by Pam Jenoff
Jared. I watch his shoulders beneath his t-shirt as they flex and work, warmth growing inside me. It has been more than a month since the night of the Tideway. Afterward, as we lay breathless and intertwined on the cold concrete boathouse floor, I wondered what just happened. Nothing, I told myself quickly. Cambridge, perhaps even more so than American universities, was a place for hooking up, lots of young people with too much alcohol and time on their hands living in close quarters. So people did—a lot—though most of it was just snogging, groping after a drunken night. It seldom went as far as we had. And afterward, the parties almost invariably went their separate ways.
The dampness of the boathouse reached me then and I shivered. “You okay?” Jared asked, drawing me closer and pulling his coat around my naked shoulders.
I noticed for the first time his hand buried in my hair. “My tattoo is a little sore, but—”
“I mean okay with this.” He cut me off and there was an urgency to his voice.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “Just surprised, I guess.”
“Really?” he asked. “I’m not. I think it’s been building since the night of the boat club dinner. Maybe before. Not that I planned this,” he added defensively.
I laughed. “I thought the cold damp boathouse floor was an unusual seduction technique.”
But he did not rise to my teasing. “I tried to avoid it in fact. For the sake of the Eight.”
So that was why he was so aloof these past few months. “You’re cold,” he said, his tone growing concerned. “We should go.” But instead we drew our bodies closer, neither rising. The movement stirred desire in me again, deeper than I had ever felt. I ran my hand down his hip and, finding him ready, rolled on top of him, moaning as we moved in perfect rhythm once more.
Afterward we lay in the darkness, fingers laced, listening to voices outside as the last of the partygoers made their way down the steps and past the door, finding their way home. I do not remember who spoke first, but soon we were talking in low whispers. Jared told me about his family in Wales and I discovered that we were both only children. I told him a few things about my parents and our home in Vermont, but mostly I listened as he talked about his years at school, trialing for the national rowing squad. His words came out in a tumble, any hint of his usual terseness gone. It was as if he’d had no one to speak with in years.
At some point I noticed faint light peeking beneath the boathouse door. “Morning?” I asked with disbelief, pulling away and standing up.
“Only just.” He sat up, pulling his shirt over his head. “And don’t forget we didn’t get to the party until late. But we should get back if…” He did not finish the thought. I knew he meant if we wanted to sneak back into the flat without being seen and facing the questions our absence all night would bring from the other boys.
Later that morning I left for spring break, slipping from the flat before anyone else awoke, and caught a cab to Heathrow. The next two weeks were agony—I milled around my parents’ house in Vermont, trying to act as though I was glad to be there. But in my head, I played the night in the boathouse over and over, wondering how things would be with Jared when I returned to college. Would things return to normal, as though our night had never happened? And, more important, what did I want? My mind whirled, trying to reconcile the man I disliked for so long with the one who clung to me as we talked in the darkness, who brought me to places physically I hadn’t known existed. It was hard to picture being with him but impossible to imagine coming back from where we had been.
When I returned to England after break, I did not go back to college, but instead took the train west for another rowing camp. The name was a misnomer—the crew went away, not to the woods, but to the home of one of the boys, someone whose parents lived by a river and didn’t mind having nine students sleep on their floors, throw wet rowing clothes over their heaters, and cook fantastically large meals in their kitchen. This time it was Andy’s house, a spacious home on the sprawling hills of Herefordshire. We rowed three times a day on the River Wye, narrow and calm like the Cam. The less crowded water gave us the chance to row for long stretches without interruption, though I had to navigate around the rocks and shallow bits. In between, we returned to the house, where the boys ate, napped, and nursed their blistered hands as they watched football on television.
I arrived at camp to find the boys unloading the boat from a trailer. Through the others’ greetings, my eyes found Jared, who worked on assembling a rigger on the boat several feet away. He did not look up. So that’s it, I thought, my heart sinking. He did not speak to me that first day as we rowed, nor over dinner at a local pub. I begged off early, claiming jet lag, and retired to the narrow single bed, surrounded by the boys’ sleeping bags. Alone, I could not contain my disappointment: Jared was acting as though nothing happened between us.
In the middle of the night, I woke and felt something slip into my hand. Fingers, I realized, opening my eyes. Jared’s fingers. He was sleeping on the floor beside my bed, his hand clasping mine. The next morning he was gone and I wondered if I had imagined it. But that night, his hand found mine again in sleep.
A week later camp ended and we made our way back across the Midlands to college. As I unpacked, my mind reeled back to Jared. What was happening between us? Other than his holding my hand at night, there was no acknowledgment of anything between us; in fact, we had barely spoken. I fought the urge to go to his room, to knock on his door and demand answers, to throw myself in his arms. My insides ached with longing. Then, taking a look at my disheveled appearance, I thought better of it and fell into bed.
Sometime later, I was awakened by a strange noise. It’s just the wind, I thought. Branches scraping against the side of the house. But beneath the scratching came another sound, a rapping noise once, then again. I walked to the window as another pebble bounced against the glass. Below, Jared’s face looked up hopefully in the moonlight. I did not bother to open the window but raced downstairs and flung open the door. Jared wrapped his arms around me as he stepped into the house. Wordlessly, he swept me up and carried me up the narrow staircase into my room, closing the door with his foot and in that moment all of my questions about what would happen between us were answered.
The days since then have been the happiest I have known. I turned in my thesis just before spring break and so there is little for me to do but wait. I fill my days with novels I always wanted to read, sunning myself on the edge of the cricket pitch, with visits to friends for tea and a game of Scrabble or gin rummy. Of course with the Bumps just two months away, the crew is more intense than ever. We row in the evenings now, meeting at six, then making our way quickly down to the lock. There, instead of turning back, we pull into the bank. The boys remove their blades from the gates and set them down in the grass, then lift the boat from the river and carry it in their stocking feet around to the other side of the lock, navigating the steeper bank. The extra work is well worth it. There the water is calm and still, the silence broken only by the occasional geese or a fisherman on the shore and the rhythmic catch of the blades as they slice into the water, accelerate and break free.
Jared sits in the five seat now, farther back in the boat. He said it was to give bow four a better rhythm to follow. In truth I know it is for his benefit and mine, to keep him farther away from me now that we are lovers. Even with the additional distance, his presence makes it hard for me to concentrate. Occasionally his eyes flicker in my direction. There is no smile, no change of expression, but in the deepness of his eyes I can see everything—his assessment of how well the outing is going, his preoccupation to get back to the library and finish up the section of his dissertation he has been working on. His desire for me. Then his eyes flick away, so quickly I wonder if I might have imagined it all.
I watch his back now as he turns from the main road, then slows down, coasting to a stop as we near the American cemetery at Madingley. We set our bikes down in the grass, then walk toward the platform beneath
the American flag. TO YOU FROM FAILING HANDS WE THROW THE TORCH—BE YOURS TO HOLD IT HIGH, reads the inscription at the base of the flag pole, taken from the poem “In Flanders Fields.” Behind it, thousands of small white crosses fan out in arched rows, the spokes of a wheel.
We walk toward the Memorial Wall, which lines one side of the cemetery. I look up at Jared. His Adam’s apple bobs slightly as he studies the names etched in stone. The trip was my idea—the cemetery was one of the places I wanted to see before…Before. My imminent departure is always hanging out there unspoken between us. The great irony is that we found each other just months before I will graduate and return to America for good.
I step up beside Jared and slip my hand in his. I was surprised when he agreed to my suggestion to take the bike ride. I’d hesitated in suggesting it, knowing that it would mean time away from his work. He has been at it nonstop, finishing research even as he writes up his dissertation. Each night after Boatie Hall, the late dinner for the crews that row in the evening, Jared returns to the library above First Court instead of joining the rest of us in the bar. When the bar closes, I go home alone, knowing that he will slip in beside me late, his body cool from the night air. He rouses me from sleep with cajoling hands, stirring my desire. But in the mornings I awaken in the mornings to find him gone, returned to his research, the rumpled bed beside me the only evidence that he was not a dream.
He turns and gestures now across the fields to the clouds that have gathered above the trees. “We should go.”
We wheel the bikes to the entrance of the cemetery before climbing on. At the junction with the main road, he does not turn back toward Cambridge but continues south. He is heading to Grantchester, I surmise in the easy unspoken way that has developed between us in the short time we have been together. The small village, immortalized by the poet Rupert Brooke, is another place I mentioned wanting to see.
It does not matter where we are going, I think. I am content to follow and enjoy the timelessness of this Sunday afternoon, the rare opportunity to be alone together. Not that our relationship has been a problem for the crew. After we returned from camp, Jared and I kept things secret for several days, leaving the bar separately at night and then meeting in one of our rooms shortly thereafter, sneaking out before dawn. It was as if we wanted to nurture our newfound relationship, savor it privately, before exposing it to the scrutiny of others. Then, one night, as if by unspoken agreement that we could hold back no longer, we walked into the bar hand in hand. I held my breath, worried about what the Eight might think, the effect that it might have on the cohesiveness of the crew. But they have been silently accepting, even if surprised at the couple they could have least predicted. Except for Chris. He has been distant, sitting as far from me as he can at Boatie Hall, not laughing or joking in the boat. He is angry with me, I think. Chris adored Jared, idolized him, and I committed the ultimate betrayal by taking his friend away.
My thoughts are interrupted as thick rain begins to fall, drops pelting hard through my cotton shirt. “There’s shelter just ahead,” Jared calls over his shoulder, going faster, and I stand against my pedals, breathing hard, struggling to keep up. Around the next curve we reach a crumbling pile of stone. It is the ruins of a chapel, I realize as we drop our bikes and run toward it. Though the roof is nearly gone, thick trees bow overhead, forming a canopy of leaves. The air is heavy with the smell of wet earth and stone.
Jared spreads his jacket out on the ground and I sit down, accepting the water bottle he offers. He drops beside me and pulls from his backpack snacks I hadn’t known he’d brought; nuts and cheese, apples and grapes. Neither of us speaks as we eat.
The rain falls heavier now, parting the leaves above, sending a spray of drops down on us. “Sorry about this,” he says, as though personally responsible for the storm. “We could have made a dash for Grantchester. But I was worried about the road getting slippery. I didn’t want one of us to fall.” He of course means me, the weaker rider.
I notice him staring at me. “What?” I ask, aware of the water as it seeps through my t-shirt, mats my hair to my head.
He does not answer but leans in and kisses me with wet lips, long and deep. His hands are icy on my damp skin, the air cold as he lifts my shirt from my head. I wrap my arms around him for warmth. He draws me closer, lifting me into his lap, and I pull his pants down, straddling him and drawing him inside me, burying my nose in his dark, wet curls.
Afterward, as the waves of desire ebb, I shiver, wrapped in Jared’s coat and arms. The rain has stopped, I notice for the first time, except for the drops that pour down upon us when the breeze blows, shaking the trees.
A minute later he clears his throat. “We should get back. Get out of these wet clothes.”
I gesture to my jeans, still bunched around one of my ankles. “I think we just did. Get out of them, I mean.”
He smiles patiently at my joke. “I mean before we catch a chill. Neither of us can afford to get sick now. We’ll come to Grantchester another day.” But some deep part of me knows that we never will, that I have traveled as far down this road as I ever will and that we will not come this way again. It is the same sense I have had every day as my time at college winds down, watching a movie of myself doing things for the last time. Even our fledgling relationship is heavy with the irony that each day together is another day closer to when we will part.
“I love you,” I say then, not caring that I am saying it first, or whether it is wrong or right or too soon. There is no such thing as too soon when time is running out. My words echo unanswered through the stillness of the churchyard. “I love you,” I repeat. He draws me close once more, and as he buries his head in my neck, I feel a hot wetness against my skin and realize that he is crying.
chapter FOURTEEN
THE EARLIER FOG has lifted as I cross Grosvenor Square, the morning sun burning off the last of the dampness. Birds call to each other from the trees that line the path as if proclaiming the chance for a real spring day. My sweater, short-sleeved and pink, overlaps the matching floral skirt, concealing the gun I’ve secured neatly beneath.
As a clock in the distance chimes eight, I pull my phone from my bag, then hesitate. I want to call Duncan as soon as possible, but using a cell that Maureen can trace is just bad business. Instead I hurry to the red phone booth at the corner and fish some coins from my pocket, then pull the folder with the Infodyne papers from my bag. I decide to try his mobile first; he may be more comfortable if he, too, is not speaking from his work phone. I dial the number I scribbled down on the train, waiting for the ring. But instead there is a click and the phone goes right to voice mail.
Quickly I scan the paper and dial the main number for Infodyne, following the automated instructions that lead to an alphabetical voice directory. I punch in the letters of Duncan’s last name. “There is no name recognized,” a recording announces brightly. “Please try again.” I carefully respell Duncan’s name into the keypad. “No name recognized. Please hold for assistance.” Damn these systems, I think as I am transferred. They never work as they should. A moment later, a live woman’s voice comes on the line. “Infodyne, how can I help you?”
“Duncan Lauder, please.” There is a pause, fingers clicking on a keyboard.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one listed by that name.”
“L-A-U-D-E-R,” I spell impatiently. “He works in finance.”
Another pause. “We do not have an employee by that name.”
“There must be some mistake,” I insist. “I spoke with him a few days ago at this number.”
“Let me check the paper directory in case there’s a problem with the computer,” the woman offers. There is a thump, followed by low, muffled voices. “I’m sorry, nothing.”
“When was your paper directory last updated?”
“Three months ago.”
I grip the phone harder. “Would you please transfer me to someone in the Finance Department?”
The operator pu
ts me on hold and background music begins to play. “Maria Jones,” a different woman’s voice, lower this time, answers a few seconds later.
I take a deep breath. “Hello, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m trying to find the direct extension for Duncan Lauder.” There is silence on the other end. “Hello?”
“There’s no one here by that name,” the woman replies flatly.
“But there has to be!” I splutter. “I don’t understand. I spoke with him just a few days ago. I called his voice mail yesterday!”
“There’s no one here by that name,” the woman repeats. “You must be mistaken.”
“Did he quit?” I demand, my voice rising. “Go on a leave? Do you have a forwarding phone number?” There is a moment of silence, then a click as the line goes dead.
I set down the receiver. Duncan is gone. I push open the door to the phone booth and run across the street, taking the steps of the embassy two at a time, ignoring the puzzled stares of the other diplomats and staff as I fly past. Inside I flash my badge at the guard and bypass the metal detector, then race to the elevator.
In my office, I plug my laptop into the docking station and flick the switch, not bothering to sit down. Hurry, I pray, tapping my foot as the machine boots up. Leaning over, I click on the Internet Explorer icon. The screen defaults to the embassy home page, a smiling, official photograph of Ambassador Raines, thinner and with more hair than he has now. I pull down my browsing history. Infodyne is still there from the other day. I scroll down to it, then hesitate. There will be a record of my going to the site, today, after Maureen forbade the investigation. But I am too rushed to care.
I click on the address and a second later, when the Infodyne website pops up, I select the link to personnel then type “Lauder” in the search box. A message appears: “No such listing.” I select the browsable personnel list instead, scrolling to the L names. Lane, then Lewis. No Lauder.