TUESDAY

I sit in Lionel's car, missing the days when I had a predictable work schedule. These random lunches and dinners being sprung on me without warning make it impossible to plan ahead. I had wanted to visit Casey - apparently, a letter arrived for me at the old house this morning. It's as good an excuse as any to go back and check in on everyone.

I feel guilty after last night. Parties aren't good places to discuss problems and repair misunderstandings.

They're great places to create new problems and misunderstandings.

I feel self-satisfied due to the vindication of my judgement that Casey couldn't be trusted to keep a secret.

I hate that I feel this way.

I text her asking her to open the letter and let me know if it's an overdue bill or something important.

It's probably junk. Most of my bills are set to autopay... or they were until my account changed. I'm pretty sure I changed everything over. Other than that, the only letters I'd ever receive would come from my lawyer or accountant, and they don't have my old address on file.

I wonder if living at a hotel counts as being homeless. I suppose it does.

My phone rings.

'Hey, Jo, um. The letter. It's... well, it says that the uni has reopened the investigation into your expulsion. Something about 'new evidence'. They want you to go in tomorrow.'

'Fuck. He actually did it.'

'Who did? What?'

'I'm sorry. I don't think I can properly explain it yet. I don't know exactly what's happening... but hopefully this is a good thing.'

Casey's concern for me is clear. I feel like I do nothing but worry her. Once I hang up, Lionel says;

'That sounded serious.'

I'm worrying him too.

'Yeah. I think Pitch went through with his plan to get me un-expelled.'

'I see why you only said you were hoping that it's a good thing.'

I laugh.

'I didn't think they'd listen... He must have found more than just a fingerprint.'

'How did you even get expelled? I didn't think that was a real thing that happened to people unless you were literally caught in the act of murdering another student on campus.'

I laugh again. I probably shouldn't.

'I was accused of plagiarism. The really obvious, unambiguous kind.'

'You said you were innocent - how do you get falsely accused of something like that?'

'Someone else stole my work.'

'But they... won?'

'Yeah.'

I watch the clouds in the sky, reminiscing about the time I spent at that infernal university.

'I knew from a pretty young age that I wouldn't be able to do anything other than art as a career for long. I didn't study art because I thought the degree would help me get work as an artist, either - my parents made it abundantly clear that the degree was close to worthless. I didn't even have to go to study it formally; I could have kept working on my skills on my own... but I don't do well when I'm isolated. I need people. I needed the inbuilt community that comes with becoming a student at a place like that. I was doing well. I made plenty of friends. We'd support each other's exhibitions. We'd keep each other up to date when galleries were looking for new talent. I could always rely on them to make good suggestions when I was stuck. The accusation destroyed all those friendships. I haven't spoken to any of them since... and given the chance... I don't think I'd want to. They abandoned me without so much as a second thought.'

----------------------------------------

I hurried into the workshop, ignoring my staring classmates completely. The tutor for Sculpture 301 stood, gazing intently into the pigeonhole where my work had been stored.

'Sorry, kiddo. Looks like your vandal came by again.'

Damp clay fragments littered the floor. Most of it was still contained within the pigeonhole, but the stack of pieces was precarious at best.

'Fuck. Why's it always mine?'

'Don't know. You'll have to ask them when you catch them.'

'Fuck.'

Impotent rage turned my guts into spiders. I wanted to break the vandal's face.

Enraged rumination didn't seem like a helpful course of action.

I bent down to collect the bits of debris that looked more obviously like they belonged to me. The clay could still be used. I just needed to spray down the parts that had dried out a little. No reason to let it get trodden into the tiles. Clay costs money, after all.

The tutor stepped aside to let me get into the pigeonhole, saying impassively;

'I really think you should consider renting private workshop space.'

'You know I can't afford it.'

'You can't share with any of your friends?'

'I already asked everyone.'

He was trying to be helpful, but he only ever managed to be condescending. How stupid did he think I was? This happened almost every single day since I started the piece. As if I hadn't asked literally everyone I knew for help. Campus security was totally useless, after all. 'We don't have cameras in that area,' they said. 'It's not in the budget to assign a guard for your project in particular,' they said.

If I had somewhere else to go, I'd already be there.

Fucking arseholes.

'...I don't want to risk being accused of giving you preferential treatment... but I'll see if I can find someone with space you can use.'

'Seriously? Thanks.'

'No promises.'

The following day; I had a corner in a workshop just down the street from the uni. It was tiny and I had to play maid for the other tenants to pay for it, but I was grateful.

I worked hard to catch up on the deadline. Late nights. Early mornings. I was too busy to notice how lonely I was. Finally, it was done. Nothing went wrong with the firing. Even the glaze came out perfect. I handed it in and waited, expecting to get back a good grade.

Instead, I got called into a disciplinary hearing.

'Your work is almost identical to another student's - down to the reference photos submitted with your exegeses.'

I didn't know how to respond, or who to respond to. There were three people in the room, all wearing the same imperious expression. I hoped I looked innocent. All I felt was anger.

'Your tutor has informed us that you were the target of a persistent vandal in the first weeks of the semester.'

'That's correct.'

'He said that often artists with similar influences produce similar art, and suggested that, due to the stress you were under, you may have unconsciously shifted your focus from whatever you had been working on closer to this-' he indicated a photo of my work '- because you kept seeing the other student's reference pictures around the workshop.'

It was garbage.

'No, this was my plan from the beginning. I can prove it. I brought in all my notes and all my research. You can have a look for yourself.'

I place the paint-stained folder on the table in front of me. It looks unimpressive. Uneven, dog-eared pages stick out at odd angles. The group regards it the same way they might regard the contents of a month-old lunch box they discovered in the back of a staffroom fridge.

'There will be no need for that. We've spoken with the other student and, considering your past record, we have decided we will allow you to leave with a warning. This is not to happen again.'

'A warning? I did nothing wrong!'

'You are dismissed.'

There was no appeals process for warnings - as far as the faculty was concerned, I hadn't been punished, so I didn't have any reason to ask for an appeal.

Second semester started. I wanted to return to the communal workshop at uni - to be back with my friends.

I was scared of the vandal reappearing.

I decided that I had to at least give it a try - so I walked to the big double doors at the front of the building. From inside, I heard people talking;

'Yeah, apparently she got off with just a warning. I mean, I do feel really bad she was targeted by that vandal, but that's no reason to steal other people's work. She should have just simplified her original plan so she could meet the deadline.'

I stood frozen to the spot, listening like some pervert outside a changing room. Another voice responded;

'I thought she was cool, I can't believe she'd do something like that.'

A third said;

'I saw her at the lecture yesterday. If I'd been caught plagiarising, I think I'd have dropped out in shame.'

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Laughter.

I had no way to prove I wasn't at fault. The disciplinary board wouldn't even look at my evidence, and that was their job. These people owed me nothing. They wouldn't care. I had become a thief, so anything I did or said would be suspect.

I turned around and went back to the little workshop. I asked if they'd let me keep using the corner in exchange for chores. They agreed. They said they were relieved I'd come back. They were glad to have me. They said it was the tidiest the workshop had ever been. I didn't ask if they'd heard about what happened. I didn't want to risk them deciding I was a liability.

I got the first anonymous text message telling me to drop out that afternoon.

I didn't know who the 'other student' was, who the vandal was, if the two might be related, or if anyone in the class thought I could be innocent. There was no one to confront. Nobody I could safely confide in.

I spent as little time as possible on campus, only meeting the minimum attendance requirements.

The text messages got meaner; more personal.

The only reason I could cope at all was because I had my share house full of theatre nerds. They kept me sane.

Filled with dread, I submitted my final assignment.

I received another summons.

The 'other student' was there this time. The whole damn class came along to support him.

I brought carefully catalogued and dated notes. Photographs of every step of my sculpting process. I brought a printout of every draft of my exegesis.

He had the same exact evidence. It was like he knew what I'd been doing to protect myself.

Once the initial hearing was over, I was cornered. Shouted at. Told to kill myself. How dare I try to ruin someone's life like that? What did he ever do to me? They accused me of faking the vandalism so I could get special treatment from the tutor and free private workshop space. They said the fact I was in a private space at all was proof of my guilt. It allowed me to hide the fact I was stealing someone else's work.

He hadn't been in the group that confronted me.

I couldn't find the tutor to question him.

I was locked out of the workshop.

I shouldn't have gone back to the second hearing. I should have known that there was no point.

I wanted to tell them that I'd been cheated from the beginning. That there had been a whole grand conspiracy to get access to my work. That the tutor had sold me out to this student.

Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.

I had nothing.

I was expelled.

----------------------------------------

'Why did they do that to you?'

'If you'd asked me then I might have said it was because someone had an irrational grudge against me. In reality, it was probably because I was the easiest target.'

I wasn't thinking clearly back then. I'd been hurt and was scared the whole world was out to get me. I've always had a propensity for seeing the world through the lens of dramatic narrative... I like to believe I can always spot my leaps of logic and identify where I've fantasised wild explanations without any evidence. Back then, I'd gone so far past logic and rationality that it would have been impossible for me to untangle the truth.

'I don't actually know if the vandal was part of it, or if it was just an unlucky coincidence. I don't know if the tutor was in on it. I don't know why the other student didn't just pay someone to do his assignment for him. Maybe he did, and they just happened to be a tenant at the private workshop, and that person decided to steal my work because it was right there, and... maybe they thought I deserved it because I was a freeloader.'

I shrug.

'In the end, I don't think it matters why. These things happen. Someone's going to be hurt. That time, it was me. It could easily have been anyone else in the class.'

It feels nihilistic to admit out loud that it was probably just a random set of coincidences that made me the victim.

There's a strange comfort to being chosen as a victim. If I were carefully selected via some kind of exacting criteria, then it happened because I was worthy. If I just happened to be a chump stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, then my suffering becomes less meaningful. Trivial. Unimportant.

I become unimportant.

I know, in the grand scheme of things, I am unimportant.

I just like to fantasize about being special.

Lionel opens the car door for me, letting me out onto the street. I hadn't even noticed we'd stopped.

The air is crisp. I smell seawater. I hear gulls.

We must be near the bay.

I feel like a deflated rubber ball. I haven't told anyone about this stuff for a long time. If someone kicks me now... well, I won't bounce.

'Would your parents be terribly disappointed if I ditched right now?'

'Father wouldn't care. Mother might blow her lid, though.'

Always Frances.

'Do they always want to spend this much time with you when they're in the country?'

'No, this is pretty weird.'

I inhale deeply, a vain attempt to reinflate myself.

'Okay. Let's go in.'

Inside, again, are Isaac, Frances, Jaq and Charles.

'Why is he here again?' I whisper to Lionel.

'No idea,' he whispers back.

The route we take to reach the table leads us behind Charles.

'Why is his hand on your Mother's knee?' I whisper, before blindly bumping into Lionel. He's faltered in the middle of the walkway and is staring.

'I... have no idea.'

I nudge him to get him to move.

Finally, we reach the table.

I'm too stunned to participate in the conversation in anything more than the most perfunctory manner. I don't understand what's going on.

Is he sleeping with both of them?

Does Frances know?

Does Jaq know?

Is that why Jaq tried to ghost him?

No wonder Jaq was refusing to speak to him at all.

I really am stupid.

Oh my god.

I try not to gawk at Frances openly flirting with Charles.

Isaac is right there.

Does he not care?

Isaac seems especially dour and sullen today - I guess he does care. Why doesn't he say something?

He places his empty wine glass on the table.

'I think I'll be heading home early.'

Frances' glance of contempt is cutting.

'You don't have to come with me, dear. One of the boys will give me a lift back.'

He fishes his keys out of his pocket and drops them beside his glass. Frances takes them.

Lionel nods and gathers his coat.

I watch them leave, wishing I could go with them.

Jaq looks nervous.

'Mother... would it be alright if we go as well?'

She nods curtly. Jaq takes my hand and helps me out of my chair.

We leave the two lovebirds alone at the table. I resist the urge to look back. I'm sure I'll see something I don't want to.

We reach Jaq's car before he speaks;

'I didn't understand why you wanted me to talk to Charles...but I think you were right. He's not going away... I just really don't know what to say to him.'

I'm confused. Doesn't he know I already spoke to Charles? Isn't that why he's been avoiding me? I guess I shouldn't explain myself now. Instead, I say;

'I get it if you don't want me to pry... but it would really help if you'd tell me what's going on.'

'I don't know either. We've been friends since school. We'd hang out at each other's houses. He wasn't always around; sometimes he'd be out of school for months. Now, he kind of just comes and goes. I don't know why he's so obsessed with you. It's weird. He's always had a dozen girlfriends, but not any more. I've never seen him alone for so long.'

Wait a minute.

'So you really weren't dating him?'

Jaq looks hurt.

'No, never. Why do you keep saying I'm gay?'

'I didn't say you were gay. I assume everyone is both interested and disinterested in every kind of person until they give me evidence to the contrary.'

'What does that mean?'

'I have no idea what kind of people you're into. I've never seen you show any interest. That makes you Schrödinger's romantic. I'm not making assumptions.'

He looks even more hurt.

'I'm interested in you.'

Please don't say things like that. You're not interested in me. You can't be interested in me.

'That doesn't mean it's impossible for you to have been interested in a man in the past. Bisexual people exist.'

'Okay, okay, I get it. But I've never been interested in men.'

'Does Pitch know that?'

'Why do you think he's gay?'

'He doesn't have to be gay - again, people can like both.'

He looks confused and annoyed. It's not getting through. I sigh. I'd really rather not bare my soul to this idiot, but I need him to stop dismissing the possibility. I say;

'I like both.'

Jaq looks startled by my admission. It shouldn't be that shocking... though I guess my friends do form a protective bubble of people who are particularly disinterested in policing other people's sexuality. I forget that's not the norm everywhere. Jaq's family does seem aggressively heterosexual.

'Fine. We've never ever been in a romantic anything, and I don't think he likes men.'

This is perplexing.

'Then why would he be so persistent about getting rid of me? The only thing I can think of is that he deluded himself into believing you two were an item and was jealous and upset about you being with someone else.'

'Well, it's not that.'

I still think Jaq could have missed the signs. He's really awkward about sex in general. The thought of a woman changing clothes in another room is enough to make him blush, so I doubt he's well versed in the subtler arts of seduction. Would he notice the little things? Lingering glances, persistent smiles, minute shifts in tone of voice, suggestive turns of phrase?

If I ask too many questions about it, he's going to get angry with me. I'm sure he'd say he's not homophobic, but he's clearly upset by the suggestion he might like men, or men might like him.

I drop the subject.

When we arrive at the estate, I realise I forgot to ask to be taken to the hotel.

It's fine. I can use the opportunity to investigate some more.

I should have taken a private investigator course instead of my stupid Bachelor of Arts. If I'd been falsely accused of plagiarism there, they might have investigated properly, and then this whole debacle could have been avoided.

Once in the house, Jaq makes himself scarce; leaving me to wander aimlessly.

If you were genuinely interested in me, Jaq, you wouldn't be running off like that already.

Does he just not know how affection works?

I suppose I can't blame him for that. I've met his mother.

I haven't yet fully explored the estate. I've been a combination of too busy and too scared to go anywhere on my own. It'd be rude to just open doors at random and peek inside. I don't want to accidentally snoop around in a staff member's bedroom.

Wait, do the staff live here? That's something that happened way back when there were feudal lords. It can't be a thing anymore, can it?

I push my curiosity aside. It's not useful.

If Jaq won't accompany me, I don't have a lot of options. Be a creep or stick to the areas I know.

I know where the family albums are kept - perhaps there are school photos there I can look at. Maybe I'll see something hinting at the true nature of the relationship between Jaq and Charles.

I want to slap myself. I know this is inadequate. I know I have to do something far more drastic.

I don't want to involve innocent bystanders by mistake.

Entering the room with the albums, I discover Isaac.

'Oh, hello Joanne. Sorry you had to see that.'

This is much better than photo albums.

He's alone. He's drunk. He might let something slip.

And now I'm honestly thinking about manipulating a drunk man into telling me family secrets.

Without a shadow of a doubt; I'm a bad person.

'Are you okay?' I ask.

'Me? I'm fine. I deserve it. I just wish she wouldn't do it in front of the boys.'

Do I ask?

'Why do you think you deserve it?'

Never mind asking what 'it' is. I can guess.

He squints at me, as though not entirely sure why I'd ask such a silly question.

'Because I cheated on her.'

Ah.

'And now... she's cheating on you with a younger man.'

He laughs.

'She probably isn't. She was always so uptight about those sorts of things. I just can't say anything. I'd be a hypocrite.'

He raises his glass to his mouth and pauses, thinking.

'She'd love it if I did say something. It'd be all 'hypocrite' this, 'hypocrisy' that.'

I sit on a nearby lounge chair.

'Then why is she trying to get Jaq to rush into a marriage? Wouldn't that make cheating more likely?'

He laughs.

'She's doing that because she doesn't trust me to look after him when she's gone. She's busy dying of cancer, but I'm still just a spare tyre to her.'

I can't help but stare at him in stunned silence.

'She's dying?'

He nods.

'Stage four.'

She doesn't look unwell.

Or does she? Maybe I haven't noticed because I haven't been looking. Maybe that's why she doesn't want to see her friends. They'd know.

'I'm really sorry to hear that.'

He scoffs.

'Rubbish. She's been nothing but trouble for you since you arrived. I can see why Jaques didn't want to introduce you to us.'

I wonder why they never filed for divorce.

I really can't ask.

I want to cheer him up, but I don't know what to say. Every topic seems like a potential landmine.

'How about we play a game of cards?'

He smiles like a child that just received an unexpected slice of cake.

'I'm glad Jaques met you. If at least one of my boys is happy, then maybe I haven't been a total failure of a father.'

Except that I'm helping Jaq foil his mother's plan to ensure he's cared for. My presence is not proof that anyone will be happy.

Can I, in good conscience, continue to play along?

I'm not really doing this 'in good conscience' to begin with.

I don't want to give up on identifying as a decent person.

I'm pretty sure I'm deluding myself.

Would it be enough to try to teach Jaq how to be independent? Do I have to stick around and babysit him?

I can see that exploding in my face the second I say something he doesn't like.

What about Lionel? Why hasn't he been included in this scheme? He seems more capable than Jaq. Couldn't they ask him to help look after his brother?

I guess that would be unfair.

Having located the deck of cards, I place the box on the table and sit across from Isaac.

'How about Rummy?'

He looks thoughtful for a moment.

'Gin Rummy is better.'

'Gin Rummy it is.'

I shuffle the cards and hand them to him to deal. He takes them and asks;

'Why haven't you moved into the house yet? Don't tell me Jaques hasn't invited you.'

That was unexpected. I try to laugh it off;

'I think he's worried he'll scare me off before the wedding. I'm a light sleeper.'

'Pish posh. We have spare rooms. You don't have to sleep in his.'

It sounds dangerous. With all my rubbish in a room in the estate, it’d take Frances three minutes of prying to work out that I’m not merely poor. I’m degenerate gutter trash.

It's what Charles concluded.

'I don't want to impose.'

Isaac snorts.

'You can move in tomorrow.'

If I were in the house, I'd be under even more pressure to perform constantly.

'It would probably be better to wait until-'

'Nonsense. We're not living in the dark ages. Nobody in their right mind saves that sort of thing for marriage anymore.'

I suppose he's a stubborn drunk. It would be easier to change the subject.

I pick my cards up off the table and examine them.

'I believe you've given me a gin hand.'

'What? Impossible!'