone to talk to about it."

By the time we got back to his office, Dad's aides were jumping down his throat about something just announced on the BBC One. I watched him go before returning to the spare office where I'd been working, but as I went, something Dad said began to reverberate inside my head like a ball bouncy off the walls.

It was true, I didn't really have anyone to talk to about my thesis. So many of my friends were studying abroad, and those who were in town had their own problems, they didn't need to hear of mine. It would have been nice to talk to someone about it, if only to bitch about it, if only to get off my chest how I really felt about the failed defense and the rewriting.

Someone to talk to, that's what I needed. Someone to talk to...

/

The next afternoon I found myself with my mobile in one hand and Jim's card in the other, trying to psych myself up to dial it and stay on the line long enough for someone to pick up. I'd tried half a dozen times, each time completely losing my nerve, hanging up, and chiding myself for being such a child. I felt like a middle-schooler trying to ring a boy she fancied, and surely the situation had the same effect: my heart was racing, my palms were sweating, and with every hangup, I threw myself down into the nearest chair and face-palmed.

In-between phone calls I tried to convince myself that it wasn't right to call Jim over something so ridiculous...the man was probably super busy, and Nigel would be back in a few short weeks, I could talk to him about it.

But Jim had said anything. Anything at all.

And I just wanted to talk about it, after all. Just wanted to talk.

I dialed the number into my mobile - I knew it off by heart at this point - and I put it down on the kitchen table in front of me so I couldn't hang up. I sat in my seat and listened to the short rings, sitting on my hands so that I couldn't panic and hang up. I was just calling to talk, calling to talk. It'd been weeks, I wasn't bothering him because he said anything, anything at all, and it'd been weeks.

I just wanted to talk.

It rang and rang, and my heart pummeled against my chest.

And then it made the chime for an out of service number.

I stared at the mobile on the table and listened to the tone in disbelief. Out of service...

But...how could that be? I checked the number, I dialed it correctly...had he given me a fake number? Maybe he'd had to change numbers in the few weeks since I saw him, which seemed unlikely, but not altogether impossible. Out of service...how could it be?

I ended the call and held my mobile tightly in my hand as a great, horrible sense of disappointment came crashing down on me, heavy on my shoulders and my neck, sucking all the air out of my body and leaving me breathless and gasping, on the verge of tears.

I don't know what was worse...knowing that failure was on my record and there was no one to talk to about it, or that Jim had disappeared, he couldn't be found. I wouldn't ever find him again, not in London, not if I looked for a thousand years.

I set my mobile down and went to the cupboard. I had gin hidden in there somewhere. It was time for gin. Gin would make everything all better, it would.

And then my mobile rang.

I gasped, shocked from the sudden sound, and then I snapped my head to look at it on the table, scowling at it. Traitor phone! First I call Jim to discover his number's out of service, and then it rings just like that, mocking me. I reached for it and answered, figuring it was Dad. He'd have to wait until the morrow, I was in no fucking mood. "Hello?"

"Hullo."

I froze, and the gin bottle almost slipped out of my hand to go crashing to the floor. Once again I felt winded, like all the air had been sucked from my body. That deep, dreamy Dubliner drawl...it made me smile from ear to ear, and I was at an instant loss for words, and I was scrambling for the back of the chair so I could sit down.

"Hi," I said, my voice nervous and shaky. "Uh...you probably don't remember me-"

"Don't remember you?" he said in a sing-song voice, and then he laughed a little. "Nola, how little you must think of me."

The response put me off for a second, made me give pause and think, but then in the next moment my heart was beating so fast and I had to seriously repress a giggle. "I uh...called the number you gave me and it just went to an out of service."

"Ah, a necessary annoyance, I'm afraid," he said, dully. "A way to make sure only important calls come through. I apologize if it was cause for alarm."

Important. My call was important. "Oh, it was no problem."

"Now then," he said, his tone shifting into more of a business tone. "To what do I owe this great pleasure?"

I cleared my throat awkwardly, trying to keep the smile out of my voice; I knew he would know. "Y'know what you said about...if I ever needed anything-"

"Something has come to fore, I gather?" He asked.

"Yeah," I affirmed. "It's, uh...slightly tricky to talk about-"

"Nola," he said, my name rolling off his tongue like liquid fire, making me shiver. "I sense your concern is sensitive and sensitive matters should never be discussed over the phone."

I couldn't stop the grin on my face, or the overwhelming urge to punch the air above my head in extreme happiness, and I had to really concentrate to keep it from affecting the sound of my voice over the phone. "Okay, um...should I-"

"Meet me tomorrow at Russell's Square," he said, and I thought I was going to drop down dead. "At the cafe. What time works for you?"

I gaped, willing to tell him any time worked for me so long as it worked for him, as long as it meant seeing him, but instead I cleared my throat. "Umm...would two o'clock be all right?"

"Two o'clock it is," he said. "Goodbye, Nola."

And with that, just like that, the call was dropped and he was gone.

I stood there for a long time with my mobile pressed to my ear, listening to nothing but the thrum of blood in my ears and the slamming of my heart against my chest. I couldn't believe it...I couldn't believe it. Another chance to see Jim. I set down my mobile on the tabletop, noticing that my fingers were trembling as I let it go.

The next day, I was going to see Jim, in person, at the cafe in the park, I really was, I was really going to see him. Jim. Jim Mo-ri-art-y.

/