‘Kate Whittaker,’ I respond, dazed and following his lead. Officer in charge of Perpetual Mortification.
Our hands shake for slightly too long, as if they’re supposed to be causing a diversion while we regroup. I’ve heard legends about this city’s ‘one-and-a-half degrees of separation’ but hadn’t believed it until now. Eventually he lets go of my hand, pulls out my chair and motions for me to take a seat, while I have a flashback to him throwing me his rugby top. I wonder if he’s always this chivalrous. And then my flashback takes a turn for the worse and leaps to my conversation with Grace on the treadmill. A conversation during which I basically armed him with a professional horror story about myself, right down to the highly contagious skin infection I planned to spread around the office like some kind of biological terrorist.
I want to throw up. Or run. Or both.
Hugh reaches across the table to pour a glass of water for me. And one for him. I wish it was something stronger. I’d even take orange juice at this point for the sugar hit. But thinking of orange juice makes me nauseous again. My goodness, I haven’t felt that way about juice since . . .
Oh my God.
An unspeakable thought barges into my brain. But could I be? Surely not. Cam and I only had our one-night stand a couple of weeks ago. No, it was longer than that. Before Italy. And he’s already been back a fortnight . . .
Accidentally getting pregnant is not in our playbook. Our narrative is that we struggle. We have to throw everything we have at the task, financially, emotionally and physically. Even then, the odds are low for us. And isn’t it true that you’re less likely to get pregnant while you’re breastfee— Oh, holy . . . The nursing strike.
‘Could you perhaps begin, Kate, by telling us a little about yourself?’ Angela says warmly. She has no idea what she’s asking. Hugh does. He looks frightened.
I think I’m pregnant, I want to say. I haven’t had a period in months. You hear of these people who struggle with their first and then fall without even trying second time around. Are my boobs sore? This can’t be happening . . .
But instead of saying any of that, I clear my throat and wonder if it’s too early to ask for pain relief.
‘Kate?’ Hugh asks. He’s looking at my hand plastered to my chest, no doubt wrongly guessing my problem and thinking he’s running out of clothes to throw at me. I’m way beyond that, Hugh. Thinking of upgrading to a people-mover.
I stare at him, horrified. There is a great pause, into which I am supposed to be inserting a dazzling explanation of my experience. Hugh nods, as if he’s trying to will me on. I’ll forget what I overheard on the treadmill if you can, he seems to be saying.
‘Angela, perhaps I should speak a little about the role, first?’ he says, in response to my silent existential crisis.
I take the glass to my lips for a sip of water but feel like it’s going to come up again if I swallow, so I place it back on the table without drinking anything.
Angela looks confused, and jots something on the paper in front of her.
‘We deliver strategic, large-scale annual appeals designed to build the university’s capacity to respond to some of the world’s biggest challenges,’ Hugh begins.
Like the fact that Cam and I are operating on a twelve-month sleep deficit already, which we’re about to compound.
‘We want someone who’ll inspire stakeholders to be excited by our energy and vision.’
We are SO drained.
‘You’ll plan and deliver comprehensive fundraising campaigns.’
I don’t think I can fit a second car seat in the turn-of-the-century Mazda and still concertina the pram into the boot around the anchor strap. No, it’s worse. We’ll need a bigger pram.
Cam has been talking about dropping to part-time when I return to work, so we can share the childcare more equitably. He doesn’t want to miss out on Charlie’s preschool years. It’s always been family first for him. I can’t deny him that. I have to get this job. Have to.
I sit up straight, as an avalanche of fake confidence comes over me, like this is drama class and I’m in the leading role. ‘Thanks for that introduction, Hugh. I’m excited by the idea of contributing to the impact and reach of the university. I applied for this role because . . .’
I want to go to the toilet on my own.
I can’t face any more weeping widows at the heart institute.
I drive a 2001 Mazda.
‘. . . coming from a world-leading research institute that really has one broad objective, I’m attracted by the idea of building strong campaigns across diverse programs and helping advance one of the world’s top universities heading into one of the most challenging periods in human history.’
I don’t even know what I just said or where it came from, just that Angela is nodding and Hugh is staring at me as if he’s trying to reconcile Professional Kate with the klutz from the gym.
‘What would you say are the key barriers to higher education philanthropy?’ he asks.
I pause to gather my thoughts. ‘Well, there are the broad challenges facing fundraising in general – fierce competition for donors and dollars, trying to cut through excess noise in an exploding comms space.’
‘Mmm?’ He nods, shoving me towards a better answer.
‘We’re seeing global trends with higher education grappling with additional financial and enrolment challenges, cuts and reforms.’
Angela ticks a series of boxes, writes some notes and shuffles her page, ready to ask the next question.
‘What else?’ Hugh says, leaning in. He acts like he’s operating on personal curiosity now, as if the other three aren’t in the conversation.
His colleague looks surprised, and flicks back to the page before.
I dredge my mind for the ‘X-factor’ response he seems to be angling for. What would Cam say? ‘Well,’ I begin, an idea forming almost as it leaves my mouth, ‘a more nuanced theme that I think is worth considering in the broader tertiary sector is the decades-long culture war between arts and science, and the impact of an institution’s strategic research priorities on the potential further devaluation of the arts, specifically.’
His expression is inscrutable. ‘Our campaigns tend to be necessarily targeted and specific. Drawing funds to the university involves tough choices that make economic sense.’
I shrug. ‘I get that it’s a harder sell. Fifty years from now, we want to hope there’s sufficient scientific brilliance to reverse us out of the corner we’re painting ourselves into, climate-wise. But without developing sufficient artistic brilliance to capture the poetry of that human experience and make connections and meaning from it all – what are we fighting for?’
He hasn’t written a single point on the blank page in front of him. ‘Right,’ he says.