Miss, are you sure? a pleading male voice crackled over the telephone.
Fine, lets give it a go, I replied, my tone dripping with a hint of condescension.
I was twenty, a secondyear history student at the University of Manchester, scrambling for a side job. In the morning paper I spotted a small classified: Blind university lecturer seeks a personal assistant. My heart went out to the unseen scholar, and I dialled the number without a second thought.
The following afternoon I stood on the narrow landing of a Victorian flat in Cambridge, my knuckles trembling as I knocked. The door opened to reveal a man shrouded in darkness, his eyes unseeing but his smile unmistakable.
Come in, miss. How shall I address you? the blind man asked, his voice bright with curiosity.
Emily, I managed, cheeks flushing.
Edward Whitmore, he replied, the name rolling out like a polished echo.
Im in desperate need of your help, Emily. Those perfume notes you wear are intoxicating. I teach history at the university and would love for you to read my lecture scripts to me each evening. Ill memorize them. I lecture three times a week. Deal?
His tone was gentle, almost paternal, and he insisted on calling me Emily as if it were a promise.
I took in his flat: immaculate, spare, every surface gleaming. Edward was no older than forty, impeccably dressed, his bearing both refined and irresistibly magnetic.
Shall we begin, Mr. Whitmore? I said, eager to dive into the work.
September slipped into February, then May, and the university break arrived. Edward released me from my duties until the next September. I fled to Brighton, the sea wind erasing the memory of my blind patron. Within a week I met a charming solicitor, James, and we set a wedding date.
Late August, Edwards voice burst through the receiver again.
Emily, please come tomorrow.
I cant, I chirped, Im getting married. Im busy with the wedding.
A note of disappointment tinged his words. Marrying so soon? Youre hasty. Please, Emily, I beg youcome.
Reluctantly I promised, Alright, Ill drop by.
The next day, August waning, Edward greeted me at the hallway.
Your perfume drives me mad, Emily. Come in.
My fiancé also loves that scent, I said, halfjoking.
Emily, lets have another academic year together. I cant manage without you. his plea softened to a sigh.
Very well, lets get to work, I answered, businesslike.
The more evenings I spent reading to him, the more my resolve to marry James crumbled. I retrieved the marriage licence from the register office and handed James my resignation. A bride is not yet a wife; perhaps I could still untie the knot.
Soon Edward and I slipped into informal you. While I narrated lecture after lecture, he would clasp my hand, his fingers warm against mine, his blind eyes rolling in a secret rhythm as he breathed in the perfume that seemed to wrap us both in a private cocoon.
One icy evening I shuffled in, teeth chattering, begging for something hot. Edward ushered me into his armchair, draped a woollen throw over my shivering legs, and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a silver tray, gingerly setting it before me: slices of orange and a glass of fine brandy.
Drink, Emily. Itll warm you through.
I sipped slowly, watching the amber liquid catch the lamplight, feeling an urge to press my body against his, to protect, to cherish. The brandy slipped down, and Edward leaned in, his lips finding mine in a fierce, urgent kiss.
Stay with me, Emily. Ill give you a world of my own, he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.
Im not laughing, Edward. Youre so tender, I replied, my cheeks flushed, my heart thudding like a drum.
He traced the air with his fingertips, murmuring, The blind hear everything, the deaf see everything.
The next morning his mother, Mrs. Whitmore, arrived as she did every sunrise, humming as she set the kettle. She glanced at the bed where I lay, unfazed.
Good morning, love. Emily and I are still lounging, Edward called cheerfully.
Nothing to worry about, dear. Breakfast is on its way, Mrs. Whitmore replied, a smile tugging at her lips as she disappeared into the kitchen.
I asked Edward, Did you ever feel like you were soaring to the heavens at night?
He hesitated, Emily, Im scared of getting used to you. I know youre not truly mine. Its a sorrowful thought, love.
From the kitchen came a shout, Breakfast is ready, dears!
We ate toast, jam, and tea
