by Pippa Croft
‘How? By letting you get inside my knickers, as you like to put it?’ I say, my voice still edged with cynicism.
‘Well …’ He undoes the last button of my shirt. ‘Yes.’
He circles my navel with his tongue and I suck in a breath as my bared skin dimples with pleasure, despite my misgivings.
‘Alexander, that thing you were doing in the film …’
He shifts his attention back to my face and rests his head on his elbow next to me. ‘The tying-up thing?’
‘Don’t you dare joke.’
‘OK.’ He puts on his serious face. ‘You can’t seriously be bothered by it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re shocked? I don’t recall you looking outraged when I tied you up.’
Does he honestly not understand why I’m upset? Of course he doesn’t; he’s a guy. ‘I’m bothered because you did exactly the same thing to me. It’s made our … thing seem dirty and cheap.’
He looks down at me thoughtfully. ‘It wasn’t cheap but it was dirty. Sex is always dirty, and when it’s other people’s sex, it’s usually disgusting, but you can’t seriously expect me – or Valentina – to lie there fumbling under the bedclothes like some Victorian newlyweds?’
My response is a grunt, because he may have a point but I’m definitely not ready to agree with him on anything.
‘The only thing you need to understand is that I never for a single second thought of anyone but you while I was doing it. The fact that we’d been experimenting in that way before you saw the clip is a horrible coincidence, nothing more, and we don’t have to do anything like it again or anything you don’t enjoy.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ Because, even now, my body tells me how much I enjoyed being tied to his bed and handing over control to him.
‘Then we should do something I’ve never done before,’ he says, in between kisses on my stomach and cleavage.
‘Is there anything?’ I ask sarcastically.
‘Hmm. You’re right. It might be quite difficult to come up with something completely novel.’
‘Alexander!’
‘I’ll think of something.’
I shake my head, unable to laugh because I can’t get the image of him screwing her out of my head. It won’t be driven away so easily, no matter how much he tries to reason or kiss away the hurt and disgust. I slide upwards, out of his embrace.
‘Alexander, why has she done this?’
He looks deep into my eyes. ‘We don’t know “she” has yet, but you can be sure of one thing: it won’t make any difference to us. We mustn’t let it.’
He pushes my arms above my head, capturing my hands in his, and kisses me so deeply and for so long that it’s not until he’s finished that I process what he’s just said. How does he feel about me? I certainly don’t know how I feel about him right now, in this instant. I thought I’d fallen for him until today; I know for sure I fell in lust with him long ago.
Yet the way I’ve reacted this afternoon, the fact that the shock and the possibility of betrayal hit me so hard – that must mean I am in love with him. Otherwise, why would I be so hurt at seeing that video?
‘Are you going to trust me?’ Alexander says softly, his fingers resting on the bottom button of my blouse. ‘Or are you going to let them win?’ His eyes glitter with challenge and desire. ‘You are the only woman in my life, Lauren, and the brightest, most beautiful, most maddening woman I’ve ever known. Please don’t let a spiteful joke ruin everything.’
His hand slips inside my blouse and the roughened palm flattens over my stomach, melting my resolve with its warmth. It’s me who reaches up and guides his head downwards and his mouth on to mine. It’s me who pushes her tongue inside his mouth, needing to feel the heat and texture of him, wanting to be inside him somehow, the way he loves getting inside me.
I am in control here, because I choose to be. I haven’t raced out of my room and run until I drop. I’ve chosen to stay with Alexander and enjoy the moment, because I have him in my bed and Valentina can only watch a film and remember how good he felt.
By the middle of the following week, Immy still hasn’t come up with any answers about the hacked email. The Valentine’s dinner was OK, considering what had happened earlier. The food, as expected, was exquisite and the chef kept discreetly out of the way, but I was so on edge that I only picked at my food. I haven’t watched the clip again but I still haven’t deleted it from my computer. Likewise, I haven’t deleted the seed of doubt from my mind, despite Alexander’s attempts to soothe me with a strategy that seems to involve logic and cunnilingus.
‘ “L’opera d’arte è sempre una confessione.” ’
I glance away from the window to find Rafe peering at me, over his glasses. I’ve been in his tute for forty minutes and suddenly he throws in some Italian. Is he trying to hint at something? Provoke me?
‘That’s the theme we’ll be discussing in the seminar next week. It’s a quote from Umberto Eco, and means “Artwork is always a confession”.’ He smiles. ‘I assume you’ve heard the phrase before or worked that out from your Italian classes.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I do know the quote.’
‘Good. I look forward to hearing your presentation on a work that illustrates that theme. Now, let me throw another quotation at you, one you may also recognize. ‘ “Bisogna fare della propria vita come si fa un’opera d’arte.” ’
‘Gabriele d’Annunzio,’ I say, mentally giving myself a slap. I’m studying art history, the tutors quote Italian all the time; it’s merely a coincidence, not a hint or a clue that Rafe sent the clip. He obviously hasn’t any idea his email was even hacked. ‘One should always live one’s life as though it were a work of art.’
‘Bravo. Your work of art seems somewhat fractured today, Lauren. I know you’ve had a busy and stressful time but I must warn you that the end of term will come upon us sooner than you think and you’ll be getting your take-home exam questions. I assume you won’t be missing any more tutorials or making any more trips away from Oxford before the vac? I’ve overlooked the time you spent at the funeral but technically speaking you shouldn’t leave Oxford during term.’
‘No. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’d planned to stay on a couple of weeks to do some extra research.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. Can you keep your room over the Easter vac? I think we have some conferences.’
‘I’ll be, um … I’ve got somewhere to stay.’
‘Mmm.’ The way he says the ‘mmm’ he must have guessed I plan to stay with Alexander but he hasn’t got the balls to ask me directly because what happens after the end of term is none of his business.
‘Well, I’m delighted to hear you’re going to spend some of the vac, at least, focusing on your work. A missed tutorial may not seem like much but I’m a very busy man and as I’ve said before, there are many students needing my attention. Several have already indicated that they want to stay on and do a DPhil, but obviously a doctorate takes a lot of commitment and dedication. It’s not for everyone.’
‘I understand that.’
He stands up. ‘I’m afraid I have to cut the tutorial slightly short but I think we’ve covered all the important points. If there’s anything you don’t understand or want to discuss before we meet again, email me or call me.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
Relieved to be let out of jail early, I gather up my papers and put them in my laptop bag. Rafe collects my coat from the rack by his door but instead of handing it to me, he keeps hold of it.
‘Oh, there’s one more thing. I may not have mentioned it but I’ve organized a special screening of Il Conformista at the Art House cinema next Sunday morning. I know it’s an odd time but the cinema is doing us a special favour. I presume you can make it?’
Oh fuck. ‘Us? You mean me and you?’
He laughs. ‘That would have been very stimulating for both of us, I’m sure, but alas, n
o. To make it worthwhile, I had to promise to gather at least a dozen people. I did post a notice in the faculty and email you. Have you not received it?’
I might have received anything, I’ve been so caught up in the Valentine’s Day Film Massacre. For a second, I wonder if Rafe is hinting he did actually send it, then I decide I’m being ridiculous. How would he get it? Even if he had a copy, he knows Alexander – and the college authorities – would go nuts if they found out.
‘Um, no, it must have been lost in cyberspace and I hadn’t seen the notice in the faculty.’
‘I noticed your name wasn’t with the others, but if you’re not too busy, I think you’d find the film of great interest. I’ll see you there, shall I?’
So, there are others, and I can’t really refuse and I ought to show I am committed to my course. ‘Sure. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Good.’ He hands me my coat. ‘You know, Lauren; I meant what I said about making your life a work of art. Please, don’t ruin it or waste it. You arrived here with such promise and joie de vivre. It would be a shame to throw that away.’
‘I’ve no intention of wasting a moment,’ I say, stung by the malicious edge to his ‘advice’.
‘No, but be wary. You may want to move on but some people will always try to hold you back. The world never changes for some people; they cling on to tradition and will do anything to maintain the status quo.’
The bastard, he must be referring to Alexander. Who else could he mean?
Steaming inside, I smile sweetly on my way out. ‘Ciao, Professor Rafe.’
I’m supposed to be meeting Immy after my tute but I need a few moments to calm down after this encounter. Rafe has every right to remind me that my focus should be on my work, not my love life, but his mean, manipulative way of doing it is way beyond acceptable. I walk through the cloisters on my way to the JCR, deliberately slowing my pace and my breathing and trying to calm myself. Years ago, these cloisters would have been used for quiet contemplation and study. Maybe some of that vibe will rub off on me.
My heeled boots ring out on the flagstones, which are hollowed with age. It was here that I first met Alexander and I think I knew even then that he was trouble with a capital T. Didn’t stop him blowing my mind, however, with his body and face and his arrogance.
The kitchen staff have started to set up for lunch and the metallic ring of trays and glasses being transported from the kitchens to the Great Hall, next to us, shatters the peace. Before I reach the end of the cloister, my phone pings to tell me I have a text.
Hi. Are you coming to the
USSoc party on Friday?
Hope so, I’m celebrating.
Judging by the row of smiley faces at the end of Scott’s text, I have an idea what he may be hinting at. I text back:
Wow. Yes. Sounds good.
He replies:
Will Alex be with you?
Does that bother you?
As my text flies off into the ether, I try to picture the look on Scott’s face. I’ve reached the quad before I get a response.
You know me.
I love a ménage à trois.
Now I know he knows I was joking but I think I had him hooked on my line for a moment.
You’ll have to make do with me and Immy. X
I slip my phone back in my bag. Alexander would rather wear a pink tutu than share a Fuzzy Navel and a mini-burger with Scott, I’m sure, but I’m really looking forward to it.
Immy is waiting for me outside the JCR and my face must tell a story.
‘Hey, you look like you want to commit a murder. What’s up?’
‘Rafe is such an asshole!’
‘What’s he done now? If he’s touched you, you have to report him, Lauren.’
‘He hasn’t touched me; in fact he hasn’t even used an innuendo. He’s just such a small, mean man under the “big, cool professor” facade. He’s been hinting that I haven’t been pulling my weight and that if I miss any more tutes, he might report me.’
‘He’s a complete shit.’
‘Yes, but the worst thing is, he’s right. I have missed tutes and I haven’t “kept term”, as he calls it, which could get me into trouble. The problem is I can’t decide if he’s threatening me because he’s jealous of Alexander, is trying to blackmail me into sleeping with him or really is concerned for me.’
We walk up the spiral staircase to the upstairs common room. ‘Probably all three. Did he give any hints that he might have sent the clip?’
‘No, I don’t think he has a clue he was hacked. If he had, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been able to resist tormenting me by now. Have Skandar’s friends any ideas?’
‘I’ve asked but everyone’s either ignoring me or been too busy with work. I can’t believe it’s Fifth Week already. Time’s running out.’ She nibbles her lip.
Tell me about it, I think, realizing how fast the past term has flown by. ‘Immy, I’m sorry, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own dramas that I haven’t asked how your work is going …’
‘It’s all right, I suppose. My tutor says that if I work really hard and if the right questions come up on the day, I should get a 2:ii. Whatever, I’ve got to keep my head down for the rest of term.’
‘So you can’t come out at all?’
‘No.’
‘Not even to the USSoc party? I’m sorry, I got a reminder about it the morning I got the sex tape but I’d forgotten all about it. It’s this Friday night.’
‘I might, possibly, be able to sneak out in between essays. If you really, really insist.’
‘I demand your attendance.’
‘OK. What are you wearing?’
‘Stetson, leather chaps and spurs.’
She laughs a second too late.
Chapter Eleven
What I’m actually wearing are Calvin Klein jeans, a silk shell top and spike-heeled Kate Spade boots. Immy’s in a mini, her new Ghost top and ankle boots. She looks knock-out so I sure hope that Scott makes good on his promise to turn up. I’m not sure what Skandar would make of her being in pursuit of Scott, but that’s none of my business.
I told Alexander I was going and he told me to ‘enjoy myself’ and that he was going to stay in to work. I couldn’t work out whether he was being ironic or not but he’s been treading very carefully since the video. The party is being held in the Hall of St Vesey’s College, tucked away off the High, one of the oldest colleges in Oxford. When we walk into the medieval hall, Immy bursts out laughing.
‘Oh my God. It’s fiesta time …’
Indeed it is. The hall is smothered in papel picado, snaking through some of the lower beams and festooned around the lamps on the long tables. High Table is now a tequila bar, and college staff dressed in Mexican costume mill about serving cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Quite a few of the guests are rocking Tex Mex outfits so my Stetson comment wasn’t that far from the truth.
Immy giggles. ‘When does the mariachi band get here?’
‘Behave, Imogen, this set-up must have taken our hostess most of the term to plan.’
Our hostess herself, Maisey Amster, descends on us before we make it six feet into the Hall and while Immy is still feasting on the fiesta-themed decor. ‘Maisey makes Martha Stewart look like a slattern …’ I whisper to Immy.
‘Lauren, hi there!’
‘Hi, Maisey.’
She’s rocking a full Spanish señorita costume. ‘You did know it was a costume party?’
‘Sorry, I forgot.’
‘And I thought you were bringing Lord Falconbury along,’ she says accusingly.
‘Really? No, he’s working. He’s been very busy.’
‘Oh, yes, I heard that his father has passed but I guess it’s cool being marquess.’
‘I don’t think he quite sees it like that …’
‘Will he be taking up his seat in the Lords?’
I dare not even glance at Immy. ‘Like I say, he’s working so I brought a friend along – the invitat
ion did say plus guest. This is Imogen Hawthorne; she’s doing Geography at Wyckham. Immy, meet Maisey Amster, president of the USSoc.’
Maisey manages a smile but I can tell we’re both poor substitutes for Alexander. Especially, maybe, an Alexander in a sombrero … ‘Good to meet you, Immy. Now, Lauren, have you seen Scott around?’
‘So he’s definitely coming?’ Immy is all innocence.
Maisey looks astonished. ‘Of course he is. Why would he miss it? Why don’t you help yourselves to a Sundowner? Or there’s some Shiner Bock; I had to get it shipped specially. Must go, I have to make sure the PA is working.’ With a flick of her fan, she flounces off.
‘What the hell is Shiner Bock?’ whispers Immy.
‘A type of beer, I think.’
We check out the guests and Immy is nibbling on a canapé when I hear a ‘Guess who?’ behind me and turn to find Scott.
‘Hi, guys.’
He kisses me – on the cheek this time – and says, ‘Howdy, Imogen,’ while she’s otherwise occupied with a mouthful of taco. He’s ditched the Blues tracksuit for jeans, a checked shirt and steel-tipped Western boots, which I suspect are an ironic touch but work well with his six-and-a-half-foot frame. I guess he’d probably look good in a trash-can liner.
Immy’s eyes are popping. Poor Skandar …
‘Go on, then, tell me your news, though I think I can tell by the entirely justifiable smug grin on your face,’ I say.
‘If you’ve heard already, why should I share it?’
‘Because you want to tell me and I would love to hear you say it.’
‘You are looking at one of the Blues squad rowers.’
I hug him. ‘That’s awesome! I knew you’d do it, but congratulations.’
‘It’s incredible. I mean, perfectly credible because you’re very fit, obviously, but still it’s awesome.’ As Immy finally gets a word in, Scott’s grin gets even wider until I worry his face might break apart.