The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 Page 4

  ‘So Professor Handy’s been at it already? I wish I’d known you were seeing him this morning – I’d have warned you first.’ Immy pulls a face as we queue for the coffee machine in the grad-student centre. She saw me as I walked out of Rafe’s rooms feeling as if I was about to spontaneously combust.

  ‘It was so hot in there I almost passed out and he kept patting my knee like I was a little girl. And then he put his arm round me and asked me if I needed to lie down!’

  ‘The creep. As for hot, that’s probably because the bastard keeps his radiators on full when he does one-to-ones with female students. Unless they’re lesbians of course, though he has even been known to try and “convert” them.’

  A thin trickle of brown liquid sputters into the cup. ‘You mean he hits on the students a lot? Surely he could be fired for that?’ I’d like to think Immy is wrong about Rafe’s intentions and that I misconstrued the signs; I want to keep my relationship with him totally professional. If he’s going to come on to me, I’ll have to deal with it somehow.

  Immy collects her latte from the slot. ‘He could, but this is Wyckham, darling, and he’s more likely to get a rap on the knuckles and told not to get caught. The Master adores Rafe since he brought in that massive endowment from one of his old students. Besides, no one has actually complained to the college about him yet and some of the girls fancy him. And he’s a bit of a sleb since he did that series for BBC4.’

  ‘Really? I must have missed it on BBC America.’ I place a cup under the slot and press the button.

  ‘Lucky you. The whole thing was about the female nude in Renaissance Art, but it’s an excuse for perving at sixteenth-century tits if you ask me. Besides, the Master’s worse than anyone. When Rupert smashed a skylight in the library roof, he threatened to take him out into the quad and have him whipped.’

  My jaw goes slack. ‘Now I know you’re joking!’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘About the whipping, yes, that sort of thing went out about three hundred years ago, but the Master does fancy Rupert. He told one of the postgrads that he’d love to give Rupes a good seeing-to, but he’s got no chance. Oh fuck, I forgot the sugar.’

  While Immy fetches some sugar for her coffee, I sink into a sofa by the window that overlooks the quad and reflect on Immy’s warnings about Rafe and the Master. I’d have thought that Wyckham had shrugged off that decadent image decades ago, but it seems to be very much alive and well. It’s not only a culture-shock thing – it’s so alien to the way I’ve been brought up and my vision for my future. It would be naive of me to think I can dismiss my own background – and I wouldn’t want to – but Immy’s world, like Rupert’s and the cloister guy’s, well … it would be so easy to get seduced by it. And that’s so not what I’m here for.

  Outside the leaves on the lime tree are turning wonderful shades of yellow, russet and brown. It’s a picture of peace and tranquillity that should calm my racing mind and remind me why I’m really here. The morning sunlight is soft as it falls on the college buildings, bathing them in a golden glow. I really should paint it, especially as I managed to unearth my watercolours from one of my bags yesterday afternoon. After Immy woke me up, we went out for brunch at Georgina’s in the Covered Market – along with half of the student body, it seemed, because we were queuing down the stairs for twenty minutes to get inside. When we finally got a table, I got the chance to find out more about Immy’s family. Her younger brother, George, is at Marlborough and from the way she talks about him I can tell she loves him to bits even if he does drive her insane at times.

  Although she’s been here two years and seems to have tons of friends, I’m not sure she’s got any really close girlfriends. Behind the jokey, party-girl facade, I think she lives on the edge, and her work worries really bother her. She’s told me she’ll probably move to London after her degree and see what’s going on there. Her parents bought her a flat in Chelsea as an investment and maybe she feels she owes it to them to do well, or at least complete her degree. I suspect she doesn’t ‘need’ to work.

  I guess I don’t need to work either … My parents are in the fortunate position of being financially secure – you’d probably even say wealthy – but I can’t even imagine not wanting to have a career in art.

  ‘Hi, sorry about that. There was no sugar by the machine so I had to grab some from the buttery. Can’t stomach JCR caffeine without sugar.’ Immy flops on to the sofa.

  My nose wrinkles up as my own coffee hits the back of my throat.

  ‘Cat’s piss?’

  ‘It’s better than Rafe’s tea. I don’t have Earl Grey very often, but, man, his version tasted weird.’

  Immy rips open a packet of sugar and dumps it into her cup. ‘That would have been the Rohypnol …’ she says.

  ‘Ah, that must have been it. Next time I’ll stick to water.’ I wince at the coffee again. ‘Immy, do you happen to know a good whole-foods store?’

  ‘Me? Are you kidding? Well, actually, there’s a big health-food place on the Plain. Oscar practically lives in there trying to starve himself to keep his weight down for rowing.’

  I remember Oscar. He was the cox who’d heard of my dad. I liked him, but the thought of my unscheduled exit at the welcome dinner brings heat to my cheeks. Immy must have noticed because she’s nibbling her bottom lip with her teeth in that nervy way again.

  ‘Lauren … I know we talked about this yesterday, but I still feel bad about Rupert. Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’ I summon up my brightest smile even though I am so sick of saying this when I’m not fine, but I don’t want a reputation as a drama queen. ‘Why do you feel bad? He’s the one who stuck his hand up my dress.’

  ‘Please don’t judge him by Saturday. He can be a total twat, but he was completely hammered. None of that crowd is too bad when you get to know them, but I feel guilty because they are my friends. I introduced you to them and I should have warned you.’

  ‘You’re not responsible for your school friends.’

  We’ve already had this conversation over our hot chocolate and croissants in Georgina’s yesterday. Turns out Rupes, Oscar et al were at Marlborough with Immy. Not Freddie, though, he’s the latest in what sounds like a long line of faithful lapdogs.

  ‘Rupes is … Rupes, and if it’s any consolation, you could take it as a compliment that he’s singled you out. He’s always had a weakness for the blonde athletic look since we had a Californian housemistress in charge of our mixed house at school.’

  Even allowing for the fact that I’m from the opposite side of the States, the idea of Rupes having an American wet dream over his housemistress makes me gag on my coffee even more.

  ‘I can see I haven’t convinced you. Look, a few of us were planning on going to the Turf tonight. Why don’t you give them another chance? Not every guy at Wyckham is a git.’

  And how. Much to my irritation, with myself and him, the Cloister God has rarely been out of my mind and it’s been on the tip of my tongue to ask Immy who he might be. There can’t be many guys with that kind of presence – or that physique – at Wyckham and, if I described him, I’d bet my Wilson racket she’d know who he is and yet … there’s no way of asking about him that won’t instantly alert her to my unhealthy interest in him, and surely I’m bound to be unlucky enough to bump into him again sooner or later.

  ‘Please come. I promise you won’t be disappointed and the Turf is a bit of an Oxford institution. All medieval nooks and crannies and stuff. Not that I’m assuming that because you’re American you like old places. That would be a horrendous cliché.’

  This brings a smile to my lips. ‘Assume all you like, and on this occasion I don’t mind being a horrendous cliché even though I still have tons of unpacking to do and I have to get some reading done before my first seminar tomorrow.’

  Her face lights up. ‘The unpacking I can understand, but you have all term to do that. It’s just that I shouldn’t tell you this, but Rupert feels genuinely bad about touching
you up.’

  ‘Genuinely? Wow. I’m grateful.’

  Immy rolls her eyes. ‘He did say he’d like a chance to show you he isn’t a complete and utter twat. His words not mine. He does actually really fancy you; the insults are his funny way of showing it.’

  ‘You see me laughing?’

  ‘Come and have your last glass of Pimm’s before summer deserts Oxford totally. Oscar will be there and a couple of the girls, and maybe even Alexander might deign to grace us with his presence.’

  If Alexander is anything like Rupes, I may have to pass, but her voice is so wheedling I can’t help softening. I really like Immy. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Ten minutes later, I have ceased thinking about whether or not to go to the pub because as we’re walking through the archway from the back to the front quads, the Cloister God is striding from a staircase on the opposite side to us, a document wallet under his arm.

  Immy pauses in the shadow of the arch. ‘Well, what do you know? Alexander is in town, after all. I did wonder if he’d actually bother to turn up.’

  The brick that’s suddenly lodged in my throat turns out to be an advantage because my garbled response sounds like I have as much interest in seeing Alexander as I do in the mating habits of stick insects. Alexander … I can’t believe he has a name, that he’s actually flesh and blood – which says a lot about the level of myth that I have built around him since I arrived at Wyckham. I need to calm down, but how can I when he strides around the college quad in jeans and a polo shirt, looking so hot he might set the whole place afire?

  And he’s going to be at the pub tonight.

  ‘Mmm, and he’s looking rather delicious, if I say so myself,’ says Immy. ‘Not that I’m interested. No chance there and I’d keep away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s loaded and a marquess’s son. I’m upper-middle class at best.’

  I laugh. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Alexander wouldn’t care about anything like that, but I still wouldn’t go there. Where Alexander leads, a trail of shattered hearts follows.’

  Shattered hearts? Now why am I not surprised at that? He is sex on legs, titled and wealthy, and a lot of women must find that hard to resist. I’m not going to be one of them, but I am intrigued enough to know more about the man.

  ‘A marquess?’ I say, trying to sound bored.

  Immy’s eyes gleam with mischief as I collect my jaw from the cobbled flagstones, and I wonder if she suspects I might fancy Alexander myself.

  ‘One day he’ll be the Marquess of Falconbury and heir to a massive estate, but for God’s sake don’t mention it to him. He does actually have a courtesy title, Earl of somewhere or other, I can’t remember, because he never uses it and he’d probably be furious if he thought I’d discussed it with anyone. He’s plain Alexander Hunt in college.’

  ‘Really? What’s he doing at Wyckham, then?’

  ‘A master’s in International Relations.’

  ‘Right.’ I make my next question super casual. ‘So did you guys go to high school together?’

  ‘Oh God, no. Alexander went to Eton like his father and his father before him. He’s Rupert’s cousin.’

  ‘Cousins? You mean the same blood runs through him as Rupes?’

  A puzzled frown creases her brow and I’m worried she suspects something. ‘Yes, I suppose it does. Does that bother you?’

  It’s not the fact these guys have so much DNA in common that bothers me. It’s more that they share the same ‘world owes me’ attitude. ‘No. It’s … um … none of my business and I don’t care how big an estate this Alex has –, titles don’t impress me.’

  Immy winces. ‘It’s Alexander, darling. Don’t ever let him hear you call him Alex. He hates people shortening his name.’

  So he’s furious if anyone mentions his title? He hates mere mortals daring to use his nickname?

  He bends to tie a shoelace that has dared to unravel, his shirt straining over his shoulder muscles. Then he marches off again, not glancing to left or right, like he exists in his own universe. It’s the same single-minded demeanour I saw when he stole the parking space and thundered into the college on my first day at Wyckham. Wow, he really does think he owns the place.

  I make an exaggerated show of shifting my attention from Alex – sorry, Alexander – to the chapel clock, though it kills me to tear my eyes from that magnificent physique. ‘I should get back to my room. It’s breakfast time in Washington and I might catch Daddy before he leaves for the White House.’

  Ouch. I wish I hadn’t said that because it sounds like I’m trying to pull rank on Alexander and I am so not. Or maybe I am? Ever since I arrived in Oxford I’ve been behaving, not so much out of character, but differently. It’s a strange place, it’s natural that my defences should be up, but I don’t really like some of the things I’ve seen and the ways I’ve reacted. I don’t want to be obsessed with some guy, especially one like Alexander; titled, over-privileged, arrogant – he’s going to be another Rupert, and maybe one with even more wealth and power and influence, expecting everyone to do his bidding.

  Alexander’s tight butt is disappearing into the shadows of the Lodge. I swallow hard, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed us. We’re obviously not on his radar today, maybe no one ever is, and now he’s going to be at the pub tonight.

  ‘So. Shall we meet in the Lodge at eight unless you’ve changed your mind?’

  Her expression is pure innocence and I think it’s genuine. I drag my eyes away from the Lodge and shrug nonchalantly. ‘Sure. Why not?’

  ‘Awesome. I’ll call for you at half-eight. Wear something warm on the off chance it’s pissing down.’

  ‘Pissing down’ doesn’t come close to the biblical deluge as we dash through the streets and down a cobbled alleyway leading to the Turf Tavern. With the olde-world street lamps sputtering and fog wreathing round the college walls, I half expect Jack the Ripper to lunge out of a dark corner. I really must get a bike; Immy has suggested the cycle store next to the Covered Market.

  I’m so glad I wore my leather jacket and DKNY ankle boots, not the suede pumps I’d originally planned. Even in the boots, I skitter over the wet cobbles outside the inn with all the grace of a giraffe on stilts. Immy’s skinny jeans are soaked and her hair’s a bird’s nest, but she’s giggling as we push open the wooden door of the pub and into a fug of steaming clothes, loud voices and ale fumes.

  A bellow reaches us over the top of the general hubbub and we shoulder our way through the crowd to the bar, trying to dodge guys spilling beer on us from their pint glasses. Immy orders a couple of glasses of mulled wine and we plunge into the masses again, threading a path to the rear of the pub, where guys are ducking under beams. At the far end, crammed around an impossibly small table obscured by glasses and bottles, is Immy’s crowd.

  I recognise Freddie, tiny Oscar and a couple of girls who I hadn’t spoken to much but were friendly enough. Chun’s a medic whose family live in Shanghai; the other girl, Isla, is Scottish and has the cutest accent. Best of all, there’s no Rupert, which makes me want to do a little dance of joy. And no sign of Alexander, which makes me want to beat my head against a wall because, no matter what I told Immy or what I told myself in the privacy of my room earlier today, I’ve been dying to check out what he’s like with his ‘tribe’ around him. Will there be girls fawning at his feet and batting their eyes at him?

  Looks like I’m not going to find out yet, but the old Cusack training kicks in again and I stick on a ‘so happy to be here’ face. I feel like Lizzy Bennet when Wickham fails to turn up to Bingley’s ball. Yeah, and look how he turned out … the biggest disappointment in fiction.

  ‘Come on, squash up and make room!’ Immy orders.

  Surely we’re never going to fit in, but somehow a minuscule patch of bench appears at one end of the group.

  ‘Do you want to sit there, Lauren? I’ll sit on Freddie’s lap.’

  Freddie
grins and I perch my butt next to Oscar, who’s possibly the only guy I ever made look like a Munchkin.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, pushing his glasses nervously up his nose as my leg bumps his skinny thigh. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I smile reassuringly. Immy told me that Oscar wants to be a Member of Parliament, but he’s so shy I can’t imagine he’ll ever survive five minutes in the cut and thrust of politics. I’ve seen the shit my dad has to put up with and the thick skin he’s had to grow. Making it to the Senate must have been tough enough, without the added disadvantage of being partially sighted. I really don’t know how he did it and my heart feels as if it’s expanding when I think of him now.

  Calling on all my experience of international diplomacy, I work hard to make sure the next hour is incident free. All the time, I’m twitching in my seat and checking out the door to the bar, hoping Alexander will grace us with his presence. No one else seems bothered that he hasn’t turned up. In fact, no one so much as mentions him and I daren’t utter his name, since I’m supposed to a, have never spoken to him before, and b, be completely unimpressed by his unmentionable title.

  Around the table, the banter’s flying back and forth faster than a Murray–Djokovic rally. OK, there’s a little Yank-baiting, but I’m holding my own. Oscar’s an intriguing guy when he gets on a subject he’s passionate about and it’s good to get to know Chun and Isla better. Immy has visibly relaxed, possibly now she knows I’m not going to freak out and leave, and I’ve even been persuaded to try a ‘half’ of the local ale. Not that I think I’m going to finish it, because, apart from being lukewarm, it tastes like someone peed in the barrel.

  When Immy declares she needs the loo, I take the chance to go with her and when we get back to the table, I see we have guests. It’s Rupes with two other guys, one blond in a Regency-style cravat, if you can believe it; the other in an old school tie.

  ‘Oh fuck.’ Immy takes my elbow as we get near the table.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s Gideon and Piers. They’re in the same drinking club with Rupert and they’re a pair of complete spanners.’