Lux et Veritas

"Sarah Hartwell! Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

Jessica Whitman stood armed with a clipboard and the smile of someone who'd discovered that organising things gave her the same rush as crushing them. Behind her, the Ashworth Grammar reunion committee had achieved peak institutional beige: name tags featuring sixth-form photos, bunting that screamed compulsory fun, and a cash bar charging London prices for supermarket wine.

"Morrison now," Sarah said, accepting the air-kiss that felt like being blessed by a particularly vindictive vicar. "And hello, Jess."

"Morrison! How wonderfully... ordinary." Jessica's pen hovered over her clipboard. "What are you doing with yourself these days? Still the clever clogs?"

Before Sarah could answer, a tremendous crash echoed from the drinks table. Gary Pickles had somehow tangled himself in the memorial bunting whilst reaching for what appeared to be his sixth pint, sending commemorative photographs cascading across the floor like a morbid card trick.

"Right then," Gary announced, photos of the deceased clinging to his cardigan. "Who's buying the next round for the recently departed?"

The silence was so complete Sarah could hear fluorescent lights humming. Gary—who'd left school at sixteen to become what he generously called a "freelance logistics coordinator"—had the supernatural ability to find the exact wrong thing to say in any situation.

"Gary," Jessica hissed, "perhaps some respect—"

"Respect? These poor sods would be laughing their arses off at this whole production." Gary extracted a memorial photo from his sleeve with magician-like solemnity. "Remember when Tommo said he'd rather die than come back here? Mission accomplished!"

Sarah suppressed a laugh. Gary might be chaos personified, but he wasn't wrong.

"Sarah Morrison," a familiar voice cut through the uncomfortable titters. "Well, well."

Marcus Henley approached, moving like a man carrying invisible weights. Her former English teacher had always been spare, but now seemed almost translucent, as if something was eating him from inside.

"Mr Henley." The formality came automatically. "You look..."

"Like death warmed up? How refreshingly honest. Most people just tell me I'm looking well and immediately change the subject."

Gary, still wearing memorial photos like medals of dishonour, weaved over. "Mr H! Still teaching dangerous thoughts?"

"When possible, Gary. Though the curriculum committee prefers safer territory these days."

"What, like not questioning authority? Fat chance. You're why half of us ended up unemployable—filling our heads with ideas above our station."

The jest held uncomfortable truth. Henley had been the one who'd made Sarah believe intelligence was currency worth having.

"And what brings you back, Sarah?" Henley's question felt like an X-ray. "Surely not nostalgia?"

Jessica materialised with fungal persistence. "Sarah was telling me she's between opportunities. Taking time to reassess."

The phrase hung like diplomatic unemployment. Sarah watched Henley's expression shift—not to pity, but to something like understanding.

"How refreshing. The most interesting people are always between things."

"Exactly!" Gary's enthusiasm sent another photo fluttering. "I'm not unemployed—I'm strategically positioning for optimal opportunity acquisition."

Monica Patterson emerged from the drinks queue with Greek chorus timing. "I think it's brave, taking time out. Not everyone can afford that, of course."

The comment landed surgically. Not everyone can afford it—meaning either self-indulgent or suspicious.

"Actually," Sarah found herself saying, "it wasn't voluntary. A conflict of principles, you might say."

The moment the words escaped, she knew she'd fed them exactly what they wanted.

"Oh dear," Jessica's sympathy could cut glass. "How awful. Was it... serious?"

"Serious enough. Sometimes doing right isn't the same as doing profitable."

Gary, attempting to untangle himself from bunting with bomb-disposal determination, suddenly stopped. "Hang on—you're the one who blew the whistle on that housing development! The cemetery case!"

Recognition hit like cold water. Sarah saw it register—the shift from polite interest to genuine attention.

"The Meadowbrook case," Monica breathed. "That was you? The government changed policy because of what you exposed."

"There was a whole team," Sarah said, feeling something loosen in her chest. "We couldn't watch them desecrate burial grounds for profit."

"Couldn't stand by," Henley repeated approvingly. "Principles over profit. There's hope yet."

The group was looking at her differently now—not with discomfort for the temporarily embarrassed, but approaching respect. Sarah felt the warm rush of belonging.

"The compensation scheme you designed," Bradley Hutchinson had joined them, estate agent instincts recognising competence. "Brilliant work—getting families involved, giving them voice."

"Seemed decent," Sarah said, calibrating modesty to maintain interest. "The families had been ignored for decades."

"That's what you always did," Gary said, finally extracting himself with theatrical flourish, ribbons cascading like depressing confetti. "Listened to people the rest of us couldn't be bothered with."

Behind apparent confusion, Sarah caught glimpse of something sharp and knowing.

"I remember citizenship class—you asking about people who didn't get to vote, the left-out ones. Rest of us just wanted exam answers."

The observation hung profound and exposing. Sarah felt seen past twenty years of sophistication to the girl who'd believed fairness mattered more than fitting in.

"That's why you're not working," Henley said quietly. "You made yourself unemployable by caring about right things."

The words felt like absolution. She looked around—Jessica with her aggressive organisation, Monica with calculated sympathy—realising they were seeing her clearly for the first time.

"There's always something," she said. "Some corner to cut, some inconvenient group to manage rather than hear. Eventually you're fighting colleagues more than solving problems."

"So you stopped fighting and started working," Henley said.

"We set up a consultancy. My husband and I. Helping communities navigate planning, giving ordinary people voice when developers call. Doesn't pay much, but..."

"But it pays in other ways," Gary finished, insight cutting through chitchat. "Proper work. The kind that lets you sleep nights."

The approval was palpable. Sarah felt it like warmth—not respect for achievements, but recognition of character. For the first time all evening, she belonged.

"Sarah Morrison, making the world better one planning application at a time," Jessica said, her smile seemingly genuine. "Rather inspiring."

"Inspiring and impractical," Monica added fondly. "You always were too good for your own good."

Before Sarah could respond, the main doors opened with divine timing. Marcus—her husband of fifteen years—appeared in the doorway, his dark skin immediately visible against institutional beige.

He moved with careful confidence of someone accustomed to being the only Black person in white spaces, though Sarah read the slight shoulder tension of endless micro-calculations.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said approaching, voice carrying warm authority that had first attracted her. "Your phone was ringing constantly. Something about Riverside requiring urgent attention."

He handed her the phone with a smile encompassing the group, though Sarah noticed how the circle had subtly expanded, creating more space, distance.

"Everyone, this is Owen, my husband," Sarah said, voice bright with nervous overcompensation. "Owen, my former classmates."

Introductions followed—handshakes lasting precisely regulation duration, smiles reaching mandated brightness without approaching warmth, voices maintaining neutrality whilst eyes performed rapid assessments.

"Lovely to meet you," Jessica said, clipboard now shield-like. "Sarah was telling us about your consultancy. Sounds fascinating."

"Keeps us busy," Owen replied, seemingly oblivious to atmospheric pressure shift. "Though the cemetery case was really Sarah's triumph."

"How wonderful," Monica said, estate agent training maintaining enthusiasm even as something cooler flickered behind her eyes. "What's your background, Owen?"

"Literature, actually. I suppose that's planning too—organising words instead of buildings, making sure important voices get heard."

Gary laughed with genuine delight. "A poet! Bloody hell, Sarah, you've married a proper romantic!"

"Former poet," Owen corrected ruefully. "Community organiser with literary pretensions now. Both jobs involve helping people tell stories that might actually get listened to."

Conversation continued, but Sarah felt something cooling, like central heating quietly switching off. Nothing overt, but the warmth surrounding her was dissipating with punctured balloon efficiency.

She watched Jessica's eyes flick between her and Owen, saw rapid calculation behind Monica's professional smile, noticed how Bradley had positioned himself slightly outside the circle.

"The Riverside case," Henley said suddenly. "Social housing in Wolverhampton? Relocating families for luxury apartments?"

"Among other things," Owen replied. "Three different communities affected. Our job is ensuring they all get heard, not just the loudest voices."

"How admirable," Jessica said, though her tone suggested filing this under "concerning rather than impressive." "Must be... challenging work. Financially speaking."

The question hung like toxic smoke. Sarah felt familiar dread—when middle-class politeness gave way to calculation, sympathy curdling into judgment.

"We manage," she said, hearing defensiveness.

"Of course," Monica said quickly. "Just meant... lovely you can afford such meaningful work. Not everyone has that luxury."

The casual assumption their choices were possible only through hidden privilege, some safety net allowing principle-indulgence over profit. Sarah felt familiar rage building.

"Actually," Owen said, voice calm but dangerously edged, "we can't afford it. Lost our house when Sarah's former employer sued for breach of contract. We're in a council flat, surviving on savings whilst building something that might matter."

Silence so complete Sarah could hear Gary breathing and the distant drinks machine counting coins.

"Right," Jessica said finally, voice bright with terminal illness cheer. "Well. That's certainly... principled."

Sarah looked around—careful sympathy, polite horror, barely concealed relief this level of self-destruction was happening to someone else. These people ready to embrace her moments before now regarded her with concerned distance reserved for the obviously mentally ill.

"Principled," she repeated. "Yes."

Owen moved slightly closer, subtle solidarity gesture unnoticed except by Gary, watching with sharp attention of someone who'd spent adulthood being underestimated.

"Principles," Gary said suddenly. "Funny things. Expensive to maintain, impossible to abandon, useless until they're the only thing between you and becoming someone you can't live with."

The observation landed like stone in still water. Sarah saw Henley's slight smile, recognised approval—not for circumstances, but choices.

When Owen excused himself, the group's relief was almost visible. Sarah watched him navigate between tables, noting how conversations quietened, eyes following with polite attention usually reserved for unexpected wildlife.

"He seems lovely," Jessica said with careful neutrality. "Very... articulate."

Articulate. The word hit like a slap—small, seemingly innocent, loaded with assumptions.

"Yes," Sarah said carefully. "PhD in contemporary literature from Oxford. Surprisingly articulate for those qualifications."

Sarcasm landed like brick through greenhouse window. Jessica's smile faltered, Monica became fascinated by shoes, Bradley urgently checked his phone.

Only Gary seemed unaffected. "Oxford, eh? Fancy. What's his thesis?"

"Postcolonial identity in contemporary British poetry. How immigrant writers are reshaping what it means to be British."

"Blimey. Properly clever. No wonder you snapped him up."

Gary's simplicity—assuming Sarah had been the fortunate one—cut through careful politeness like knife through tissue.

When Owen returned, conversation had moved to safer territory—house prices, exam results, safe banalities allowing interaction without risking connection. But Sarah felt the change, how her classmates now regarded them as fascinating specimens rather than people.

"We should get going," she said suddenly. "Early start tomorrow."

Farewells were masterpieces of polite insincerity—contactless air kisses, lying promises to stay in touch, "courage" admiration feeling more like condolences.

Outside, October air was sharp after institutional stuffiness. Sarah breathed deeply, processing what she'd seen in their faces.

"Well," Owen said walking toward their ten-year-old Vauxhall, "that was illuminating."

"I'm sorry."

"For what? For them being exactly what I expected?"

They stood in the empty car park, surrounded by sensible vehicles and aspirational BMWs. In the distance, the hall glowed with people celebrating connections that had never truly included her.

"I thought I wanted their approval," she said finally. "Thought if I proved myself worthy enough, they'd accept me as one of them."

"And now?"

Sarah considered the faces around that circle, how they'd looked when she was succeeding by their metrics, how approval evaporated when they realised what success had cost.

"Now I remember why I left."

Owen smiled—the expression that had first attracted her when she'd been a nervous graduate student and he'd been the teaching assistant who'd actually listened.

"Come on then. Let's go home."

As they drove past chip shops and betting shops comprising ordinary disappointment's infrastructure, Sarah felt something settle she hadn't realised was unsettled.

Her phone buzzed—Riverside case messages, tomorrow's work reminders, the endless task of helping people fight for their right to be heard. Not glamorous, certainly not profitable, but theirs.

"Thank you," she said as they turned toward London, toward their council flat and principles and carefully constructed life.

"For what?"

"For reminding me some things are worth more than fitting in."