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

by Croft, Pippa

  ‘Lauren! Hey there!’

  ‘Scott. Oh, shit.’

  ‘That happy to see me, huh?’ Wearing track pants and a dark blue padded jacket, he treats me to the warmest of smiles despite my greeting.

  ‘I am happy to see you. In fact, if I had to see anybody right now, I’d rather it was you than anyone else.’ Then I add, because perhaps I’m over-compensating, ‘I guess my social skills are on life-support this morning.’

  He peers at me closely. ‘You do look upset.’

  ‘It’s been a long term and I can’t wait to get back home tomorrow. Are you going back soon?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m staying on here for a while to train with the squad. You caught me on my way back to college after an erg test so I’m beat. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I decided to have a walk before my car comes to take me to the airport. I’ll be sitting around for the next twelve hours so I thought I’d get some fresh air.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? Not spending your last day before the vac with Alex? You know, he never did call me to arrange that beer. Maybe it was something I said?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I bite my lip.

  ‘So where is he? Saving the planet? Crossing swords with some villain?’

  My voice is a whisper, almost smothered by the wind, because I can hardly bear to say the words out loud. ‘We broke up last night.’

  He blows out a breath. ‘Fuck me and my size thirteens. I am sorry, Lauren. I really mean that, and it’s crappy that it happened right before you have to go home.’

  ‘Shit happens. At least I have the vac to get over it.’

  ‘Sure you do, but it’s still a horrible thing to happen. At the risk of sounding like a Hallmark card, do you need a hug?’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think that would be wise. I don’t want to blub all over your nice Blues jacket.’

  ‘Screw that. Come here.’

  And he puts his arms around me and hugs me to him and the tears are hot as they finally spill out. My chest heaves and I can’t stop and don’t want to lift my face from his chest and see the people around me averting their eyes in that British way while desperately trying to see what the fuck is going on.

  But then I have to stop because I know Scott’s coat will be snotty if I don’t. Dashing my hand over my face, I break away from him.

  ‘Here.’ He hands me a fresh Kleenex from his pocket. ‘Sorry, no crisp white handkerchief. I’m no gentleman.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be.’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  After I’ve wiped my eyes I take a deep breath. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Want me to walk with you back to Wyckham?’

  I nod. ‘But I don’t want to go back to Wyckham yet. Can we just walk for a while?’

  He frowns then says, ‘OK. Whatever makes you feel better.’

  As we wander along the riverside and back through the narrow lanes of the city, we talk about home, about our work – or Scott’s lack of it – anything except what’s happened with Alexander. I don’t want to share any of it with anyone; I just want to go home and try to put this term behind me. Even as I tell myself that fact, I know it will be almost impossible because Alexander Hunt has left an indelible mark on me: for good and bad.

  The belfry of St Nick’s comes into view and I glance at Scott. I can’t say I feel much better, but I’m grateful for his presence. He’s a calm, friendly oasis – a hint of home – in a world that this morning seems cold, repressed and alien.

  When we reach the medieval doorway of St Nick’s, I touch his arm.

  ‘You can leave me here. You must be tired after training.’

  ‘Not that tired and I could leave you, but I won’t. I’m taking you all the way back to Wyckham, no arguments.’

  I certainly don’t want any arguments, and if I don’t feel any better I can at least make Scott feel better – so I walk beside him. Finally, we round the corner, the Bridge of Sighs arches above our heads and beyond that, the tower of Wyckham.

  I stop Scott with my hand on his arm. ‘It’s OK now, I’ll go on from here.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with leaving you here and I know it’s none of my business, but what happened with you guys? Did he cheat on you or did you dump him?’

  ‘Let’s just call it irreconcilable differences.’

  He puts his arm round me. ‘I’m genuinely sorry, but I must admit he seemed a pretty uptight kind of guy, and I never had you down as the sort of woman to hang out with an upper-class Brit. I didn’t say so at the time but you were a little on edge at the pub on Thanksgiving. I put it down to you working too hard and missing your family, but you were pretty cagey about him not being around.’

  ‘It had nothing to do with that, trust me; I just decided things were never going to work out.’

  ‘So where is he now? Did you walk out of college to get away from him? Because if he’s hassling you I’ll make sure the bastard backs off.’

  Oh God, a fight between Alexander and Scott would be like two freight trains crashing into each other, and although Scott’s bigger than Alexander I really don’t fancy his chances in hand-to-hand combat.

  ‘There’s no need for that. It would only make things worse and, as far as I know, he’s still at his family in the country. I was there for the weekend, but we had a big bust-up and I left early this morning without telling him.’

  He rests his hands on my shoulders and looks down at me with concern. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? If he’s making trouble for you …’

  ‘He isn’t and he won’t. Trust me; you don’t need to ride to the rescue,’ I say, fully aware that trouble is Alexander’s middle name. ‘Thanks for, um, being around this morning. I’ll see you next term, maybe?’

  ‘Definitely, but I’ll call you when I get back to the States.’

  My throat clogs with emotion because the reality that Alexander and I are history has finally slammed into me. ‘OK, see you.’

  ‘Hey there. Don’t cry.’

  Scott’s arms are around me and my eyes blur with tears. Before I know it, his mouth is on mine. It’s a tender, warm kiss that goes on longer than it should and is something more than comforting, but I don’t know what. Oh hell, after this weekend maybe I don’t know anything about myself any more. He pulls away the same moment I do and I shut my eyes and rest my forehead on his chest. ‘Oh, Scott.’

  ‘Did I just complicate things?’ he whispers, keeping his hands on my arms.

  ‘No, but I don’t think we should do it again right now.’

  He pushes my hair from my face. ‘It was selfish but can you blame me? It’s killing me to see you wasting tears over this guy. You deserve better.’

  ‘I’m a grown-up. I walked into Alexander’s world with my eyes wide open. Now, I really have to go.’

  I wriggle away from him and then I see the man on the corner of the street watching us. Alexander stands right in the middle of the narrow pavement, so that people have to step into the gutter to go round him. His collar is buttoned up against the wind and he buries his fists deep into the pockets of his reefer coat, like he’s making a massive effort of will to hold himself back.

  And as I step forward and open my mouth to speak, to say something – anything – that tells him this wasn’t how I wanted things to end between us, he quietly turns his back and walks away.

  Acknowledgements

  Before I mention the awesome people on both sides of the Atlantic who helped me with this book, I’d like to apologize for listening to their advice and then going away and ignoring some of it!

  That said, I’d like to give a huge hand to International Man of Mystery – Mike V – Americans, Debra R and Karen M-A, and horsey people, Nick Robinson, Jane Lovering and Jane Ford, as well as Nell Dixon and Elizabeth Hanbury.

  At Penguin Books, Alex Clarke and Clare Pelly have literally made my dream come true by publishing this book – thank you to them and the whole Penguin team (especially Charlotte Brabbin i
n editorial).

  As for my editor, Clare Bowron – you truly rock, Clare, and you know why.

  I hesitate to mention my agent, Broo, because, like that perfect bar on an idyllic beach, I want to tell the world how amazing she is but I’m not sure I want anyone else to discover her …

  Families are the most important characters in any book and mine have had to put up with a lot over my writing career, so Mum and Dad, here’s a massive bouquet and a hug for everything you do.

  To my daughter, the newly minted Dr Charlotte PhD, who’s been an inspiration to me in so many ways, I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it.

  Finally, to my husband, John, who has not only encouraged me to live my dream, but made it possible, you are one in a million and ILY forever. x

  The Second Time

  I Saw You

  PIPPA CROFT

  Chapter One

  Hilary Term

  It’s dark. The kind of darkness you can scoop up in your hands or pull over your skin like a velvet cloth. Outside, the chapel clock chimes the first stroke of midnight, and after it, the other bells of Oxford join in, near and far, out of synch with each other. The chilly night licks my skin and the room smells of books and instant coffee and dusty radiators.

  I can’t move but I’m not dreaming, I just choose not to. I choose to lie here, naked on top of the duvet on my single bed, knowing Alexander is somewhere in the room. Maybe he’s yards away, maybe only inches. He once told me that he could do that if he wanted to: break into my room and stand by my bed – and walk out again – and that I’d never know he’d even been there. He told me he was trained to do it and I told him he was talking bullshit, yet I remember the ironic tilt of his mouth as I laughed in his face.

  The air shimmers a little. To my left, possibly a foot or so away, his voice cuts through the darkness.

  ‘You drive me insane but I’m never going to let you go.’

  And I say: ‘Go screw yourself, Alexander.’

  And he says: ‘No, I’m going to screw you, Ms Cusack.’

  I laugh but every nerve-ending, inside and out, is waiting for the moment when he touches me.

  I lick my lips before I can reply. ‘You can try, Mr Hunt, you can try.’

  The mattress dips, the bed creaks, and his weight is next to me, over me, on me. His mouth comes down on mine in the darkness. I could stop him, any time I wanted to, I could end this thing between us but I choose not to.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will shortly be landing at Heathrow Airport where the local time is just after eight a.m. Can you please return your seats to the upright position and ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened ready for landing.’

  I lift the eye mask off my face and screw my eyes shut again as the light through the cabin windows blinds me. At home, my mother will be dead to the world under her down comforter. Even my father will be next to her by now, snatching a few hours’ rest before he heads to the White House or some senate committee meeting. Around me, the other Business Class passengers are adjusting their watches to GMT and frowning because we’re running late.

  ‘Sweet dreams?’

  The stewardess flashes me a smile that’s way too bright. I sure hope I haven’t been acting out my fantasy as I dozed in the flat bed because that would take a lot of explaining. As for my dreams, I already consigned those to where they belong: to the boxes marked ‘Big Mistake’, ‘Don’t Go There’ and ‘How the hell did I ever let that happen?’

  And yet …

  And yet nothing, Lauren.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No thank you, but I think I’ll go freshen up before we land.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no time now. The seat-belt signs are on and we’ll be on the stand very soon.’ She tosses me an apologetic smile and hands me a wrapped mint by way of consolation for having to cross my legs for the next half hour.

  Rubbing some life back into my limbs, I pull off the cashmere blanket and push the button to raise the flat bed. So much for arriving in England looking fresh and relaxed. I planned on changing my crumpled Chloé pants in the washroom and slapping on an extra layer of Nars moisturiser. Now, I guess, I’ll have to settle for arriving looking more like the girl in Degas’ L’Absinthe than Blake Lively.

  A couple of hours later, the limo glides into the centre of Oxford. Predictably, my father asked that Roger, his UK driver, be allowed to collect me from the airport again and it seemed a small concession to make. My parents have finally been forced to accept that I can look after myself and that my insistence on studying my History of Art masters’ at Oxford was the right one for me. After spending a term away from home in what Granny loves to call ‘foreign parts’, I haven’t been abducted, arrested or died of starvation.

  I did, however, fall for the most unsuitable man in Oxford, but that’s something they’re never going to know about. The six weeks I’ve been away from Alexander Hunt have been the Christmas gift I didn’t ask for – but needed so much more than clothes or candy.

  It’s over and while I’m not normally superstitious, I’ll take it as a good omen that pockets of watery-blue sky peer out from among the clouds as we drive down the road past the University Parks towards Wyckham. The branches are bare now, and on the shady side of the street, their spiky fingers are tinged with frost. We pass the Boathouse and through the iron railings I see the sun glinting on the river and the punts chained up on the slipway. The last time I saw this place, I was laughing and shivering as Alexander smashed the ice in the bottom of one of the boats, so he could punt us upriver to the pub.

  Has it really been two months since we floated back downstream, him lost in some dark and distant place again, me wrapped in his coat, thinking that was the only way I’d ever get inside his skin?

  Roger slots the limo into a parking space outside the Porters’ Lodge. The very first time I saw Alexander he was doing battle for a parking space – and winning, of course. Alexander always wins at everything, except perhaps this time.

  ‘Do you want a hand with your bags, Miss Cusack?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say firmly. This term, I won’t even waste my time trying to get Roger to call me Lauren. I’ve learned not to waste my time on battles that can’t be won and before he’s even pocketed my tip, I’m out of the door and grabbing my two bags from the trunk. The rest of the mountain of luggage I brought from Washington in October is locked away in the closet in my room.

  ‘Bye, and thanks again. See you at the end of term.’

  I want to laugh at Roger’s face as he reaches the trunk too late to do his duty. ‘Miffed’ is the word Immy might use, but no matter, I’m already on my way towards the Lodge. I’d forgotten quite how spectacular the Jacobean architecture is and the dark-gold stone seems to soak up the sunlight, lifting my mood. When I first arrived here, this place was alien to me but now, while it’s not quite ‘home’, it comes with a familiarity that takes the edge off its austere grandeur.

  As for the people hurrying in and out of the Lodge, wrapped in scarves and padded coats, I recognise most of them by sight and some well enough to say more than ‘Happy New Year’ to. They’re all intent on getting their stuff into college from their parents’ cars, or picking up schedules and mail from the pigeonholes. Everyone looks as if they’re here to work, even if it won’t last beyond First Week, and that makes me more determined to make the most of my final two terms here at Wyckham.

  A few people nod as I schlep my bags around the Front Quad to my staircase and a couple stop briefly to ask if I had a good Christmas vac. My room is under the battlements on the top floor and despite my attempts to stay in shape over the holidays, I’m out of breath by the time I reach the third floor. The landing is silent as I drop my bags outside my door and delve into my jacket pocket for my key.

  ‘Yay!!! You’re back!’

  The door opposite mine is flung open and its occupant leaps on me with a huge hug.

  ‘Hey, I tried t
o keep away but I guess I just couldn’t help myself.’

  Laughing, Immy lets me go just before I pass out from lack of oxygen. I laugh, but to my horror and disgust, find tears pricking the back of my eyes. So I haven’t been here five minutes and I’m about to blub? It’s ridiculous.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘It’s bloody freezing here,’ I joke, making a terrible hash of her English accent.

  ‘Don’t you have snow on the East Coast?’

  ‘Sure we have snow, but generally nothing like New York and the skies are so much clearer at home. Does it have to be so gloomy here?’

  She laughs. ‘We aim to please but I’ve got something to warm you up in my room. You get inside and I’ll be back in a sec.’

  I open my room and wrinkle my nose at the aroma: not coffee nor books but a cocktail of cleaning products. I hear the sound of a kettle being filled in the tiny kitchen at the end of our landing and dump my luggage by the desk. Outside the window, across the quad, the statues of the college founders stare sternly back at me.

  ‘Yuk.’

  I turn to find Immy pulling a face and carrying two mugs, with steam rising from them. ‘My place reeked too. Had to throw open the windows. Shall I undo one of yours while you take your coat off?’

  ‘Great.’

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on my bed cradling a mug of hot chocolate and Bailey’s, Immy’s ‘welcome home’ treat.

  ‘How was your vac? Did you manage to have a good Christmas despite you-know-what?’ She lowers her voice when she refers to the brief conversation we had on Skype over the vacation about my break-up with Alexander. Maybe she thinks I might burst into tears at the mention of him, but she ought to know me better than that. I genuinely have no intention of shedding a single tear more over Alexander.

  ‘The vac was awesome; I hadn’t realized how much I missed my family, even the grandparents, not that I’d tell them of course, and it was so great to catch up with my old college friends from Brown.’ My response, by now, is well-rehearsed and sounds it. I’m not sure it will convince anyone, let alone Immy who has a nose like a bloodhound for bullshit. I blow on my chocolate and steam rises in front of my face. ‘How about you?’