by Julia Whelan
Two minutes later, Simon lumbers over to the booth with our meals. He plants a meaty palm on the table and leans in to me. “He’s a decent bloke, you know. He’s got quite the reputation and all that, but don’t let him fool ya. There’s more to him than that.” Simon gives Jamie a firm clap on his shoulder. “Right, my lad?”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say, more seriously than intended. Simon nods once, like, Nice doin’ business with ya, and returns to his post at the counter.
The bell above the door chimes, and before I have a chance to say anything or even take a bite, a man appears at our table. “Jamie!”
Jamie looks up, startled. “Martin,” he cries. A beat later, he pastes a smile on his face.
“Jamie, by God!” Martin beams, sticking out an eager hand. He’s a big guy, solidly built, but somewhat goofy-looking. Jamie takes his hand and Martin pumps it vigorously. “Bloody good to see you, mate! How are you?”
“Well, well.” Jamie nods compulsively.
Martin turns toward the door. “Soph! Babe! Come say hello!”
Unbeknownst to me, a pretty girl with impeccable makeup and clothes has been standing by the door as if she were guarding it. She removes herself from her post and scampers over to the table.
“Jamie, meet my fiancée, Sophie Elphick!”
“Pleasure,” Jamie says, taking her hand. “And congratulations.” He forces a smile and turns toward me. “This is—”
Martin interrupts. “How are you, dear boy? You all right?”
“Good, good!” Jamie chirps. “Martin, Sophie. This is Ella. Ella Durran.”
They turn eager, smiling faces to me, tilting their heads identically, as only couples who have been together forever seem able to do. “Charmed,” they say in unison. I wave slightly.
Martin is about to speak, but Jamie says quickly, “Martin was a school chum of mine.”
Martin’s laugh sounds like a machine gun. “School chum! As if we were jumping rope and plaiting each other’s hair.” Jamie chuckles uncomfortably and looks down at the table. “We were hellions! Do you know, just the other day I was remembering those German girls we met in Paris and took to Les Chandelles! We were, what, nineteen?” His rat-a-tat-tat laugh continues.
Sophie gives Martin a playful slap, exposing (and possibly showing off) a rather large diamond ring. “Martin, you’re incorrigible.”
Rat-a-tat-tat. “Far too long, old chap!” He drops his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “You look grand. Didn’t want to be a bother and all that. You’ve been rather incommunicado.”
Jamie nods and smiles as if his life depended on it. “Indeed, indeed I have been. Sorry, it’s just been mad. I meant to—”
Martin immediately holds up his hands. “No, no!” he declares. “It’s completely understandable.”
“Oh!” Sophie claps. “We’re having our stag and hen this coming Wednesday. A joint one.”
Martin holds up a finger. “The first one. Informal, just for the Oxford people. We’re having a proper do in London next month.” He grins at Sophie. “Separately, thankyouverymuch.”
She ignores him. “Why not come, both of you!”
“Yes, well, I’ll be sure to give you a ring,” Jamie says quickly. “Ella, we really should be off.” And with that, he quickly stands.
I look down at my untouched fish and chips.
“Ah, Happy Cod for breakfast,” Martin says with a wistful sigh. “That was always a milestone, wasn’t it?” He winks at me.
“You must come!” Sophie reiterates, taking my hand in her diamond-encrusted one.
I smile at her. I look down at our hands. “What a beautiful ring.”
“Isn’t it just grand?” she hisses, pouncing on the compliment like a tigress lying in wait for its prey.
“Where’s the party going to be—”
“Actually,” Jamie interrupts. “Would you mind texting me the details? We really must be off.” Jamie picks up our two bouquets of breakfast. “We’ll take this along with us, Ella. Sorry for the rush. Lost track of time.”
My stomach clenches. Is he embarrassed by me? Or worse, ashamed?
“I did try texting a while back—” Martin holds up his phone.
“Really? Must not have received it. Vodaphone were complete shit for a while there, finally switched, couldn’t take it anymore. Ella?” He’s looking beseechingly at me. I quickly stand and slip out of the booth. “Apologies, must get Ella to her lecture.”
Sophie turns to me, beaming. “Oh, what do you teach, then?”
“I—I don’t actually, I’m a student,” I stammer.
They both look at Jamie.
“Graduate student,” I clarify, trying to make it better somehow. Why is everything awkward?
“Anyway, lovely to meet you,” Jamie says, reaching for Sophie’s hand and then Martin’s. Their eyes meet and it feels like the first time Jamie has actually looked at him since he came into the chip shop. “You look happy,” he murmurs.
Martin takes a serious tone. “I am. We are. Thank you.”
Jamie smiles tightly once more and we head for the door. “Mate?” Martin calls out. “Any improvement?”
Without stopping, Jamie glances over his shoulder and nonanswers, “Brilliant. Cheers.”
Chapter 15
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “Sudden Light,” 1863
We’re in Jamie’s classic convertible—which I’ve figured out is an Aston Martin—and almost to the English faculty, when I finally decide he isn’t going to offer an explanation for the elephant in the chip shop. So I ask, “What was Martin referring to?”
“Sorry?”
“Martin asked if there was ‘any improvement,’” I huff, “and I have no idea what he’s talking about and you obviously do.”
He doesn’t answer. We stop at a red light and Jamie goes vampire still, staring straight ahead. He finally mutters, “It’s my brother. Oliver. He’s undergoing treatment for multiple myeloma.”
My tone immediately shifts. “I’m sorry.” Then, when he doesn’t continue, “What is that exactly? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“It’s a blood cancer. Specifically of the plasma cells.”
“Oh God,” I exhale. “I’m so sorry.”
Jamie stoically shakes this off as the light turns green and he accelerates through the intersection. “Best not linger on it.”
“But he’s so young.”
“There’s nothing logical about disease.” Jamie pulls over in front of the St. Cross building.
I ask the follow-up question, even though I’m afraid to. “So? Has there been any improvement?”
“No,” Jamie answers bluntly. “There is no cure, actually.” I stifle a groan, feeling Oliver’s condemnation at my core. Jamie looks at the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Ella, I should’ve been more forthcoming. I’m simply not one to go on about such things. But now you can better understand the demands on my time. I take him to treatment in London and stay on with him afterward.”
I reach over and take his hand, which still rests on the Aston’s shifter. “You don’t have to hide things from me, Jamie. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.” Jamie nods quickly, but doesn’t look at me. “Jamie,” I try again, leaning into him. “If you need anything, I’m here for you. I could come be with you in London. Run errands, make meals, I don’t know, watch a bunch of Abbott and Costello?”
“It’s quite all right,” he says, braving a glance at me and smiling slightly. “I appreciate that, honestly I do, but we’ve a routine. And Oliver is rather private about the whole thing.” He looks down at our hands on the shifter. He turns his hand around in mine and grasps it. “Actually,” he says slowly, “now that we’re on the up-and-up about all this, I’m terribly behind in my wo
rk and Oliver has a break in treatment coming up. I hesitate to even ask, but would you be terribly offended if we gave”—he gestures between us—“this, us, a brief hiatus?”
“Of course not. Like I said, whatever you need.” My answer is so automated it sounds like a customer-service call-center recording. Press one for disingenuous pandering, press two for passive-aggressive bullshit—
“You’re just too damn distracting, you see,” he says, leaning in charmingly.
Now I look out the window. “Actually, I could use some time, too. I need to start thinking about my dissertation subject and I’ve barely cracked Middlemarch.”
“Ah, my favorite.” Jamie sighs.
“But it’s not poetry,” I tease.
“I beg to differ. You’ll see. For whose class?”
“Hughes.”
Jamie rolls his eyes. “Here’s a fun game with Hughes. Count the number of times he feels the need, apropos of nothing, to remind everyone how spectacularly unattractive George Eliot was.”
I chuckle and gather my bag off the floor, still holding on to his hand. “So, how long do you think you need?”
Jamie looks outside, considering. “A month?”
“A month!” My surprised yelp is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Jamie doesn’t respond, just keeps staring out the window. I can’t help the ugly pang of hurt collecting in my stomach. I’m not proud of it. I know I’m being unforgivably selfish. But I need to know. “Jamie. Are you done? Because we said we’d be honest when it was over. Which is fine. And understandable. I mean, you obviously have—”
Without warning, Jamie grabs the back of my neck, closes the distance between us, and pulls me in for a kiss. I go molten inside, forgetting anything I might have been saying. Eventually, he pulls away, looks me right in the eye, and says, “I’m not done.” The husky promise settles deep inside me.
“Okay,” I whisper. He releases my neck and I open the door, reluctantly getting out. I sling my bag over my shoulder, lean down, and look at him. “So. I’m gonna go listen to Saunders lecture about the importance of margin notation in early modern manuscripts and you’re gonna get your Tennyson on and we’ll . . . be in touch.”
“It’s a plan,” he says, quoting my standard line, a teasing smile playing at his lips.
I SPEND THE weekend getting a little too drunk with Charlie, Maggie, and Tom. I don’t text or call Jamie and he doesn’t text or call me. I’ve turned our lack of communication into a drinking game: if you look at your phone and he still hasn’t contacted you, drink. It’s very effective.
Gavin throws a lot of work at me. Things I probably shouldn’t be doing. Things outside my auspices as the education consultant. Over the past six weeks, I’ve answered every one of his calls and returned every e-mail within an hour. I think he’s come to rely on me, especially when it pertains to staffing suggestions for young and hungry (i.e., cheap) field-office coordinators. He even asked me the other day for my opinion on a campaign ad. It’s odd imagining where I’ll be this time next year, if I’ll still be working for the senator, or if she’ll be the president-elect? Or if I’ll have some other client by then. The new people I’ll meet. Will I still be in touch with the ones I’ve met here?
I Skype with my mother and hear all about how it’s already snowed once, not much, only an inch or so and it didn’t stick, but she panicked and put the snow tires on and now she’s driving around with snow tires and she doesn’t know if she should take the snow tires off or just wait for it to really start snowing and why haven’t they invented temporary chains yet? They can put a man on the moon but they can’t invent temporary chains? I tell her they can and they have. I tell her my set from D.C. is sitting in her garage right now with the rest of the stuff I packed up before I left the country. This discussion takes a good thirty minutes and I’m able to disconnect the call without actually having told her anything relevant. But not before my door bursts open and Charlie walks in, wearing a new shirt and no pants (which my mother can’t see). He wants to know if the collar should go up or down. My mother tells him down. Satisfied, he leaves. My mother says he’s cute and asks if I’m seeing him. I tell her not yet, but my fingers are crossed.
After class on Monday (where I receive nothing more intimate from Jamie than a furtive wink) and logging a few library hours, I gravitate to the pub with Maggie, Charlie, and Tom. We’re at the Turf drinking cider in front of the temporary fire pit outside when I see a familiar head ducking through the door and coming out onto the patio.
For a moment I can’t place him. He’s handsome. Could it be as simple as that? I just haven’t had my head turned in six weeks and I’m mistaking that with familiarity? But his eyes find mine and, after a moment, he smiles in recognition. He lifts his beer at me in a toast.
It’s the beer that does it. He’s the cute D.C. guy from the Rhodes House. His hair is longer than it was seven weeks ago, blurring his corporate edges. I find myself standing up, telling my friends I’ll be right back. Just as I step up to him, his name flashes into my head and comes right out my mouth. “Connor Harrison-Smith.”
He turns away from the group he’s with. “Ella Durran, long time.” He smiles and it lights up his whole, gorgeous face and I suddenly remember that I have his number in my phone. I never used it. A flash of regret wells in me. Jamie hijacked my life. Connor studies me, smiling. “You never come to any of the Rhodes events.”
“Yeah, I . . . I think I’ve enjoyed not being around other Americans.”
He lifts a brow, nods. “Fair enough. How’s English literature and language 1830 to 1914 treating you?”
Remembering my name is one thing; remembering exactly what I’m studying is another. I’m impressed. “Good,” I answer, nodding. “How’s global health?”
“Disastrous. Something about AIDS and unclean drinking water?” he answers cheekily. “I don’t know. I’m just here for the beer.”
I hold up a finger. “Let us not forget the overpriced food.”
Connor chuckles, takes a sip of his beer. He really is cute. He absently rubs his chin, and when he removes his hand I notice a thin, white scar running horizontally across the tip of it. My type of guy—the guy with character, the guy with a face that tells a story. He takes a breath and says, “Hey, speaking of food, I don’t have any classes on Thursday. I was thinking of going to London for Thanksgiving. There’s a hotel in Mayfair that’s doing a full turkey dinner. ‘With all the “fixins,”’ it said online. Want to join me?”
I’m caught off guard. “Is this a Rhodes group outing?” I ask carefully.
“No. Just me.” He grins. “Who wants to be around a bunch of Americans, right?”
Despite myself, I like him. He’s nice, he’s funny, he’s cute. This could be good for me. “I still haven’t been to London,” I admit, biting the inside of my lip.
Connor’s eyes bug. “What?”
I shake my head. “Haven’t had the time.”
“Hmm. No American friends. No time. Hasn’t been to London yet.” He turns his head, side-eyeing me. “Is there a guy I should know about?”
The word “no” crawls up my throat, morphs into “not really,” but I still can’t push it out of my mouth. Connor must see my deliberation, because he says, “Look, no pressure. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s turkey. It’s ‘fixins.’” There’s that smile again.
I smile back. “Okay, I’ll let you know.”
Connor grimaces, considers. “I tried leaving the ball in your court once and it never got returned. How about this time you serve, and I’ll follow up on Wednesday?” He’s already taking out his phone. “Okay?”
This makes me laugh. “Fine. It’s a plan,” I say, and give him my number.
THAT NIGHT, CHARLIE, Maggie, and I get takeaway pizzas, a big jug of wine, and sit on the floor in Charlie’s room eating our feelings. The theme of the night is “Walls.” Charlie’s hit a wall with Ridley the Rower, Maggie’s banging her head against a wall with Tom, and I’m ignoring th
e wall that’s suddenly appeared between Jamie and me.
I love Charlie’s room. It looks like something out of Brideshead Revisited. Oriental rugs cover the hardwood, a four-panel screen hiding the bed, a red velvet couch, and antique floor lamps. He has a collection of drippy candles in wine bottles (surely against code) and he’s put a portable washer/dryer combo in the corner. He even has a tea chest with an assortment of loose-leaf teas that I’m slowly working my way through with Charlie’s guidance. He lived here all three years of his undergraduate and was able to keep it this year as well. The college usually requires students to vacate their rooms not only over the summer, but even between terms, so they can be rented to tourists or conference attendees. Charlie must have done something for someone (or to someone) for the privilege, and I don’t want to know what it is.
“How can he be so daft?” Maggie whines after a hefty swig on the bottle.
“Have you met Tom?” Charlie retorts.
“I simply don’t know what else I can do. It’s embarrassing how forward I’ve been with him!”
“How so?” I ask.
“Well, for instance, we talked of finding that special person, and I said to him, maybe she’s right in front of you if only you’d open your eyes!” She looks between us. “I was right in front of him at the time, you see.”
“Were you naked?”
“Ella!” Maggie cries.
“Look, baring your soul isn’t working. I say bare your ass.”
“That’s the way forward,” Charlie chimes in. “He needs to see you as he’s never seen you before. You know. Attractive.” I kick him. “What I mean to say is we’ve never any cracker of an excuse to look our finest. I mean,” he says, plucking at the lapel of his tweed jacket, “one tries, but it can only be taken so far amongst the troglodytes in tracksuits and trainers. No, we must find a way to the nines, as it were.”
I nod. “Yes, we need an event. An opportunity for transformation. Like Cinderella at the ball.”
“Yes!” Charlie gasps, inspiration striking. “The Blenheim Ball!”
“There’s an actual ball? I meant metaphorically.”