THE PRICE - Part 3

Jean said nothing still a bit confused.
"Well, look" he said, "I have some tickets for the uni theatre tomorrow and Brenda doesn't want to go. Would you come?"
She hesitated again. What harm was there, the ticket would probably be wasted if she didn't go and she had nothing else on.
"OK." she said, "I'll see you outside".
"Fine,fine", he retorted.
They finished their drinks and he said abruptly, "Must be off". See you tomorrow."
He left the bar suddenly and Jean stayed on, musing. She couldn't even remember what the play was. She glanced round the bar and saw the notice on the wall.
The play was a new one by a left wing theatre group and she felt she could justify her attendance on academic grounds if no other.
She wandered back to her room, with little enthusiasm for work. She picked up a record and put it on the turntable. It was an old favourite of hers. A knock at the door disturbed her thoughts and Jill from next door came in.
"Hi", she said, in her obviously American accent. "Can I come in?" and took it for granted that she could, shutting the door behind her and sitting herself unceremoniously on the bed.
"Hey Jill, do you know that guy in the Economics Department called Stevens, Dave Stevens?"
"Oh Christ, yes, "who doesn't?"
"Why do you say that?"
Bloody old reprobate, we all avoid him like the plague. Why do you ask?"
Hesitantly Jean told her.
"Don't be an idiot. Don't get mixed up with him. Always trying to get female students in bed."
"Well, hardly Jean replied, "he only has a spare seat for the play tomorrow and has offered it to me."
"Well, watch yourself with him."
Funny, Jean thought, his approach may be very direct, but he was hardly lecherous. They made coffee and played some more records and Jill disappeared to do some work.
By Saturday lunchtime Jean was certainly having second thoughts. She was not particularly averse to sleeping with people, but there were protocol reasons for not getting involved with staff, and in any case the outing was hardly erotic. Left wing theatre plays were usually pretty boring events, full of dogma and earnestness. Still she'd see, there was no problem at this point as far as she could assess. She went to the library, but did little real work, she felt vaguely uneasy but could not trace the source of her restlessness.
At 7 30 pm she turned up at the theatre and he was there. Punctual, she noted.
They found their seats and the play as Jean had thought was slightly entertaining but too full of didactic comment to be really good. They had drinks at the interval and she noticed one or two people that she knew. Dave spoke to a distinguished looking man. Superficially at ease she could sense the tenseness so often present in professional academics. His back was straight and his hair moderately long and curly. She thought that he was really very attractive and that Jill was probably right about his behavioural patterns. She still felt vacuous however, and as though she was watchng this whole scene through a spectator's eyes.
"Come on," he said, "time to get back, second half's just starting. Old Fred's just been warning me off. Telling me to leave you alone. Oh Jesus what a bloody old bore".
"Who's Fred?"
"Dean of my college, acting in loco parentis to staff as well as students I reckon".
The second half of the play laboured through to a tortuous ending and as they reached the exit, Dave said "How about getting me a cup of coffee?"
"Coffee bar's closed", she replied, deliberately misunderstanding the question.
"I know", he replied, "at your place".
"OK" she said.
Why did she do it, she thought. Why do I always agree to what this man asks.
Involuntarily however, she led the way back to her room.
"How do you like your coffee?" She put the question carefully, not wishing to incur any innuendo.
"Black, without sugar", he said.
She made the coffee for him and one for herself which she silently drank.
Jean decided at this point to adopt his approach.
"You shouldn't be here", she said. "There are penalties for staff going to a student's rooms, male or female."
"So what, " he said, "there's few people about and I wanted to be with you for just a little longer"
"Do you often do this?" she asked. "Ask yourself to coffee in situations which could be misconstrued?"

"Regularly", he replied, not in the least bothered.
"Why?"
"I'll tell you why, because I get bloody lonely. I have a wife in the last stages of pregnancy who lives in a cabbage-like world of babies. It's true I have always wanted a son, but I need someone to talk to and I find I can talk to you."
Jean felt slightly amazed at this. Their conversations were hardly long or searching but he did seem relaxed now, in spite of the black coffee.