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I’d honestly love to sit down with you some other time and have a proper discussion about the whole sex and gender thing.”
    The term shit-eating grin, she thought, was coined for occasions like this. She stared, fascinated, analyzing the precise content of that exposure, male teeth with a fat juicy turd locked behind them. It means, I’m stealing something from you. I’m being obnoxious and we both know it, but you can’t prove it and you can’t stop me. I’m getting something for nothing from a female. I’m copping a feel here.
    “I know what’s wrong with you, Martin. You’re afraid for your life. You don’t want me to mention sex because by mentioning sex I insist that I’m here at the university as a woman, whereas you still think women ought to accept that they’re here as second-rate men. Your privileges aren’t protected any longer. I’m not going to keep the rules of the little boys’ club, I’m not going to pretend to be inadequate. I’m going to claim to be a complete human being. And if that’s what I am, where does that leave you, you titless freak!”
    Spence wondered what ’a God’s name would happen next. Martin opened his mouth and closed it. Knots of muscle on either side of his jaws worked visibly.
    “Well, see you around, Spence.” He strode away.
    Spence cleared his throat. “I don’t think you can claim William Gibson for a marginal male, Ramone. In the US it’s okay for a guy to be a writer, was in the eighties anyway, as long as he makes good money. And science fiction is some kind of heartland. Maybe it’s different over here, but to me bracketing Gibson with Proust sounds weird. I mean, not in a good way—”
    She shook her head. She could not talk about her work. Her essays were creations; they stood or fell. It was over: another stillborn, another fortress leveled. They dawdled, to avoid the awkwardness of bumping into Martin again. Ramone seemed surprised that Spence was still by her side as they passed out into the May sunshine.
    “Are you two going to go on like this for the whole degree course?” he asked.
    “Maybe not. He didn’t say ‘until our next encounter, dear lady’ this time. Arsehole. I got to him. Maybe someday he’ll learn to leave me the fuck alone. ”
    This reading of the situation was enough to make a basilisk blink, but Spence let it stand. “I thought he was going to do a Dr Johnson on you that time.”
    “Say what?”
    Spence took a violent swing at the air. “I refute you thus!”
    Ramone glowered, her hands bunching into two ready little fists. She bared her teeth: plain fury behind them, no shit. “If he did, he would get a surprise.”
    He’d been trying to think where he’d seen a likeness of Ramone Holyrod. Now he knew. It was an Aubery Beardsley drawing of Messalina. Messalina, Going To The Bath: snakelocks, glowering cheeks—a dumpy Queen Victoria bundle of garments full of pugnacious forward movement… He’d have to tell someone this: it was too good to waste. Not Ramone. Much as she’d bite your head off if you dared to suggest it, he knew she longed to be better-looking. She was a pig to live with, but his heart went out to the kid. Her absurd, bantam hen bravado: he’d get a surprise! Martin Lodge was six two and built like a linebacker. You could only hope that crazy Ramone would never meet the man callous enough to hit her. Because she was asking for it.
    He had caught himself wondering if she knew about that in herself.
    “I’m moving out,” he announced.
    “Huh?”
    “I’m moving out of the Woods. I met some guys—”
    “But it’s the end of term next month. I mean, why bother?”
    “Yeah, well.”
    “You won’t get your rent back.”
    “That’s okay. I’m moving into a squat. The fact is—” Spence was wondering why the HELL he had told Ramone, the LAST PERSON IN THE WORLD he wanted informed of his escape plans—“I’m thinking of staying in town for the summer. I have an open ticket. I can