"The Boxing Day party went pear-shaped without you, Belle."
Archie sips his tea and grimaces theatrically. "Everyone kept pestering, 'Where's Matthew?' 'Where's Belle?' And our Trivial Pursuit team suffered a serious setback in your absence."
"Oh no! Please tell me you carried the day, Archie!"
Belle smiles and stretches an arm out across the café table. She rests a hand on top of his rolled, chambray shirtsleeve. "Please tell me ourCantabrigian honor is still intact."
Archie allows suspense to build, taking another slow sip of his lukewarm Earl Grey. She arches her eyebrows and waits.
"Well—thankfully, Team Greenwich was utterly arseholed, and half of Team Westminster wandered off midway through the game to find a room to shag in. Somehow we limped along without our film and literature faction. But you won't be excused from next year's do, darling. My poor nerves couldn't take it."
He feigns sternness, his blue eyes dancing behind round, tortoise shell frames. Chalk dust decorates the front of his shirt.
"I promise not to miss it." Belle squeezes his arm affectionately. "Matthew rang on Christmas Eve, and we both agreed that with James gone, the entire month of December was bound to be fouled up. We both just sort of—lost the plot of the entire holiday season. Matthew and Mary couldn't swing the airfare back to London so soon again anyhow, and the man I've been seeing wasn't too keen on meeting everybody en masse during a getaway holiday weekend."
She grins—a wry, private smile.
No, Nosty was none too keen on that particular idea.
Archie covers her manicured hand with his own and brushes his large thumb over her knuckles. He looks as though he is cautiously chewing over something he very badly wants to say.
"The thing is—we've missed you at Wednesday pub nights, too, Belle. I've missed you. Honestly, we've all been a bit worried…"
"Oh no. I recognize that face. You've fastened on your 'Concerned Psychiatrist' face, Archie. You should never wear it around friends."
Belle shakes his arm a little so that he can be sure she's only teasing.
"I do realize that I've dropped off the map," she continues, "and I'm sorry for it, but—it isn't what you suspect. It isn't depression, thank God. I miss James. I miss him terribly. I think about him every day, but…"
Belle bites her lower lip and leans halfway across the table.
"I've fallen in love, Archie. I feel as though I'm—I'm somehow back at Uni, eighteen years old again, living off air and barely any sleep and—and endorphins."
Belle laughs breathlessly, "Honestly? If it weren't for teaching courses, I'd probably never leave the flat. I'm in that deep. I didn't realize it could happen like this much beyond the age of sixteen, but here I am. We hardly slept last night, but I feel as though I could swim the length of the River Thames!"
She sits across from him, her cheeks flushed and her turkey pesto sandwich untouched. Archie fiddles with his already spotless eyeglasses and elects to choose his next words very carefully.
"And this is the man you met in hospital, Belle? The one who shared a room with your brother?" He gently extracts his forearm and leans back in his plastic chair, studying her closely. "This is the friend with the mood disorder that you mentioned a while back?"
Belle's dancing eyes dim for a moment, and her pink cheeks pale.
It hurts to hear Nosty reduced to simple, clinical terms. It makes him seem somehow less than he is. Nosty is extraordinary.
Nosty is everything.
"Yes, him." She chews on her lower lip thoughtfully. There are so many questions she longs to ask now that the subject has come up, but if hewere sitting here beside her, she would keep mum.
Does that make what she's about to say a betrayal?
"What does it—what does it feel like to take lithium? What I mean is—is there any danger?"
Archie frowns and continues polishing his clean spectacles.
"No—no, there's no danger so long as you're under the care of a decent doctor. Lithium has been used to treat bipolar disorder for decades now. It's certainly less dangerous than being off medication and suffering an episode." He considers carefully. "The worst side effects are poor concentration and impaired memory. Sometimes, there is weight gain. Rarely, hand tremors."
He shifts in his chair. "Does he need a referral, Belle? Any side effects can be minimized by tweaking the dosage. If he's been acting disoriented, irritable…"
"No—but thank you." She takes a shallow breath and softly adds: "He doesn't—he doesn't medicate."
She watches her friend try to school his dear, blunt features into a mask of calm concern. He's worried that if he balks or lectures or makes any sudden movement at all, she'll end this conversation forthwith.
Belle reaches out and firmly recaptures his arm.
"He has his reasons, Archie. And also—he has me. I'll keep him safe. I'll keep him safe for as long as he'll let me." She smiles sadly, but Archie doesn't follow suit. He slides on his tortoise shell frames and drops the pretense of detachment.
"Belle, this disease isn't something you can 'keep him safe' from. Forgive me, but it's just like—it's very similar to James's addiction to heroin: it's not something that can be cured by a—by a warm heart and a warm bed. Belle? Forgive me. I'm sorry, Belle…"
Her eyes have begun to water behind her pale, pasted on smile, but she just shakes her head and ducks her chin, her brown curls falling loose over her wool suit jacket.
"I know," she says simply, "I do."
Sighing, she swipes at her eyes and picks up her sandwich. They both eat in silence for a spell.
"I have some news," she says at last, "and I was so excited to share it only a moment ago, but now I almost feel as though I should apologize. It will only make you more apprehensive…"
Archie carefully wipes his mouth with his napkin. "You can tell me anything, Belle. You know that. What good is having a psychiatrist friend if he can't offer you that?"
She smiles weakly.
"Six months back, during a visit to New York to see Matthew and Mary, I interviewed with the fine arts faculty at Columbia University. Of course, I presumed nothing would come of it. Those positions are ridiculously coveted, and I haven't published nearly enough. I haven't been teaching for long enough…"
Belle takes a breath. "Well, they called this afternoon while I was in class and offered me a position. It's full-time, tenure track, teaching undergraduate film studies courses—in New York City, near my family…"
"God, Belle—that's wonderful news! Did you think I'd be upset over your leaving King's College? Just so long as you come back for the annual Boxing Day bash and don't neglect your Trivial Pursuit duties, you're forgiven…"
"No—not that, Archie. The man I've been seeing. Nosty. I'm going to ask him to come with me."
The delight that lit up her friend's wide, freckled face is abruptly extinguished. "Come with you—to New York? But you've only known him, what? Two or three months, tops? How can you be sure—"
But Belle isn't listening.
Blood rushes to her cheeks, and the back of her neck prickles. Inexplicably, her body seems to know when Nosty is nearby.
One hundred people could be speaking, and she would easily be able to pluck his voice out from the clamor. Her back can be fully turned, but somehow she always knows when Nosty enters a room.
Belle stands, cutting off Archie's well-intentioned protests, and she turns, rising on tiptoe, staring around the large Franklin-Wilkins Library café. Students are huddled together in groups, snacking, scribbling in dog-eared notebooks, shuffling flashcards, and sipping from paper cups filled with strong, black tea.
There.
There he is.
Nosty is standing stock-still near the cash registers, glaring mayhem and murder at poor, oblivious Archie. A brown paper sack is clutched in his right fist. He has on his leather jacket, their red scarf, and one of the dashing new kilts she bought for him back in November.
He gave her such a bloody hard time over those kilts.
"Have a bit of a Highlander fixation, eh love? Fancy finding out if I'm a True Scotsman beneath this tourist claptrap? Dae ye prefer your blokes go full regimental? Aye, I'll show you how to conduct a proper kilt inspection. Come here, beautiful…"
Once Nosty got his first little taste of making Belle laugh, he cannot seem to leave off.
Her mirth is a prize he feels compelled to claim again and again, and he ruthlessly plies his Glesgie patter—quipping, mugging, and endlessly teasing to extract breathless giggles and unladylike snorts from his 'wee bird' within the privacy of Belle's snug flat.
Tangled up in her clean sheets, freed from his downswing and his cold, flimsy bed beneath the bridge, Nosty cracks wise until Belle's begging him, "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" laughing and gasping all the while, and then she's twining her arms around his neck and playing with his hair and kissing him to shut him up—which is really all he wanted to begin with.
Now that he's been noticed, Nosty squares his narrow shoulders and begins to saunter across the crowded room.
He weaves his way between clusters of students, adding a showy little bounce to his stride. His long ropes of hair swing over his leather-clad shoulders, and his deep-set eyes are dark and hooded.
"Who's this, then?" He doesn't deign to look at Archie directly, though he's standing close enough to cuff him upside his ginger head.
He cannot quite bring himself to look directly at Belle, either.
He clenches and unclenches the paper bag.
Nosty is hurt by this chummy, late lunch of tea and sandwiches between classes. His lips are set in a grim, straight line, and his posture is uncomfortably rigid. Nosty is jealous.
Thankfully, Belle knows how to smooth things over.
She steps closer and slips a hand beneath his black leather jacket, touching the warm curve of his lower back. She tilts her head and kisses the whiskers that adorn his sharp chin, then presses a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. His mouth remains closed and immobile.
"Hey," she smiles, her fingers lightly tracing his spine.
"Hey," he replies at last, his eyes momentarily softening.
He looks as though he has temporarily forgotten the script.
Sliding her arm around Nosty's slim waist, Belle turns to Archie. "This is him. This is the man I've been telling you about. Nosty, this is my old friend, Dr. Archibald Hopper. We've known each other since Westminster Prep. He teaches Cognitive Neuropsychology courses here at King's College and he's an absolute demon at Trivial Pursuit…"
Archie rises and extends his hand, but Nosty makes no movement aside from grinding his teeth. The softness instantly fled his face at the mention of 'neuropsychology.'
Clearing his throat, Archie lowers his arm and reaches for his blazer on the back of the chair. "Well, best I be off to Denmark Hill for my evening class. It's quite a long jaunt, so I'll just—"
"A shrink, eh?" Nosty interrupts. "Ever put in any philanthropic time at Bethlem Royal?" He snickers to himself, baring his teeth. His left hand has unconsciously risen to his temple, and he taps out a staccato rhythm against the side of his head, sinking inwards.
"So yeah," he rallies, "I brought you a sandwich, bird. Homemade, since I know you won't take my money." Nosty backs away, and Belle's arm falls to her side. He tosses the paper sack onto the café table.
It's one of the few points of contention between them: Belle won't accept food or gifts bought with his drug money.
"Thank you—" she says.
"I can see it wasn't needed, so no need to thank, eh?" he retorts and spins on his heel to leave. Archie is frozen in place, holding his blazer, looking dreadfully uncomfortable.
"Nosty! Wait—would you like to sit in on my Shakespeare class tonight? That way we could walk home together. Titus Andronicus: villainy, depravity, bloody revenge…"
He pauses, considering. "Who would you say I was?"
"You could be yourself." He looks dubious. "Or for a bit of fun, you could be an eccentric visiting professor from Galway—"
"Galway—?" he snorts.
Belle smiles and concedes: "Alright, Glasgow."
He seems to weigh the possibility, bouncing on his toes, but then Nosty's hand creeps back up to his temple, and he shakes his head.
"Nah, I've got some business to attend to tonight, love. Some real dodgy business."
He turns again to go.
"Will you be home later?" Belle asks, ashamed that Archie has heard the desperation that creeps into her voice. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."
"Aye, I'll probably be home tonight," he allows, "but don't wait up, yeah?" He weaves his way back through the crowd and out of sight, shoulders squared and arms swinging.
Belle takes a step after him, but Archie touches her shoulder and brings her to a halt.
"He's on an up, Belle. You shouldn't take that personally. Manic episodes often manifest as anxious irritation. Do you know what to expect? It varies a great deal person by person…"
She shakes her head 'no.' She has only ever seen Nosty on a downswing.
"Then please—be careful, Belle," Archie says, "Mania is most often a bout of excess energy, racing thoughts, insomnia—but the worst highs can result in hallucinations, grandiose ideas, sometimes even a complete break with reality…"
Her brow knits. "I have to go to class," she murmurs.
"You have my mobile number. Use it. For any reason, Belle, day or night." Archie squeezes her shoulder.
"I have to go to class," she repeats quietly, "and then I have to talk to Nosty."