I Say Ass, You Say Arse: Contrasts

"Roll on New York, then! Though there's still tomorrow night, here. Party time! Right, love, off you toddle to beddy-byes. You've worn me out! Sure you're OK to sleep in Em's bed?"

"She told me she wouldn't need it. I guess she's with Richie, again."

"Theirs is the weirdest relationship I know."

"You think it's a relationship?"

"It's certainly the closest to one he's ever had in his life! He really wants to make her happy. I mean, I don't know how they'd ever get on living together or anything, but that's science for you." She sighed. "Either you live apart, or one partner has to compromise and shift countries. Or downgrade their career to a research assistant nearby. You have to be incredibly lucky, if you want to both get your own labs in cities near each other! On the other hand, with all of London and Cambridge near the LMB, and Emily being damn talented in her own right -- they might manage it. It happens. Once in a blue bloody moon," she muttered bitterly.

"I wonder if Rich or anyone could pull strings? He seems to get on okay with a bunch of senior people."

"Who knows? He said once, he was happy to sleep his way to the top, if it helped. I wouldn't put it past him to have tried." She laughed. "I wonder what they're doing with Tim Smith and Frank, tonight?"

"Please, don't..."

"You can just think about Emily! She must know the effect of that smart short skirt suit of hers."

"Oh, she does! I've told her enough, how it shows her breasts and ass off perfectly..."

"Yeah, well. I rest my case. I bet you 50p Frank's at least fondling her leg and Richie's seriously contemplating an offer from the lovely Sir Tim."

Rachel herself had frequent inappropriate thoughts about Tim Smith, initially triggered when she'd sat near the front of a hall and he'd been lecturing up on the stage just in front of her, in his skin-tight worn jeans. Francis Deacon was a pleasant-enough chap who thought he was God's gift to female postdocs; she could cope without ever seeing him naked.

"Uh-huh." He concentrated on his own knowledge of Emily's lovely legs.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to tell Emily any details about what we did tonight. Just that it was most satisfactory! In the meantime, there's your shoes. Night-night, sweet boy. We must do this again some time." She approached him nervously, as if wondering how appropriate a hug might be.

"I could cope with that. New York's not so far for a weekend, I guess." At Rachel's glare, he amended to "Yes ma'am! Er... goodnight, and here's to New York?" He took the lead with the hug.

Rachel kissed his cheek in response. "Now you've got me thinking all sorts of things which will keep me awake, you naughty boy. I shouldn't have tipped you! Hah! Off you trot, love. See you in the morning."

He grinned, and went. His feet were bare in his shoes. He didn't really need shoes on the thick hotel carpet, but bare feet, emerging from a bedroom at midnight, were too obviously a Walk of Shame. He stopped to fumble for his key.

A woman emerged from one of the suites, walking towards him. He extracted his card, stood up, and nodded hello. He recognised her; Fiona Wilson, head of the UK research funding body, professor at a London university, and general hotshot in his field. 'Professor' in England meant a head of department, so an impressive title.

She looked him up and down, presumably for the name badge he wasn't wearing. "Ah, good evening!" Fiona beamed. "I think we met at the posters, earlier." He was sure they hadn't. "And what was your name, again, dear?"

Frozen like a rabbit in headlights, Brad struggled to answer. "Bradley. Bradley Owens. I, I, I'm, in Sandy McFarlane's lab at Yale, but I'm about to go to McGill. For a post-doc with Andrew Chen..."

"Oh, very good! There's lots of good people in Montreal. Well, Bradley, it's a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to following your career. Good night."

Her smile was predatory. A cougar. Her eyes went from his face, to his hastily tucked-in shirt, and back up.

"Er, thank you. Good night, Professor."

"Just Fiona, please. Good night, love." Another dazzling smile, before she turned away.

She continued down the corridor; he entered his room in relief. Anyone would think she'd been flirting with him, but then Brits called anyone 'love', didn't they? Especially someone younger and junior? 'Dear' was probably the same.

He slumped on the bed, unbuttoned his shirt. Once naked again, he lay down. Something dug into his neck.

"Oh fuck! Rachel's collar!" He unbuckled it and laid it on the nightstand, then hid the thing under his clothes.

His hands were sweating. Fiona had definitely noticed the collar. In fact, he could swear she'd liked it... Bradley groaned and tried to sleep.

* * *

Tim's dinner with Emily and Richie had, in fact, been far more chaste than Rachel assumed.

But only, as Tim later explained to his wife Fiona, because one wanted the scientific collaborations established first. "Sex before the science is just a bit grubby, isn't it?"

The dinner foursome had enjoyed their meal, drunk plenty of wine, given Emily plenty of leads to follow up in her work and offers to help draft her next paper, and the senior pair had offered similar mentoring to Richie who had eagerly accepted. Only then had the conversation turned the merest fraction flirtatious.

Emily had found it amusing. Deacon had tried so carefully to chat her up, with every sentence giving her the option to express lack of interest, while Tim Smith did the same with both her and Richie; distinctly less carefully with him. Whether that was because Richie was that bit older and more established, or male, or just because the guy was so clearly capable of telling any unwanted man to fuck off, she wasn't sure.

Possibly Tim was just giving Deacon -- Frank -- first dibs on herself?

Emily wasn't ruling anything out. Frank might be about twelve years older than she was, but he wore it well, possibly assisted with dark hair dye, but his rangy limbs, slicked-back hair, and Bond-like charisma certainly appealed. Timothy Dalton, most likely, though the grin was more Brosnan. From as much as she could tell from one evening, she liked him, quite aside from how he could benefit her career.

Watching Richie being an attentive student, for once, was also an entertaining contrast to the disdain he usually showed for other humans. She'd heard Richie swear he'd happily sleep his way to the top if it might actually work, but as far as she knew, neither that nor him sleeping with a man had actually ever happened.

"You do like lining them up well in advance, don't you," Fiona told Tim as she joined him in bed. "Do you think they'd ever be interested in one of our parties?"

"Quite possibly. I'd lay money that Richie's got some kink experience, and Emily's had an understanding with him for a couple years now. He's made monthly visits to France, she's travelled the other way... How about you? Any fresh blood?"

"Oh, a few potential talents coming up through the ranks, had some half-decent discussions, but no-one really stood out as interesting in that way. Until I came down the corridor just now."

"Why?"

"I walked into this rather charming young American. He was all dishevelled, shirt quickly replaced, returning to his room from someone else's. So far, so typical! But he was particularly interesting because he was also wearing a collar. A proper one: doubled black leather with sturdy metal loops."

"Really? What was his name? I'll look him up. Ah. He's a PhD student, at Yale. Oh, well."

"Damn it! I know, I know, students are off-limits. But he did say he was about to start a post-doc. At McGill, I believe."

"You can look forward to seeing him at the next conference, then, can't you? Another career to follow." Tim continued to tap at the organisers' database. "Oh! Now, that is interesting."

"What?"

"Guess who he's sharing a room with, here? Young Emily Bannatyne."

Fiona couldn't hide her amusement. "Well, well. Let's see what the next conference brings, for both of us."