The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (2 page)

‘Officially? That would be a serious breach of college health and safety rules. Unofficially, oh yes, but don’t let anyone catch you doing it or you could get sent down. Fire hazard, you see. So you like your room?’ she asks.

I swing round. ‘I love it.’

From Immy’s indulgent expression, I get the feeling she thinks I’m easily pleased. It may be de rigeur for her to live in a place that was built four hundred years ago and where some of the world’s most famous art
treasures and architecture are only hours away; for me, it’s the fulfilment of an ambition. Sure, I’ve been to France and Italy with my parents before, and to London a couple of times on vacation, but actually living here in Oxford for a year, on my own, is a whole new ball game. If I want to, I can jump on a train or a plane and be in the Louvre or the Uffizi or the Rijksmuseum all within a couple of hours, with no one to answer to or have to tag along with.

However, I’m not sure Immy would ever understand the battle I’ve had to get here and how much it means to me.

She throws open a set of double louvre doors, revealing a dimly lit closet. ‘You’ve got a washbasin and wardrobes in here …’ There’s a knowing sort of smile on her face as she turns back to me ‘… though I don’t think they’ll be enough for all your clothes.’

This, I can’t deny. ‘Guess I’ll have to get a storage unit … Um … where’s the bathroom?’

Immy beams. ‘Oh, you’re in luck there. There’s a loo right at the end of our landing.’

In luck?
‘Just a loo?’ The word sounds weird in my accent, but I suppose I’d better get used to it.

‘ ’Fraid so. All the showers and baths are in the basement.’

‘You mean four floors down? I thought most of the colleges have ensuites these days.’

‘Most of them do, and most of Wyckham does, but that’s the price you pay for having a room in the Front Quad. College hasn’t got round to doing them yet and
there’s no use me pretending they’re anything but rank. Marlborough was a palace compared to this.’

OK. Reality check. Wyckham may have some of the ‘finest Jacobean architecture’ in England, an ‘incisive’ History of Art tutor and one of the ‘liveliest’ graduate communities in Oxford, but the thought of heading down to some dungeon in my robe to take a shower is not appealing or romantic. Then again, they surely can’t be worse than some of the bathrooms I’ve survived on summer camps.

‘I guess I’ll manage somehow,’ I reassure Immy, who looks genuinely concerned for me or maybe already has me marked down as a pampered East Coast princess.

‘Skanky bathrooms are one of the delights of college life, along with many others like essay crises, exams and tutors who think you’re an airhead. But you’re probably ultra-conscientious and naturally brilliant so you won’t have to worry about that.’

Conscientious? Yes, who wouldn’t be? Naturally brilliant? No. I had to work like crazy to get my
summa cum laude
at Brown and I already suspect this course will take everything I can give it and then some. ‘To be honest, I’m expecting the course to be pretty demanding.’

‘I bet it won’t be that bad …’ Immy heaves in a sigh. ‘I got put on academic probation last term because I failed a second-year paper, but they’ve given me another chance. If I do OK in the Collection, I can carry on with my final year.’

She sounds breezy enough, but I suspect she’s putting on a brave face and I feel sorry for her. Maybe my
earlier guess about her being nervous was right. ‘Sounds like a whole heap of pressure.’

‘It’s my own stupid fault. I’ve been too busy enjoying myself to settle down to work. That’s the trouble with Oxford, Lauren. There’s so many things to do here that are so much more fun than working that it’s easy to get distracted. And, um … I think there will be plenty of people hoping to distract you.’

The wry smile on her face says she means guys. The image of the Range Rover guy slides into my head again and I wince inwardly. ‘Trust me, I won’t get distracted. I want to focus on my master’s and then I want to work in an art auctioneers like Sotheby’s or Christie’s in New York. This is my big chance.’

Immediately I realize I’ve committed that American sin: being earnest and enthusiastic. ‘But I can maybe fit in the odd party around my trips to the library.’

Immy gives a tight smile. ‘Great. As for work, I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do with a crappy second in Geography and that’s if I make it to actual Finals.’ Biting her lip, she picks up my racket bag. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

‘Be my guest. Do you play, then?’

‘I can get the odd ball back on a good day.’ She unzips the bag and peers inside. ‘Oh my God. Are these what I think they are?’

‘An ounce of crack cocaine and an automatic weapon? Yes, I got away with it this time.’ I try a joke because I’m a little awkward about what she might find in my bags, not that there’s anything illegal, but I can guess her reaction.

She pulls out my favourite Head MX Pro and the custom-strung Wilson that Todd insisted on getting for me last summer, telling me it would improve my power and spin, even though I told him it was all wrong for my game and would give me tennis elbow. Immy strokes the handle of the Wilson. ‘Wow. This is serious kit. You
have
to join the college tennis team.’

‘Thanks. But I’m probably not as good as the rackets might lead you to believe.’

She attempts a forehand, which is some feat in a room this size. ‘Oh, I only play to check out the fit men.’

Seeing that classic grip and technique, I don’t believe her and I’m tempted to admit I only play so I can wear the outfits, but, being British, she might think I’m joking. However, finding out Immy is a tennis fan like me shoots her up another notch in my estimation.

‘I’d love a game if the weather holds, but, to tell the truth, I like dancing even more,’ I say.

‘Dancing? There are a few clubs in Oxford, but they’re not up to much. You’ll have to go to London for a really good night out. Fabric’s cool, though Rupert loathes it …’ She says it without looking at me, still distracted by the Wilson. So there’s a Rupert as well as a Freddie? Immy seems popular and I can see why. She has that classic English Rose look: kind of Bond girl meets the St Trinian’s movies.

‘I didn’t mean clubs. I mean I
do
like clubbing, but what I really love is classical dance. I did ballet at home in the States.’

Immy’s face crinkles with amusement. ‘So did I. For
about five minutes. My ballet teacher said I was like a pony in a tutu so Mum gave in and bought me one. A pony, that is.’

Picturing her in a tutu brings a smile to my face. ‘Is there a good dance studio in Oxford?’

‘Bound to be and we’re only an hour from Covent Garden if you want to go and see the real thing.’

‘I would
love
to. We didn’t have time when we came over to London last year and seeing the Royal Ballet is top of my to-do list while I’m here.’

Immy finally lays the racket down on top of the bed. I’ve hardly used it and when I know her better I might let her try it out. After all, Todd will never find out now and, anyway, he can go to hell if he does.

‘Um. You’re not related to John Cusack, are you?’ she asks out of the blue.

I smile. I’ve had this one before. ‘Sorry, unfortunately not.’

Immy shrugs. ‘Well, it was worth a try.’

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, Yes, but my dad is a little bit famous in his own way and I have actually met John Cusack at a fundraiser for a kids’ cancer charity that was hosted by my mother. And Michele Obama was guest of honour and Hillary Clinton dropped by. But I don’t say any of that stuff because I genuinely don’t like name-dropping and I don’t want to play the Pushy Yank on my first day.

Being reminded of my parents makes my stomach twinge with guilt because I haven’t called them yet. My cell phone has been switched off since I boarded at
Dulles and I really should have phoned as soon as I landed at Heathrow, but locating my bags took up all my time, then looking out for Roger … In the midst of angsting about it, a huge yawn takes me by surprise.

‘Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep on the flight.’

Immy pulls a face. ‘Poor thing, you look knackered. Um, that is you look great considering you got off a plane a few hours ago, but I bet you’d love some time to unpack.’

‘I ought to freshen up before dinner.’ My palm itches. I
really
need to phone my parents. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven, but everyone starts meeting outside at about ten to. Do you want me to call for you on my way to collect Freddie?’

‘That would be perfect, but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your friend.’

She waves a hand dismissively. ‘Freddie won’t care and I can see him any time. Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen, I say. What about if I pop round at quarter to seven?’

‘If you’re sure.’

Immy smiles. ‘I am. Now I
absolutely
have to do some revision for this Collection on Monday and, please, if you see me getting too lashed at dinner, feel free to stop me, won’t you? I don’t want a hangover the size of Wales in the morning.’

Immy says, ‘Ciao,’ as she skips out of my room and across the hall to her own. The moment my door shuts, I could slap myself round the head. Damn, I forgot to ask her the most important thing: what on earth is the dress code for tonight’s ‘Formal Hall’?

It’s six fifty and we’re rammed into the vestibule outside the hall, the buzz and sense of anticipation building by the minute as if everyone’s waiting for aliens to materialize. Immy has gone to speak to Freddie and I’m on my own – apart from two hundred others that is, all of whom seem to know each other. I can hardly hear myself think for the noise of air-kissing and laughter – some of which reminds me of mules braying. My nose wrinkles, the combo of fragrance and cooking smells making me feel faintly nauseous.

After Immy went, I called home and got Dad before he left for the office. ‘So I don’t have to get the embassy to get you out of a British jail yet,’ he’d joked. Hearing my mother’s gasp in the background, I’d laughed. ‘No, Daddy, not yet …’

I tug my finger from the strand of hair I’m twirling. I tend to do it when I’m nervous and Todd said it drove him insane. Then again, he said that a lot of things about me drove him insane. Do you know he actually sent me a memo listing all the things he thought were wrong about me? And that was
before
we broke up. Now, just the thought of it makes my stomach clench, even though there’s four thousand miles between us. The split with Todd is one of the reasons I’m so glad
my application to Wyckham was accepted. The day I’d got the email from Professor Rafe saying he was ‘very impressed’ by my college report and essays, was just about the happiest of my life.

I smooth a non-existent crease from my dress. In the end I’d solved the what-to-wear dilemma by hanging up four outfits off the doors. I did my hair and make-up, put on a robe and kind of hovered by the window, hoping to get a look at some early birds on their way to the Great Hall. A few people went past en route to the bar, I think, just enough to let me see the code was kind of cocktail meets quirk. The guys were in suits or jackets and the type of pants that my mother insists on calling ‘dress slacks’.

I left getting changed as long as I dared and was applying a coat of lipgloss when Immy rapped on the door. She’s making her way through the crowd to me now, rocking a shabby-chic look that I envy but could never pull off.

‘Hi there. Sorry about that. I’d hoped to find Freddie but he’s late as usual.’

Her pale-green printed shift really makes the most of her curves and her hair is piled on her head in that ‘just fell outta bed’ way the guys love. After checking out the girls in the quad, I decided to go for one of those artfully messy low ponytails that I hope looks sophisticated but not too ‘done’.

‘Is this OK?’ I whisper, glancing down at my claret dress. ‘Only I could be imagining it, but some people keep looking at me.’

Immy breaks out the megawatt grin. ‘The guys are probably staring because they want to shag you; the girls and the gay men will be lusting after your dress. Is that a Donna Karan?’

‘Uh-huh.’

She blows out a breath. ‘I love the colour. It’s fabulous.’

Although I appreciate the compliment, I half wish I’d chosen something with sleeves rather than this cold-shoulder design with the cut-outs. ‘Thanks. Is yours vintage?’

A delighted smile lights up her eyes. ‘Well spotted. It’s one of Granny’s better gifts. She wore it when my grandfather proposed to her at the Ritz and she let me have it on my eighteenth.’

‘I think the print is beautiful and the pearls are perfect with it.’

Immy touches the white beads at her throat. ‘These are Granny’s too. I do have new knickers on, though, as it’s the start of term.’

Now it’s my turn to laugh as the tension eases a little, but there’s no time to relax because the grand doors to the hall open and I’m literally swept inside with the crowd. My jaw drops yet again. The hall is huge and lit by candles, with a high roof supported by oak trusses. Stained-glass windows with coats of arms line the walls and there’s a massive painting at one end that looks like a Reubens to me, but has to be a copy or after his style. There’s no way an original would be left on display without security.

‘Quick, let’s get a table near the fire.’

Great idea, I think, as my fingers begin to turn blue.
We hurry along the aisle between the tables, past the huge stone hearth where a group of College Fellows huddles, dressed in their academic gowns.

‘Oh, look, there’s Freddie and Rupert. Now you can meet them.’

Immy throws her arms round a guy who’s so tall he has to stoop to accept her kiss, and when she’s planted one on his lips, he seems amazed at the attention. He sticks out a hand awkwardly towards me.

‘I’m Freddie.’ He turns red to the roots of his hair.

‘Lauren,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

‘Now, where’s Rupes got to? Rupes! Rupes! Come here!’

A well-built guy in a tweed jacket detaches himself from a group and saunters over.

‘Hawthorne. How the fuck are you? How was your vac? His voice is lazy and upper-class, like Alan Rickman in
Sense & Sensibility
.

‘Not too bad I suppose. I spent most of it hanging out in Rock until Daddy dragged me home to do some work. What about you?’

‘Ibiza mostly, shame you never made it over – I’m setting up a club there.’ He rakes a hand through a sandy thatch of hair. I guess he’s kind of good-looking, maybe like I imagine a young Doctor House to be, but with more charm.

He narrows his eyes as he finally spots me and looks me up and down from top to toe. Why do I get the feeling I’m being sized up like a polo pony?

‘Who is
this
?’

Immy grabs my arm. ‘Lauren Cusack. New master’s student. Her room is on my staircase.’

‘Hello, Lauren. I’m Rupert de Courcey.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Good to meet you, Rupert.’

He raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘You’re American.’

I grit my teeth as he grips my hand. Why do some guys think that mashing a girl’s bones signals they have a big dick? I resist the urge to rub my mangled fingers and flash him a smile. ‘Yes, so it seems.’

‘Excellent.’ His eyes light up like he’s scented a fox, but he stands back so that I can take my seat on the bench first. ‘Be careful how you get your leg over,’ he says.

Everyone around me sniggers and I roll my eyes. It’s not easy lifting my leg elegantly over the bench seat, but I manage and he slides in beside me, the tweed of his jacket scratchy against my bare flesh. Wow. That cologne is powerful. I’d really prefer not to have him as my neighbour, but there’s no way I can wriggle out now and he’s Immy’s friend so he can’t be so bad.

The buzz in the hall quietens and one of the Fellows calls out something unintelligible in Latin.

‘Grace,’ Rupert hisses in my ear.

‘Thanks, I worked that one out.’

‘Clever girl. Now, let’s get stuck into the wine.’

Grace being done, the hall erupts with the noise of glasses clinking and plates clattering. The waiting staff carries in the first course, smoked salmon with a salad. I ought to be starving after my flight, but I’m too excited to eat much. Immy picks at her fish too, but Rupert has
demolished his portion and has moved on to her leftovers. Her eyes sparkle as she chatters away, obviously in her element among her gang of friends, both guys and girls. I’m used to striking up conversations with all manner of people on social occasions, but this grand hall, the accents and the sheer confidence of almost everyone around me, have foxed me a little.

Immy picks up the Sauvignon bottle and turns to Rupert. ‘Where’s Alexander? I thought he was coming to the welcome dinner.’

‘I could tell you but then he’d probably have to kill me. Fuck knows.’ Rupert refills his own glass with claret. ‘Maybe he’s at some spooks bonding session or shagging Valentina.’

‘Really? I thought they split up ages ago!’

‘So he says, but who knows with Alexander and, frankly, who cares?’

‘Now, now, Rupert, I thought you were friends.’

‘We are, but all’s fair in love and war, isn’t it, Lauren?’

All this gossip has flown way over my head and before I can get in a reply Rupert winks and carries on. ‘What kind of a name is Cusack anyway? Sounds Irish to me.’

‘My dad’s grandfather was from County Cork.’

‘So you’ll be visiting the old country while you’re over here.’ The smirk tells me he’s no true fan of the Emerald Isle and I imagine Dad’s face.

‘I’ve no plans to.’ Keep it polite, Lauren.

‘Good, I’d hate you to be away from Oxford for long.’ He holds up the bottle of red. ‘More wine?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

Before I can put my hand over the top of my glass, Rupert sloshes claret into it, spilling some on the table. ‘You’ve only had a sip. Fuck, I hope you’re not going to be one of those puritanical Americans who thinks it’s a sin to let alcohol – or anything else remotely enjoyable – get past your lips.’

Freddie grins from opposite us. ‘Rupert will cure you, even if you are.’

Immy reaches across me to swat Rupert’s arm. ‘Don’t be such a prat, Rupert. Lauren, ignore him.’

‘I’m trying,’ I say, summoning up a smile.

‘So is Rupert.’ Immy holds up her glass and giggles. ‘I’ll have some more of the white please, Rupes.’

Despite Immy’s efforts, it’s obviously American-baiting season, and the barbs continue throughout dinner. No, I’m not ‘packing heat’, I don’t have a shrink and I’m not hoping to ‘pull’ Prince Harry while I’m here. Well, my mother secretly hopes I will, but that’s her problem and I’m certainly not letting that out.

The waiting staff have brought platters of cheese and more bottles. That’s four courses and I’ve lost count of the bottles of booze. If this is going to happen every night, I am going to
have
to go for a run tomorrow and I’ll take up Immy’s offer of a game of tennis. Is it too much to hope there’s a decent health-food store nearby?

I was prepared for the Brit humour and ready to take everything with a hefty pinch of salt, but I can’t help thinking I’d rather be washing dishes in the kitchen than spending time with some of these people. I guess
I’ll get used to it, after all I survived a sorority house at Brown, but some of the baiting has a sharp edge to it. Everyone seems fair game and especially me.

Rupert glares at the waiter as he places a bottle on the table. ‘Ah, the port. About bloody time too!’

I see the waiter’s lip curl in contempt but Rupert either hasn’t noticed or is too drunk to care, and is it me, or has he moved closer? His voice is slurred as he speaks and he shifts his butt even closer to mine. ‘Did anyone ever tell you have a fantastic set of … teeth?’

‘Not often.’ My tone is icy but Rupert seems immune.

‘Bet you’d love to see my stately pile. It’s huge,’ he says, raising his voice loud enough for his friends to hear. Roars of laughter ring round the table, but Immy stares at her hands. I get the feeling she’d like to slap him down but doesn’t want to take sides.

I smile sweetly. ‘It’s probably not as impressive as you think it is.’

‘Oh, mia-oww. Laurel has claws.’ He paws the air and growls.

‘It’s Lauren.’

He leans close to my ear and whispers. ‘Whatever. I’d love to feel those claws in my back.’

As I suppress a shudder, Immy chirps up, clearly trying to change the subject. ‘Lauren’s from Washington you know.’

It’s a nice try but Rupert’s straight back in there. ‘And do you know the president personally, Laurel?’

I lay my napkin on the table and treat him to my sweetest smile. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

So that’s how you silence a table full of braying toffs in one second flat, but I almost wish I hadn’t because, a, it’s not quite true and, b, this is the kind of bragging I despise.

Immy’s eyes are as wide as saucers. ‘Oh. My. God. You mean you
really
know Obama?’

Warmth rises to my cheeks and I’m half wishing I hadn’t gone down this route, but Rupes did ask for it. ‘Well … my father does. He’s a Democrat senator and my mother and I have met the president a couple of times.’

‘What’s your father’s name?’ a tiny little guy opposite pipes up. I think Immy said he was a cox for the rowing Eight.

‘Bill Cusack. I don’t expect you’ll have heard of him.’

The cox beams. ‘I certainly have. I’m doing PPE,’ he says proudly. I have no clue what PPE is but I sense an ally. ‘He supported Obama’s latest gun-control bill,’ he adds as the others stare at us. ‘And he’s a massive advocate of Obamacare.’

I reach out to my new ally with a smile. ‘That’s my father.’

‘You didn’t say your dad was a politician,’ Immy whispers.

‘Well, it can be a conversation stopper.’

‘I think it’s really cool – and you’ve managed to shut Rupes up. Well done. He’s not that bad, you know, not all the time. And I think you’ve made an impression with him.’

Right now, I’d like to make an impression with my foot on Rupes’ butt, but Immy’s right about one thing:
he’s gone quiet, which has given him more opportunity to drain the bottle of port. Finally, as the conversation moves on to what people did in the vac, I feel the tension in my muscles ease and hope I might get through the evening after all. Immy persuades me to try a glass of port and I rather like it. Kind of sweet yet tart, like cherry pie.

What the …?

Rupert’s hand is on my knee. My skin crawls and nausea rises in my throat as his clammy fingers slide up my thigh. Then I feel his breath against my ear. ‘I may have died and gone to heaven. A Yank who’s beautiful, bright
and
well-connected, even if it is to a Democrat dynasty. You’re a triple threat, Laurel.’

He belches and the alcohol fumes almost knock me out. I try to edge away, but we’re so packed into the bench, I can’t get out of his reach. I should knee him in the balls but I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself. Oh my God, his fingers have reached the hem of my panties. That’s it. I’ve had it with the lot of them.

I leap to my feet and my elbow ‘accidentally on purpose’ knocks the port glass flying into his lap.

‘Fucking hell!’ A ruby stain spreads over Rupert’s crotch as I scramble off the bench.

Immy’s mouth is open in shock. ‘Lauren, what’s the matter?’

‘Ask your douche of a friend!’

Rupert leaps up with a roar. ‘For fuck’s sake, I only bought these from Jack Wills this morning!’