― William Shakespeare
We were at the beginning of fall semester when Harold Davies fell ill and was slated for heart surgery. He’d be out the rest of the year.
I took over his lectures until a suitable replacement could be found but it would be hard finding a candidate who could handle his Victorian Lit classes and teach graduate seminars as well.
I heard whispered rumors in the faculty lounge that an outstanding candidate had been found but when I was introduced to Jeanne I was stunned to discover the staid Department Chairman had hired such a young and vivacious woman.
Jeanne Dubois was beautiful—even without makeup. Her transparent skin and dark eyes were striking, especially set against her lustrous dark hair.
“You look surprised, Dr. Brunel,” she smiled, a mischievous gleam dancing in her eyes.
“Well, it’s not because of your credentials, Dr. Dubois—I’m simply amazed Henry Withers would look past his prejudices about youth and hire someone so attractive.”
“In that case, maybe you should call me Jeanne—formal titles are so impersonal.”
“I will address you by your first name, Dr. Dubois, on two conditions—that you also call me Paul and have drinks with me tonight and tell me all about yourself.”
Her eyes were ablaze with strange fire. “Is this what I have to do to make you stop calling me, doctor?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well then, I refuse to drink at the tawdry campus pubs—I prefer Scandals—and it will cost you.”
I never realized how prophetic her words really were.
Our first date was magical—I found her to be thoroughly enchanting and captivating. I followed that first night with a theatre outing to see The Phantom of the Opera at The Princess of Wales Theatre, and drinks afterwards at Dazzling.
And yes, she was dazzling—drawing all gazes wherever we went.
So we continued on seeing each and other—enjoying the rich nightlife of bars—rubbing shoulders with stars filming at Hollywood North, and then looking for after-hours excitement in the myriad delights of the towering lights.
It was thoroughly decadent and shimmering like a dream, like a page ripped out of Gatsby.
And then, it abruptly ended.
Martin Wallace, my psychiatrist, stopped note taking and stared at me questioningly.
“I have no idea why,” I explained. “It was bizarre—one moment we were lovers—and the next we weren’t.”
“Did you ask what caused her sudden change of feelings?”
“I did, but she was flippant—Oh, you’ll have to excuse my infirmities, Paul—I lose interest so fast. It can’t be helped.”
He arched an eyebrow. "And that was that?"
I nodded solemnly. "Oh, I tried to push further, but she was evasive."
She was cold—completely remote and apparently devoid of feeling.
I’m just too overwhelmed with work at the moment, Paul—and besides, what would it matter? It happens all the time—I just lose interest. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I am.
“So, as far as you know, you did nothing to insult or upset her?”
I took a deep breath, and then sighed. “Believe me, Dr. Wallace, I’ve spent hours going over everything we said and did, and to the best of my knowledge, I can say there’s absolutely no explanation for why she suddenly turned on me.”
He nodded, “It is strange.”
“Look, I know there are vagaries in romance—caprices and inexplicable changes in a partner’s feelings. And I accepted that—it was hard, but I had to come to terms with Jeanne’s whims or peculiarities. And as far as I was concerned, it was a mystery, but it was over. Game ended—period.”
“It happens, I suppose—it’s just peculiar the way she quickly lost interest.”
But what happened next really unnerved me and changed the course of my life.