Free Angels and Men by Catherine Fox

Whitaker entered the bar. Mara felt herself blushing.
    â€˜Ha’away, John!’ called the other Coverdale students. He raised a hand. Mara had noticed that he was always greeted by this cry. Being mimicked still reduced her to psychotic rage, but he never seemed to care. He was the target of a great deal of undergraduate wit, which he always bore good-naturedly.
    She noted with satisfaction that he had obviously resisted the gauntlet Maddy and May had thrown down to his celibacy. He was standing at the bar with his back to her, chatting to the barman. Suddenly she found herself thinking, I’d draw you in a hard hat halfway up some scaffolding. Why? she wondered, frowning. The image had been so crisp, she felt that she must have heard something to make her think that. Maddy saying he looked like a workman? Maybe – ah! she pounced on the thought. She had seen a builders’ sign. Something Whitaker & Sons. That was it. Her face cleared. Then to her dismay she saw that a mirror ran the full length of the wall behind the bar. He had been watching her all the time. She looked away, feeling her colour rising again. He had caught her without her sarcastic mask on, half in and half out of her invisible cloak. She studied the table where her glass stood. He was paying for his drink and walking across the room. He would go past her and join the other Coverdale students and talk God with them. She sat watching the scratches in the varnish and saw – oh no – his drink join hers on the table. He sat beside her. She looked up, snapping her sneer into place.
    â€˜You all right?’ Did she look ill, or something?
    â€˜Yes.’ Her tone was aggressive.
    He smiled at her. ‘Just another little idiom,’ he said. ‘It’s my way of saying “How are you?”’ It could have been Rupert’s voice. He was a better mimic than Maddy, even.
    She looked down into her drink and muttered, ‘I’m OK.’
    â€˜Where are your friends tonight?’ Hah. The cowards hadn’t even asked him.
    â€˜Out.’ There was silence. He drank from his pint.
    â€˜Out?’ The conversation at the other table went on. His easy manner was beginning to make her feel clumsy rather than aloof. Better to appear friendly and at ease. But how? She had never been able to make idle small talk.
    â€˜They’re out in the town somewhere.’
    â€˜Out in the town somewhere?’
    She glanced at him. Was he mocking her? Well, sod you, she thought, and picked up her drink. I’m sure you’d rather they were here, but I’ve spent too much of my life saying where my beautiful twin is. I’m not going to tell you where my wonderful friends are.
    He seemed unabashed. ‘How’s the work going, sweetie?’
    She rounded on him, eyes narrowed.
    He struck his forehead. ‘Sorry. That’s meant to be patronizing, isn’t it? I’m in trouble the whole time in Coverdale for doing that. How’s the work going, Mara?’
    â€˜Fine,’ she said, wondering if he could really be as ingenuous as he seemed.
    â€˜What are you studying, exactly?’
    â€˜Women and religious fanaticism.’ This fell by chance into a general silence, and took on a pompous ring. The attention of the whole bar seemed focused on her words.
    â€˜Go on,’ he prompted. She glanced at him cautiously and looked away again. There was nothing in his tone or his expression to indicate that this was not genuine interest. Her hand found the end of her plait.
    â€˜Well, I’m looking at the part played by women in fanatical religious sects.’ I’ve just said the same thing in different words, she thought in despair. She forced her mind into the words she needed, picking up tiny beads with gloves on the wrong hands. ‘I’m looking at the difference between being devout and being a fanatic. It’s a fine line. And at what draws women to that kind of