The Dinosaur Feather

whistled softly. It was all very encouraging. The scent of some brand of eau de toilette for men rose from the V-neck of Michael’s T-shirt and tickled Clive’s nose. If Michael hadn’t had a wife and two children, it would have been tempting to assume that . . . Clive edged away from Michael a little.
    ‘I’m buying you all dinner at the Steakhouse,’ he burst out. ‘Time to celebrate!’ Besides Michael, he invited John, Angela, Piper, his secretary Ann, the two PhD students and two new MSc students. His loyal team.
    None of them could make it. Michael had promised to
baby-sit
.
    Clive spent the evening trawling through the programme for the 27 th Bird Symposium on the Web. Tybjerg, that egomaniac, was giving no fewer than four lectures, which came as no surprise to Clive, but he was extremely surprised to discover that Helland’s name didn’t feature anywhere. Helland, who never attended symposia outside Europe, finally had the chance to put forward his nonsense ideas in his home country, so why not take it? Very odd. On checking his inbox, Clive realised that it had been a while since he had last heard from Helland. He started re-reading their correspondence, but soon stopped. He knew no one as snide and mean as Lars Helland, and it ruined his good mood.
    It was mild outside and when Clive had opened the French doors, he called Michael to discuss the poster. Michael’s daughter picked up the telephone.
    ‘I’m sorry, Professor Freeman, I’m afraid my dad’s not here,’ she said.
    ‘So who’s looking after you?’ Clive asked.
    The girl laughed.
    ‘I’m fifteen and my sister is thirteen, so we can just about manage on our own.’
    Clive was affronted.
    ‘So where’s your father?’ he asked.
    ‘I think he had a meeting at the university,’ the girl replied.
    Clive thanked her and hung up.
    He stared into space for a moment. Then he returned to his computer and clicked on the homepage of the NaturalHistory Museum in Copenhagen where he discovered, to his delight, that they were putting on an exhibition about feathers. His joy, however, was short-lived. The title of the exhibition was ‘From Dino to Duvet’. Would it never end? He bet Tybjerg was the curator of that blasted exhibition. One day, probably when Clive was dead and buried, sadly, natural history museums the world over would hang their heads in shame at how wrong they had been.
    Clive heard nothing from Jack, and Kay remained with Franz. Clive was annoyed that she hadn’t bothered coming home yet, but he wouldn’t have time to do anything about it until after the symposium. His future career depended on the condensation experiment and the Copenhagen conference, and he needed space to think. At night he dreamt of Jack. Dark, freaky dreams, filled with sounds and Jack’s face lighting up in flashes, so all that Clive had time to see was Jack’s snarling upper lip. He started taking half a sleeping tablet and, to his relief, the nights became black and empty once more.
    On 9 October Michael and Clive flew to Copenhagen. He usually loathed the journey across the Atlantic, but when Michael secured them an upgrade to business class, his irritation melted away. Clive had gone to the lavatory and when he returned, there was Michael, grinning from ear to ear, and waving the boarding passes at him. They sat in supreme comfort the whole flight, discussing the presentation, while attractive cabin crew served drinks and snacks. Clive noticed how attentive and deferential Michael was. After Michael had finished his PhD, he had gone through a phase of wantingto decide everything for himself. Clive had been most put out. When you navigated a scientific minefield, as Clive did, you needed loyal support and not childish attempts at independence. He noted with delight that Michael had been brought to heel. He made hardly any objections, and when he did, his observations were insightful and only contributed to honing Clive’s argument. Somewhere across the Atlantic, Clive was overcome by an urge to confide in Michael.
    ‘I’ve a feeling this will be my last time,’ he said.
    ‘What do you mean?’ Michael said, stretching out in his seat.
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ Clive hesitated. What exactly was he trying to say?
    ‘The presentation is good,’ Michael prompted him. ‘The experiment bears scrutiny.’
    ‘Yes, perhaps that’s what it’s about,’ Clive replied. He looked out of the window. To the west, the setting sun painted the