The Choice

by Monica Belle

  She was right, in that my achievements at the Chamber alone would stand me in good stead for a job with pretty much any company I showed an interest in, ensuring a good salary in a secure career, barring total economic collapse. It was certainly tempting, and would mean I could abandon all, or nearly all, of the pretence and deceit I was coming to hate so much. Yet the more I considered the idea the stronger the image of Dad’s face set in disappointment grew. Anger I could have handled, but that wasn’t his way. Disappointment was another matter.

  Violet had told me a little more as we lay in bed together in the dark about how her parents had found out first about her love of being spanked and later about what she did with James. Just to listen to her made me feel cold inside, and I was sure I’d never have the courage to admit to it, or to defend myself if I was caught out. Admitting to an affair with another girl would be bad enough, but the thought of their reaction on learning that I’d come to enjoy being turned over the knee to have my bottom smacked was intolerable.

  I couldn’t put it from my mind, making it hard to revise, and I eventually gave up and went over to the Chamber. Unlike me, Giles had opposition to his bid for re-election, and quite strong opposition. His choice of controversial debates and speakers had generated a lot of interest and also criticism, so that everybody had their own opinion. I was in two minds myself, impressed by his dedication to free speech but far from impressed by his submission to his uncle, although with my own recent thoughts I was wondering if that made me a hypocrite.

  Either way, I had decided on the game to play, voicing limited approval for him so as to retain as broad a base of support for myself as possible. His opponent was centre left, which was going to make for a tougher fight than the term before, but his absolute certainty in a narrow band of political convictions had limited his popularity and I was fairly sure Giles would emerge victorious. Another term’s worth of speakers with extreme views and debates that drew pickets to our gates more often than not and I would be ready to stand myself, assuming I could pass prelims. Fail, and I was out of Oxford, in which case I might as well go and indulge myself in Violet’s fantasy of the night before, selling myself in the Bois de Boulogne for ten Euros a suck.

  Tonight was the night of our double date; the four of us were supposed to be meeting in Mary’s lodge at six o’clock and then going on to Browns, but with Sir Randolph now one of the party everything had changed. Giles met me and we walked across to the Fellows’ car park, where Stephen, Lucy and his uncle were standing beside a glossy black Bentley. Stephen seemed blissfully unaware that there was anything wrong between us, and greeted me with a kiss, which gave me little option but to accept the same from Sir Randolph, but on my cheek. The old boy was beaming as he addressed me.

  ‘Giles tells me you’re taking up my offer of summer work? That’s splendid.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. You’ll brighten the place up. Term finishes on the twentieth, or so Giles tells me, so have the weekend with your parents, then up to London and we’ll get down to business.’

  If the lecherous twinkle in his eye was anything to go by I could guess the sort of business he was hoping for. By the look of it I was going to have to spend more of my summer defending my virtue than surrendering it, but I had to have some fun.

  ‘Late July is difficult, I’m afraid, but otherwise that’s fine.’

  He gave a little tut and a shake of his head. ‘Commitment, my dear, is very important.’

  Giles broke in. ‘Of course she’ll rearrange her dates, Uncle. Shall we move on then?’

  We did, out of Oxford and away to the south. Giles was driving, and obviously knew where he was going, quickly leaving the main road to thread his way through a series of lanes so tiny and cut so deep that I might almost have been back home. When he finally stopped we were high on the downs, overlooking a broad flat valley, with the distant spires of Oxford glinting red in the setting sun, a scene spoiled only by a set of colossal grey cooling towers in the middle distance. Giles stretched as he got out.

  ‘The Vale of White Horse, in case you didn’t know. Magnificent, isn’t it, barring Didcot.’

  I wondered if he’d merely stopped to admire the view before going on to the restaurant, but he locked the car and started towards what appeared to be a farm. There were no other buildings close by, just open downland in front and a single set of chimneys rising above the hedges and woods behind us.

  Stephen took my arm. ‘This is a wonderful place. It’s called The Barn.’

  ‘That fits. Have you been before?’

  ‘It’s owned by the parents of a chap who was at school with us, just opened. We tried it out last Sunday. You’ll love it.’

  Only as we rounded the corner of a great flint and brick barn did I realise what was going on. It was a working farm, after a fashion, but the yard was scrubbed clean and the buildings had obviously been smartened up. There was a shop to one side, advertising organic produce and with two tables set out beneath big yellow sunshades in front. The barn itself had been converted into a restaurant, with smart glass doors and long tables covered by white linen cloths and cutlery and glassware set out ready for diners. Only three other people were there, a middle-aged couple with an elderly friend or relative, all three intent on their menus.

  Giles glanced around, nodding in satisfaction. ‘Perfect, isn’t it? Very discreet.’

  The word ‘discreet’ sparked a warning in my mind, but I quickly decided I was being silly. With the other guests there, and presumably staff, it was hard to imagine what he could be planning, while in any event he was hardly going to suggest that Lucy and I service the three of them under the table.

  He didn’t, nor anything else unexpected or rude. The only embarrassing moment came when Sir Randolph had drunk rather too much and began to grow maudlin, advising the four of us to get married and start producing children as soon as possible. Giles was merely amused, but the look of worship in Lucy’s eyes as she looked up at him made me fairly sure she’d have accepted a proposal like a shot. Stephen didn’t react at all.

  The restaurant was good, serving only the farm’s own produce and that of their neighbours, even down to English wine, which caused a mutter of complaint from Sir Randolph. Unfortunately, aside from a chef who we never saw, there were only two people about, Giles and Stephen’s old school friend, Nigel, and a girl from the village. As the place started to fill up the service grew slower and slower, so that it was nearly midnight by the time we’d finished. Giles had held back on the drink, but kept it flowing for the rest of us, so I was feeling more than a little tipsy as we climbed back into the car.

  Stephen was next to me, and put his arm around my shoulder as soon as we got in. I didn’t resist, unready to work out my muddled feelings and definitely not prepared to discuss them with Giles in earshot, let alone his uncle. Lucy had definitely had too much, and was soon asleep, her head knocking gently on the window as Giles navigated the twists and turns of the Berkshire lanes. She was still asleep when we got to Oxford, and Giles was supporting her as he left us to escort his uncle to a guest room.

  I was left with Stephen, who was unusually silent, but took my hand as we left Mary’s. By then it was gone one, the streets were all but empty and I was feeling tired with a busy day ahead, which seemed a more than reasonable excuse to ask him to walk me back to Boniface instead of taking me to bed. I gave a meaningful yawn.

  ‘That was lovely, but the service was so slow. I’m tired.’

  He didn’t answer, but let go of my hand and slipped his arm around my waist. I thought of the six still vivid welts marking my bottom, and to all intents and purposes marking me as James’ girl. Bed really was out of the question. A bit of casual conversation seemed in order, hopefully heading off any rude suggestions.

  ‘Are you going to the Mary’s garden party on Saturday?’

  ‘No, I can’t actually.’

  He sounded oddly sheepish, rousing my
curiosity.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Um … it’s the Hawkubites dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I wasn’t really bothered, having largely abandoned my outrage at their childish behaviour, while it meant I’d been able to spend as much of the weekend as I could afford to sacrifice from revision with James and Violet. We’d reached the bottom of Queen’s Lane, and he made to steer me up it towards Emmanuel rather than along the High. I resisted.

  ‘I’m too tired, Stephen. Just take me back to college.’

  ‘Oh … please, Poppy. There’s something important I need to say to you.’

  ‘Can’t you say it here?’

  ‘Not really, no. It’s nothing bad. I just wanted to be somewhere special.’

  He was almost pleading, and an awful suspicion had begun to creep up on me. I tried to make a joke of it. ‘Special? As in your room in Emmanuel?’

  ‘A lot’s happened there. It’s special for us, isn’t it?’

  Now he was defensive, making me feel guilty as well as agitated. I wanted to get away, but I felt awful for my own reaction, now sure what he was going to say. We began to walk up the lane, slowly, only for him to come to an abrupt halt.

  ‘No, you’re right, and we can always come back here.’

  I’d stopped too, not knowing what to say, both of us silent, standing still with the moonlight flooding down across the Bridge of Sighs to stretch weak shadows along the ground. Never had the name been more apt, and I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat as he reached into his pocket.

  ‘Stephen, I …’

  He’d gone down on one knee and was holding up a small black box. As he opened the lid I was struggling to find words; to tell him I knew what he did with Giles, that I was no better myself, that I was in love with somebody else, anything to make him stop, but no words would come. I’d begun to cry as I saw the ring, a narrow band of white gold supporting a diamond alight with reflections from the moon and a distant street lamp.

  At last he spoke. ‘Poppy Miller, please will you be my wife?’

  Still I couldn’t answer, unable to accept him, desperate for the words that would deny him without causing hurt but knowing it was impossible. I wanted to run, for the earth to swallow me up, anything to put off the moment I had to answer, but he quickly spoke again.

  ‘Please, Poppy. I promise to be everything to you, everything you need.’

  He took my hand and pushed the ring down onto my finger.

  17

  I WAS ENGAGED, or not as the case might be. Everybody certainly thought I was engaged, because Stephen was anything but reticent about it and the news spread like wildfire among the rowers and, via Giles, around the Chamber. I’d barely finished my panic-stricken attempt at explanation to Violet before people were knocking on my door wanting to congratulate me, and when I came into the Chamber for the debate that evening a huge banner had been strung across the main chamber, with ‘Congratulations Poppaea and Stephen’ written across it in brilliant-red letters two feet high. Aside from my parents when I’d done something really appalling, only Giles ever used my full name, so I knew he was behind it, and sure enough he emerged grinning from the crowd as I stood there with my mouth open.

  ‘Congratulations! I told him you’d go for it.’

  ‘You knew he was going to propose?’

  ‘Of course. He always asks my advice, young Mitchell, and I’m to be best man, naturally.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  He laughed and clapped me on the back, then made for his place to call the debate to order. I’d been revising in the Bodleian, or rather hiding, and was late, while it was the final debate of his programme as President, so it was already standing room only and I was glad of the seat reserved for me as Recorder. He’d been clever, setting a debate entitled ‘This House believes that the University of Oxford should return to full independence’, which ensured plenty of robust debate while forcing his opponent for the Presidency to toe the Government line and therefore make himself highly unpopular.

  I watched with interest, and once the vote had come in with an overwhelming majority in favour of the motion I was sure he’d be re-elected by a safe margin. James had attended, as he often did, but not Violet, and as soon as I’d completed my official work I went over to where he was talking to a group of students, eager to see him and hopefully to explain the situation.

  One of the others spoke up as I approached. ‘Poppy, congratulations! That’s wonderful news, and quite a debate tonight, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and trust Giles to use it to his own advantage.’

  ‘That’s Giles for you, but it’s likely to be you against him next term, isn’t it?’

  ‘Possibly. We’ll see. Hello, James.’

  He gave me a bold smile but no more. For a while we talked as a group, while I kept a nervous eye out for Stephen, still completely at a loss as to what to say to him. Only the pretence of exhaustion had allowed me to get away the night before, and I couldn’t hide forever. Fortunately he didn’t seem to be about, and Giles was nowhere to be seen either, leaving me safe to ask James a cheeky question.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a lift?’

  None of the people with us knew I lived in, but he did and was fully aware that I was suggesting he take me home.

  His answering smile was all innocence. ‘Yes, if you like, as long as you’re happy to go now. I really need to get back.’

  ‘Of course. Excuse me.’

  We left, navigating our way across the crowded floor and out of the debating chamber. It was a warm night and there were plenty of people in the garden, including Giles, who was holding court to one of the guest speakers and a dozen others. He didn’t seem to notice me and we were soon clear of the gate and starting up Cornmarket towards where he’d parked his car.

  I felt as if I’d made some daring escape, and couldn’t resist taking his hand once we’d reached quieter streets. He returned the pressure briefly, then let go to take his mobile from his pocket and call Violet. We collected her and made for his house, the three of us talking eagerly about our plans for the summer until we arrived.

  It seemed so natural, as if the relationship between the three of us was no more unusual than any other. When we got to James’ house he made us a supper of salad and cold ham, while Violet opened a bottle of wine. We ate and drank, joking among ourselves, and after a while we began to kiss and to touch. Violet and I took turns across James’ lap, first with our clothing disarranged and then naked, until our bottoms were hot and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, or him. We went down together for him, kneeling side by side as we sucked and licked at his cock and balls, taking him all the way before tumbling together on the carpet, head to tail as we brought each other to ecstasy.

  Satisfied, we showered and went to bed, with James in the middle and the alarm clock set for seven-thirty so that I could be up in plenty of time for the first day of prelims in the morning. Only as I was on the very edge of sleep was my contentment broken, giving way to guilt and worry as the moonlight caught the facets of my engagement ring where it lay on James’ bedside table.

  My plans for an early start the next day didn’t go quite as I had intended. The alarm clock went off on time and I got up, but so did James, who insisted on cooking me bacon and eggs for breakfast before driving me in, with Violet still asleep in bed. He dropped me as close to Boniface as he could get without being sucked into the worst part of the one-way system, where I kissed him and said goodbye.

  The rest of the day was swallowed up, first by philosophy, by far my weakest subject, and then politics, by far my strongest and Dr Etheridge’s own speciality. I came out feeling weak and badly in need of a drink, but also triumphant. Both my moral and general philosophy sections had contained questions I’d been reading up on only the day before, while the politics question on the distinction between different branches of socialism in the late nineteenth century related directly to at least three of my essays th
at term. Barring a complete disaster in my economics exam I was sure to be through.

  That left the weekend clear, and I wondered if I should go and see Stephen and attempt to sort out the mess of our supposed engagement, either immediately or in the morning before beating a retreat to the safety and comfort of James’ house. I was expected back, with hints of a trip to the woods on the Sunday, while as my cane welts had gradually faded my desire for more had risen. To really enjoy it I’d need a clear conscience, which was impossible to achieve with Stephen’s diamond winking meaningfully on my finger.

  I steeled myself to do it, all the things that needed to be said running through my mind as I made for Emmanuel, only to discover that he wasn’t there, which left me feeling somewhat foolish. The big magnolia outside his block provided the perfect place to sit and wait, with its low branches and broad leaves to shade me from the sun. It also meant I couldn’t be seen at all easily, for which I was extremely grateful when Stephen finally appeared, with Giles and Lucy. She had a blue velvet gown hung over one arm, still encased in plastic from the dry cleaners.

  They were deep in conversation, and I stayed as I was until they’d disappeared inside his block. It was obviously impossible to have anything in the way of a meaningful conversation with Stephen while other people were around, and I was about to leave when they came out again. I was just in time to nip back into the shelter of the tree, and as they made their way through the arch into the main quad I saw that Stephen was holding what looked like car keys.

  I had already realised that Giles intended to hire the farmhouse restaurant we’d visited as the venue for the Hawkubites dinner, but a new suspicion began to dawn on me. It wasn’t at all the sort of place they generally used. Les Couleurs was more typical, for all that they were firmly banned. The Barn wasn’t exceptionally expensive, and didn’t even do French wine, or cigars, or cognac, while aside from the tables and possibly the big glass doors it was going to be hard to trash without industrial machinery. However, it was as remote as anywhere in southern England and belonged to people he knew. When we’d been there he and his friend Nigel had spent a long time in private conversation, while there had been a board announcing that it could be booked for private functions. Also, Giles was the one with the car, a two-seater, but Stephen was the one holding car keys, which suggested they’d hired a bigger vehicle. Finally there was Lucy’s newly cleaned evening gown. They were planning to gang-bang her.