In the very early days I’d sometimes helped Archer with background research, such as when he co-authored a book about early Mormon missionaries to New Zealand or wrote a paper about nineteenth-century Māori and Pākehā pilgrims to the Salt Lake Temple in Utah for the Journal of the American Academy of Religion. More recently I’d also taken up the slack whenever Jerome had a break from teaching. I filled in for him and also covered course advising and marking, the least glamorous part of his job. I liked teaching, but being a good teacher didn’t cut it in terms of professional development.

On the day I progressed to senior lecturer I thought my days of filling in for others had finally come to an end. From now on I would focus on big projects, research and writing for the top journals on Southern women’s literature. I celebrated my new role by purchasing a bottle of Chanel No. 5, attracted to the story behind the fragrance. Ernest Beaux, its Russian-born French creator, based the famous aldehyde-centric perfume on memories of the time he spent stationed above the Arctic Circle during World War One. He wrote about the smells of the thawing rivers and lakes, notes released by the heat of the midnight sun. The aldehydes in Chanel No. 5 give it an abstract note, and the word that cropped up time and again in responses to the perfume was ‘radiant’. Radiant. That was to be my future. I bought the perfume, and then a place of my own, a sanctuary, my home. I was so happy I felt as though I’d stepped into the light.

Six weeks before I lost my job I was sitting at my desk when I saw Jerome walk past my open door. He hesitated as if he might come in but then continued on without a word. Moments later he reappeared, raised his fist to tap on the doorframe but then thought better of it and suddenly looked back over his shoulder before returning the way he’d come.

Later that morning he finally knocked. Jerome was young, good looking and smart. He favoured navy and grey, checked shirts buttoned to the neck, dark wool waistcoats and chinos. He was more preppy than hipster. Around his wrist was a thin silver bangle that drew attention to the thick, dark hairs sprouting on his arm. He was Canadian, from Toronto, and had a nice accent. I imagine he was loved and supported as a child as he had an air of confidence. He wanted and expected to be the next head of department.

Always polite, Jerome asked how my day was going. I pointed to the stack of papers on my desk, marking from the Introduction to American Literature course that we shared, and answered, fine.

‘You going to the restructuring meeting on Friday?’

I nodded.