The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (27 page)

‘You think?’ I pick at a loose thread on the cushion. ‘Have you … um … seen him around college since you got here?’

‘Not yet, which is funny because I came up on Friday morning to do some extra reading and there’s been no sign of him. I might have missed him or he could be at his house, of course, although Rupert didn’t mention Alexander or the break-up when I saw him in the pub last night.’

I shrivel inside. Rupert was at the hunt ball and witnessed my champagne-fuelled ‘moment’ of vengeance on Alexander. The snake must be rubbing his clammy little hands together in glee if he knows that his cousin and I are history. He
must
know something is wrong because he was staying overnight at Falconbury the morning I rushed off.

It’s tough, what he thinks is nothing to me now. Guiltily, I remember my tutor’s warning words to me about not getting distracted by Alexander and his lifestyle. Professor Rafe is a Grade A creep but he is in charge of my essay grades and theoretically he could kick me off my course. I wouldn’t like to be at Rafe’s mercy in any sense of the word, so I must make sure my work’s top-notch this term. With five long essays on the core subject and my optional topic, lectures, seminars and mini-presentations,
and
a weekly Italian for Art Historians class, I have a lot to think about without getting into Alexander’s dramas, not to mention Alexander’s bed.

Immy studies me intently as if I’m some kind of interesting fossil she dug up on one of her Geography field trips. ‘Lauren, what exactly
did
happen at the end of last term because I don’t think I’m getting the whole story. If you want to keep this stuff private then fine but I’m sensing there’s an elephant in the room here.’

Oh, there so
is
an elephant in the room; and he comes in the shape of a gorgeous hunky rower called Scott Schulze. Should I tell Immy about him, or the disaster involving the three of us on the last day of term? Should I tell her that when Alexander saw Scott kissing me in the street, he glared at me as if I’d knifed him through the heart or, worse, shot his dog?

‘Like I said, we bring out the worst in each other and things came to a head at the ball.’ I cringe when I think about how I behaved, flirting with Alexander’s friends in front of his family just to hurt him the way he’d hurt me. It was out of character for me and while I’ve been away from this hothouse, I’ve realised that the way I acted is one more example of the fact that Alexander and I are a disaster together

‘Careful, you’ve almost unravelled that cushion.’

Glancing down, I see the thread is wound around my finger but Immy’s voice softens. ‘
And
?’ she asks.

‘And … Alexander may have seen me kissing another guy in the middle of Holywell Street.’

After what you could describe as a deafening silence, she exhales. ‘Oh dear. I can see how that might have pissed him off. Can I ask who this other guy is?’

‘Just a friend.’

‘Who snogged you in the street?’

‘It wasn’t a snog, just a kiss … it just kind of happened at the wrong moment.’

‘And now this “other guy” is on the scene, I suppose you’ve changed your Facebook status to complicated?’

‘That says nothing, like it always did, and he’s not on the scene, we’re just …’

‘Good friends?’ Immy’s voice drips with irony. I don’t blame her because that phrase sounds so lame. It also happens to be true, at least for me. Scott may have other ideas, but I’m not going to fan the flames of Immy’s curiosity any further.

I had half expected to see Scott while we were both back in Washington but for most of the holidays he’s been in training with the Boat Race squad. I spoke to him once, briefly, just before he flew out to a rowing camp in France. He sounded about as excited as Scott can get but it sounded like torture to me. We took a mutual decision not to talk about what happened at the end of term. I don’t want to leap from one relationship into another, even though he is great to hang around with and makes me laugh more than anyone else – even Immy. .

Fuck, that makes him sound perfect for me which he is, but I’m not looking for perfect; I wasn’t looking for anyone. After Todd and I split up, I just wanted to
be
, but Alexander Hunt exploded into my life like a hand grenade and I’m done with picking up the pieces.

Immy’s watching me, chin on hand, and alarm bells go off in my head. There’s no way I’m going to convince her that Our Thing is over, but time will tell.

‘Are you going to tell me who this mystery man is?’

‘Just a friend. I swear it.’

I cross my heart and she watches me for a while before saying, ‘If you ever need to share, I’m always here.’

‘I know and thanks for not pushing me. Now, do you mind if we change the subject? How was your skiing trip?’

She grins wickedly. ‘Sod the skiing, it’s the après-ski you really want to know about.’

While Immy went off to the library to finish her vac essay, I resolved to go somewhere where I wouldn’t be able to daydream. A few hours in the grad centre surrounded by my fellow grad students has focused my mind, and the past couple of hours have been an Alexander-free zone.

When I step outside, it’s already going dark. Winter in Washington isn’t that different to here: it can be mild, or you can get heavy snowfalls, but it’s the lack of daylight here that really gets me down. It goes dark so early; and on a dull day it never really seems to get light at all. I pull my scarf higher, and quicken my steps. My restless night on the plane and the jetlag must be affecting me; I need a good night’s rest and everything will seem brighter in the morning.

The bright lights of the Lodge beckon and I drop by my pigeonhole, which is stuffed with invites from USSoc, the American students’ society, from the Department of History of Art, from the dance studio, from the Dean wanting me to go to drinks, and the Student’s Union reminding me about meetings and the Wyckham Bop. Add the requests to go to birthday celebrations, and I could be out every evening. I stuff the invites in my bag and smile. While I might not be able to go to everything, I’m determined to do as much as possible in my next two terms because far too much of it was spent in Alexander’s bed last term.

The wind cuts to my bones as I walk back to my room, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not in Alexander’s bed now, or pressed against his naked body in the shower, soaked, hot, shaking with lust, his mouth coming down on my breast …

No. I will
not
do this. Quickening my steps, as if I can outrun the rogue thoughts, I hurry towards the archway that leads to my staircase. An R&B track pumps out from a room on the second floor, the bass line so loud it makes the wooden steps tremble. I take the stairs two at a time, full of fresh resolution to obliterate every trace of A. Hunt from my mind.

‘Lauren?’

A guy emerges from a door as I pass, raising his voice above the music. It’s the physicist who helped with my bags at the beginning of last term.

‘Had a good vac?’ he grins.

‘Great, thanks!’

‘Good. Um … just so you know, there’s a bloke outside your door. He’s been there over an hour. I think it’s …’

I’m already gone as he says the name I dread hearing. Of course it’s Alexander. My pulse races and every instinct tells me to head straight back down the stairs again. How could I have thought he wouldn’t try to confront me after what happened with Scott? This is the man who told me he always wins and never stops until he gets what he wants.

I stiffen my resolve because
this
is the woman who spent the vac ready for this moment: it’s over, no matter what he throws at me.

My heart thumps against my ribcage as I reach my landing and see the dark figure resting against the wall outside my door.

Then he lifts his face to me.

For the next few heartbeats, I half wonder whether it’s Alexander after all. Because the figure slumped against the wall opposite my door isn’t the arrogant man I last saw blocking the pavement in the street; the unshakeable, implacable Alexander that other people had to go around. This Alexander looks shapeless and beaten; a sack of bones in a black Crombie overcoat.

My hand freezes on the banister. ‘Alexander?’

When he lifts his face to me, his eyes are red-rimmed as if he’s been crying.

My stomach clenches. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s my father. He’s dead.’

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