Gregory faltered when he discovered the girl was a full twelve years younger than him. He was thirty; she was barely eighteen. Yes, she was legally an adult—perfectly acceptable to admire from afar—but the age gap still gnawed at him. Adding to the scandal, she was his student, fresh-faced and eager to learn. No matter how he spun it, the whole situation felt improper, even slightly indecent.
What could he possibly offer her, this whirlwind who had mysteriously barrelled into his life? He was supposed to teach her discipline, lecture her on mineral extraction, grade her assignments—not obsess over the copper shine of her hair or the startling emerald of her eyes.
And yet, the mystery ran deeper. He’d seen Nina *before* she became a student at the technical college where he’d been lecturing for five years. Two months before her enrolment, Gregory, gazing idly from a tram window, had spotted a petite, sun-squinting beauty in the crowd. The shock of it nearly knocked him sideways. *I wish I could meet someone like her.*
It was the blooming spring of 1957. Across Britain, the air hummed with the promise of a dazzling future. Under the watchful eyes of sci-fi writers, technology surged forward. Humanity was racing into space, plumbing the ocean’s depths, and mapping the planet’s farthest corners—while Gregory’s heart rocketed toward a stranger at a bus stop. Suddenly, he forgot he was a lecturer, a professor, an expert. In that moment, he was just a man, timidly dreaming of happiness.
*I wish I could meet her,* he often thought afterwards, before promptly scolding himself for this ridiculous crush on a phantom.
***
But happiness, as it turned out, had a way of barging in uninvited—stubborn, sharp-witted, and utterly relentless. Of all places, she had to enrol at this *bloke-heavy* technical college, of all things, studying a gruelling subject! Gregory’s peace evaporated when the mystery girl turned up in *his* tutorial group and gained a name: *Nina.* Eighteen years old, with enough raw enthusiasm to power a train. As if she’d been starved of education and was finally let loose.
Though to Nina he remained “Mr. Gregory Whitmore,” distant and respectable, she was now frustratingly, wonderfully *there.* No longer a fleeting illusion, but flesh and blood.
Gregory wouldn’t dream of abusing his position to get closer. Instead, he observed—studying her in lectures, watching her banter with classmates. Personal contact was rare; professional decorum kept him at arm’s length. No cinema invites, no park strolls, no museum trips—just teaching.
Still, as group tutor, he *could* organise outings… for the *entire* class. The moment this loophole struck him, he nearly sprinted for cinema tickets at midnight! He barely slept, and by morning had secured twenty-five seats. The college would never fund such frivolities, so Gregory paid out of pocket. Soon, “Mr. Whitmore” became known for dragging his students everywhere—the symphony, the theatre, even the odd film—all under the flimsy guise of “cultural enrichment.” Oddly, it bonded them. The students adored him (even if his soft spot for Nina was *painfully* obvious).
Except—he still hadn’t managed a proper conversation with her. Not since *the incident.*
***
It happened like this. Nina and her mate Sarah had been assigned classroom duty—dusting shelves, sorting textbooks, the usual drudgery. But Sarah had plans and begged off early, leaving Nina alone to tidy, rearrange chairs, and—
—*sing.*
Why not? No rule against it. And sing she did, like some Disney princess conjured from another world (minus the helpful woodland creatures).
Then Gregory, strolling past the lecture hall, froze. That voice—bright, sparkling, *familiar*—stopped him dead. *Bloody hell, that’s operatic! Does she sing in the college choir?* He barged in (intending to be subtle, but the creaky door ruined it).
The singing cut off. Emerald eyes locked onto him in horror. Nina, mortified, grabbed a textbook, sat abruptly, and pretended to study—badly. Gregory, equally flustered, fumbled through the desk drawers for *something* to justify his intrusion. Empty. Desperate, he snatched a battered manual off the shelf.
“Ah! The *handbook!*” he declared, clutching it like a lifeline.
The pantomime was excruciating. He stared blankly at the pages, scrambling for small talk while internally screaming. Meanwhile, Nina sat statue-still, praying he wouldn’t mention the singing. (He’d *definitely* heard.)
“Nina, you must be exhausted!” he blurted. “Why haven’t you gone home?”
“I’m about to,” she mumbled.
“Why… why geology?” he asked suddenly. “Bit unusual for a girl, isn’t it?”
She blinked. “It’s the only proper college in town.”
“Surely not! There’s the culinary—” He caught himself too late.
*”Culinary?!”* she nearly snapped—then remembered who she was talking to. “I mean—there are *better* options here. Obviously.”
“Not fond of cooking?”
“No,” she muttered, glaring at her textbook. “I can already cook.”
“Commendable! Perhaps… music school? You’ve got a spectacular voice.”
“They wouldn’t take me,” she said flatly.
“What? Were the admissions panel *deaf?*”
Horrified silence. Nina slammed her book shut and fled.
Gregory stood there, gutted. He’d upset her—spectacularly. Personal questions? Too obvious? Or worse—had she guessed his feelings? *Brilliant. Now tread carefully, you idiot.*
***
Gregory became *obsessed* with the college choir. Surely Nina sang there? If not, she *had* to. Such a voice couldn’t be wasted on empty classrooms! He approached the music tutor—pretending his class wanted to perform a New Year’s song (wink, wink, “golden voice” included).
Mrs. Eleanor Dawson was baffled. None of Gregory’s students had *ever* joined choir.
“But—Nina Hartley?” he pressed.
“She’s never auditioned,” Eleanor shrugged. “Bring her along. Let’s hear this voice.”
***
This made no sense. Nina claimed music school rejected her—yet she sang like an angel. He wasn’t musical, but even *he* recognised rare talent. Something didn’t add up. Gregory cornered Sarah, Nina’s outspoken friend.
“Wait—you *don’t know?*” Sarah whispered. “Nina’s… nearly deaf.”
Gregory’s stomach dropped.
“One ear’s shot. The other works—barely.”
“But—we’ve *talked!* And the *singing—*”
“She lip-reads. Watch—she always stares at your mouth.”
Realisation hit. *That’s* why those emerald eyes locked onto him! Not just lingering attraction—*necessity.* She sat front-row by *medical requirement.* And *that’s* why music school refused her. He replayed his idiotic “deaf admissions panel” remark and wanted to chuck himself into the Thames.
But despair quickly turned to determination. If Nina wouldn’t audition alone—he’d drag the whole class into it. Soon, they were rehearsing *A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square* (because 1957 demanded it).
And—miracle of miracles—Nina’s partial deafness made her sing *louder.* Finally, everyone heard that glorious voice. Gregory’s heart swelled watching her smile at rehearsals, then beam onstage. His secret triumph.
***
When Nina graduated (top marks, naturally), Gregory finally confessed. Not that she needed telling—she’d always been better at reading hearts than lips.
A year later, they married. The age gap? Irrelevant. Numbers mattered in equations—not love.
