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office I slam the door shut and lean my back against it. I don’t think I’ll ever leave again, at least not in daylight.
    My skin is crawling with mortification. I can’t believe what just happened. As soon as my computer boots up I’m off to surf Cairo Uni’s website to look for vacancies. It’s just a shame the ancient Egyptians never lived on the moon, although the way I feel right now even that wouldn’t be far enough…
    I’m pulling on my clothes when there’s a knock on the door.
    “I’m busy,” I call. For the next millennia or two. “Come back later.”
    “Cleo? It’s me, Simon. Can I come in?”
    Simon? What on earth does he want?
    “Please go away,” I say.
    “Not until I know you’re OK.”
    “I’m fine,” I reply. I’m trying to scrub off the eyeliner, which is easier said than done. What on earth is it made of? Indelible ink?
    “I know you’re embarrassed, but it really isn’t as bad as you think,” Simon says kindly.
    Embarrassed doesn’t even come close. I could be in therapy for a year and still have issues after today. And as for not as bad as I think ? I just paraded through the Wellby Museum in my smalls! It doesn’t get any worse than this.
    “You’ll look back on this and laugh,” he adds.
    Yeah, right. That’s about as likely as Susie becoming a neat freak.
    “I’m absolutely OK,” I fib. “Honestly. I’m just getting changed.”
    “Well, if you’re really sure, I’ll leave you in peace,” Simon says doubtfully. “But just for the record, I thought you looked amazing. Easily the best exhibit in the entire place.”
    His footsteps retreat down the corridor leaving me stunned. Did Simon Welsh just tell me that I looked amazing in my underwear? Seriously? Did he just flirt with me?
    I’m trying to get my head around this when the phone shrills. Oh great. It’s probably the Museum Director wanting an explanation. With a heavy heart I lift the receiver.
    “Dr Carpenter? It’s reception. There’s a call for you. It’s the police.”
    The police? I feel the colour drain from my face. My robe fell off. It was an accident. Surely the police don’t need to be involved? Or has something awful happened to Dad or Tolly?
    “Hello? Cleo?” The disembodied voice of the receptionist crackles through the receiver. “There’s a WPC Moore on the line for you. Shall I put her through?”
    “Please,” I say. I take a deep breath and wind a coil of my hair around my finger.
    “Dr Cleopatra Rose Carpenter?” The voice on the end of the line doesn’t sound as though it’s about to impart bad news, but you can never be too sure.
    “Speaking.”
    “Hello, Dr Carpenter, thanks for taking the time to speak to me. I’m WPC Moore. I’m hoping you may be able to help us with an investigation.”
    I’m taken aback. “Me? How can I help?”
    I hear papers rustle. “I believe you were at Museum Tube station at approximately 9.20pm last Saturday? You caught a westbound train?”
    “I don’t know whether to be impressed or scared,” I say. “How on earth do you know that?”
    “A mixture of CCTV and good detective work, Dr Carpenter. Sometimes the Big Brother culture does come in handy. We’ve been able to trace most people who passed through the station that evening.”
    “In that case I’m impressed! But what’s all this got to do with me?”
    There’s a soft intake of breath at the other end of the line. “Dr Carpenter, this may come as something of a shock but there was a violent attack that night, not far from the station. A brutal assault on a young girl. She was left for dead.”
    “That’s awful.” I twirl another spiral of hair around my forefinger. Would you believe it, another sheaf of papers has slipped to the floor. What is it with this draught? “I’m afraid I didn’t see anything. The CCTV must show that.”
    “What it shows, Dr Carpenter, is that you were on the platform with the alleged attacker only ten minutes before the assault took