The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (4 page)

This brings a smile to my lips. ‘Assume all you like, and on this occasion I don’t mind being a horrendous cliché even though I still have tons of unpacking to do and I have to get some reading done before my first seminar tomorrow.’

Her face lights up. ‘The unpacking I can understand, but you have all term to do that. It’s just that I shouldn’t tell you this, but Rupert feels genuinely bad about touching you up.’

‘
Genuinely?
Wow. I’m grateful.’

Immy rolls her eyes. ‘He did say he’d like a chance to show you he isn’t a complete and utter twat. His words not mine. He does actually really fancy you; the insults are his funny way of showing it.’

‘You see me laughing?’

‘Come and have your last glass of Pimm’s before summer deserts Oxford totally. Oscar will be there and a couple of the girls, and maybe even Alexander might deign to grace us with his presence.’

If Alexander is anything like Rupes, I may have to pass, but her voice is so wheedling I can’t help softening. I really like Immy. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Ten minutes later, I have ceased thinking about whether or not to go to the pub because as we’re walking through the archway from the back to the front quads, the Cloister God is striding from a staircase on the opposite side to us, a document wallet under his arm.

Immy pauses in the shadow of the arch. ‘Well, what do you know? Alexander
is
in town, after all. I did wonder if he’d actually bother to turn up.’

The brick that’s suddenly lodged in my throat turns out to be an advantage because my garbled response sounds like I have as much interest in seeing Alexander as I do in the mating habits of stick insects.
Alexander
… I can’t believe he has a name, that he’s actually flesh and blood – which says a lot about the level of myth that I have built around him since I arrived at Wyckham. I need to calm down, but how can I when he strides around the college quad in jeans and a polo shirt, looking so hot he might set the whole place afire?

And he’s going to be at the pub tonight.

‘Mmm, and he’s looking rather delicious, if I say so myself,’ says Immy. ‘Not that I’m interested. No chance there and I’d keep away.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s loaded and a marquess’s son. I’m upper-middle class at best.’

I laugh. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’

‘Yes, I am. Alexander wouldn’t care about anything like that, but I still wouldn’t go there. Where Alexander leads, a trail of shattered hearts follows.’

Shattered hearts? Now why am I not surprised at that? He is sex on legs, titled and wealthy, and a lot of women must find that hard to resist. I’m not going to be one of them, but I am intrigued enough to know more about the man.

‘A marquess?’ I say, trying to sound bored.

Immy’s eyes gleam with mischief as I collect my jaw from the cobbled flagstones, and I wonder if she suspects I might fancy Alexander myself.

‘One day he’ll be the Marquess of Falconbury and heir to a massive estate, but for God’s sake don’t mention it to him. He does actually have a courtesy title, Earl of somewhere or other, I can’t remember, because he never uses it and he’d probably be furious if he thought I’d discussed it with anyone. He’s plain Alexander Hunt in college.’

‘Really? What’s he doing at Wyckham, then?’

‘A master’s in International Relations.’

‘Right.’ I make my next question super casual. ‘So did you guys go to high school together?’

‘Oh God, no. Alexander went to Eton like his father and his father before him. He’s Rupert’s cousin.’

‘Cousins? You mean the same blood runs through him as Rupes?’

A puzzled frown creases her brow and I’m worried she suspects something. ‘Yes, I suppose it does. Does that bother you?’

It’s not the fact these guys have so much DNA in common that bothers me. It’s more that they share the same ‘world owes me’ attitude. ‘No. It’s … um … none of my business and I don’t care how big an estate this Alex has –, titles don’t impress me.’

Immy winces. ‘It’s Alexander, darling. Don’t ever let him hear you call him Alex. He hates people shortening his name.’

So he’s
furious
if anyone mentions his title? He
hates
mere mortals daring to use his nickname?

He bends to tie a shoelace that has dared to unravel, his shirt straining over his shoulder muscles. Then he
marches off again, not glancing to left or right, like he exists in his own universe. It’s the same single-minded demeanour I saw when he stole the parking space and thundered into the college on my first day at Wyckham. Wow, he really does think he owns the place.

I make an exaggerated show of shifting my attention from Alex – sorry, Alexander – to the chapel clock, though it kills me to tear my eyes from that magnificent physique. ‘I should get back to my room. It’s breakfast time in Washington and I might catch Daddy before he leaves for the White House.’

Ouch. I wish I hadn’t said that because it sounds like I’m trying to pull rank on Alexander and I am so not. Or maybe I am? Ever since I arrived in Oxford I’ve been behaving, not so much out of character, but differently. It’s a strange place, it’s natural that my defences should be up, but I don’t really like some of the things I’ve seen and the ways I’ve reacted. I don’t want to be obsessed with some guy, especially one like Alexander; titled, over-privileged, arrogant – he’s going to be another Rupert, and maybe one with even more wealth and power and influence, expecting everyone to do his bidding.

Alexander’s tight butt is disappearing into the shadows of the Lodge. I swallow hard, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed us. We’re obviously not on his radar today, maybe no one ever is, and now he’s going to be at the pub tonight.

‘So. Shall we meet in the Lodge at eight unless you’ve changed your mind?’

Her expression is pure innocence and I think it’s genuine. I drag my eyes away from the Lodge and shrug nonchalantly. ‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Awesome. I’ll call for you at half-eight. Wear something warm on the off chance it’s pissing down.’

‘Pissing down’ doesn’t come close to the biblical deluge as we dash through the streets and down a cobbled alleyway leading to the Turf Tavern. With the olde-world street lamps sputtering and fog wreathing round the college walls, I half expect Jack the Ripper to lunge out of a dark corner. I really must get a bike; Immy has suggested the cycle store next to the Covered Market.

I’m so glad I wore my leather jacket and DKNY ankle boots, not the suede pumps I’d originally planned. Even in the boots, I skitter over the wet cobbles outside the inn with all the grace of a giraffe on stilts. Immy’s skinny jeans are soaked and her hair’s a bird’s nest, but she’s giggling as we push open the wooden door of the pub and into a fug of steaming clothes, loud voices and ale fumes.

A bellow reaches us over the top of the general hubbub and we shoulder our way through the crowd to the bar, trying to dodge guys spilling beer on us from their pint glasses. Immy orders a couple of glasses of mulled wine and we plunge into the masses again, threading a path to the rear of the pub, where guys are ducking under beams. At the far end, crammed around an impossibly small table obscured by glasses and bottles, is Immy’s crowd.

I recognise Freddie, tiny Oscar and a couple of girls who I hadn’t spoken to much but were friendly enough. Chun’s a medic whose family live in Shanghai; the other girl, Isla, is Scottish and has the cutest accent. Best of all, there’s no Rupert, which makes me want to do a little dance of joy. And no sign of Alexander, which makes me want to beat my head against a wall because, no matter what I told Immy or what I told myself in the privacy of my room earlier today, I’ve been dying to check out what he’s like with his ‘tribe’ around him. Will there be girls fawning at his feet and batting their eyes at him?

Looks like I’m not going to find out yet, but the old Cusack training kicks in again and I stick on a ‘so happy to be here’ face. I feel like Lizzy Bennet when Wickham fails to turn up to Bingley’s ball. Yeah, and look how he turned out … the biggest disappointment in fiction.

‘Come on, squash up and make room!’ Immy orders.

Surely we’re never going to fit in, but somehow a minuscule patch of bench appears at one end of the group.

‘Do you want to sit there, Lauren? I’ll sit on Freddie’s lap.’

Freddie grins and I perch my butt next to Oscar, who’s possibly the only guy I ever made look like a Munchkin.

‘Sorry,’ he says, pushing his glasses nervously up his nose as my leg bumps his skinny thigh. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I smile reassuringly. Immy told me that Oscar wants to be a Member of Parliament,
but he’s so shy I can’t imagine he’ll ever survive five minutes in the cut and thrust of politics. I’ve seen the shit my dad has to put up with and the thick skin he’s had to grow. Making it to the Senate must have been tough enough, without the added disadvantage of being partially sighted. I really don’t know how he did it and my heart feels as if it’s expanding when I think of him now.

Calling on all my experience of international diplomacy, I work hard to make sure the next hour is incident free. All the time, I’m twitching in my seat and checking out the door to the bar, hoping Alexander will grace us with his presence. No one else seems bothered that he hasn’t turned up. In fact, no one so much as mentions him and I daren’t utter his name, since I’m supposed to a, have never spoken to him before, and b, be completely unimpressed by his unmentionable title.

Around the table, the banter’s flying back and forth faster than a Murray–Djokovic rally. OK, there’s a little Yank-baiting, but I’m holding my own. Oscar’s an intriguing guy when he gets on a subject he’s passionate about and it’s good to get to know Chun and Isla better. Immy has visibly relaxed, possibly now she knows I’m not going to freak out and leave, and I’ve even been persuaded to try a ‘half’ of the local ale. Not that I think I’m going to finish it, because, apart from being lukewarm, it tastes like someone peed in the barrel.

When Immy declares she needs the loo, I take the chance to go with her and when we get back to the table, I see we have guests. It’s Rupes with two other
guys, one blond in a Regency-style cravat, if you can believe it; the other in an old school tie.

‘Oh fuck.’ Immy takes my elbow as we get near the table.

‘What?’

‘That’s Gideon and Piers. They’re in the same drinking club with Rupert and they’re a pair of complete spanners.’

The tool allusion goes slightly over my head, but I detect it’s not complimentary. I knew the evening was going too well. Immy lets out a sigh. ‘We’ll have to try to pretend they’re not here.’

As a statement, I know it is wildly optimistic as soon as it’s left her lips. In minutes the conversation descends to Neanderthal levels as Gideon and Piers start telling jokes about lighting their own farts, ‘epic chundering’ and initiation rituals that mostly seem to involve objects being pushed up other guys’ anuses – for ‘a laugh’ apparently. Maybe the chundering has something to do with the anal penetration … I don’t ask. When Immy whispers that one of them is studying politics and the other nuclear physics, I fear for the future of the free world.

How did these boneheads ever get admitted to Oxford? Then again, how did Sarah Palin get to run for VP? Or Russell Crowe think it was a good idea to be Robin Hood? Whatever, these guys make Rupert look like an intellectual, and incidentally he appears to be ignoring me for now, which is about the best compliment he could ever pay me.

As the noise levels in the pub and around our particular table rise to a new level, my Cartier tells me it’s ten thirty and I’m ready to bail out. Faculty classes start tomorrow at nine thirty and I don’t want to start the term looking and thinking like an extra from the
Walking Dead
. Will Immy be offended if I leave? She’s been so kind to me that I don’t want to abandon her. I glance at her, biting her nails since Freddie left to have an ‘essay crisis’.

‘Immy, I think I’m going to get back to college.’ I have to raise my voice above the shouting and raucous laughter. There’s movement at the end of the table as I catch the other girls’ eyes and they start to slip on their coats. ‘I don’t want to leave you here, but I can walk back with Chun and Isla if you want to stay.’

‘Oh … well, it’s not last orders for half an hour, but I suppose I ought to get back too, not that I’ll sleep much. I get the results of my Collections tomorrow.’ Immy pulls a face and I can’t tell whether she’s disappointed or relieved to have the excuse to leave.

I throw her a sympathetic smile and cross my fingers inwardly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be just fine.’

‘I hope so. OK, shall we go?’

Groans and whistles come from Gideon and Piers as we get up en masse. They’re standing at the end of the table, pints in their hands, alcohol stains down their shirts. Piers is swaying a little like he’s on the deck of a yacht. I don’t mind people enjoying themselves, truly, but why do some guys have to get completely wasted? Todd could be a total shit when he was drunk; actually
he turned out to be a total shit when he wasn’t and I doubt Gideon and Piers would be any less offensive if they were sober.

‘Aww … The ladies are leaving.’ Their voices are slurred.

‘They need to be tucked up in bed by eleven.’ Rupert’s words seem general, but I suspect they’re directed at me.

‘I wouldn’t mind tucking them up,’ Gideon slurs.

‘Don’t leave this early, ladies. The night is young.’

Immy rolls her eyes and tries to walk past Piers, then shrieks, ‘Hey!’

My God, did he grope her ass?

‘Do you really have to be so predictable, Piers.’ Immy sounds brave, but I can tell from her stiff back that she hates him touching her.

He edges closer, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke. ‘What’s your problem, Imogen? Don’t you like male attention?’

‘I have no problem with male attention; I do have a problem with gorillas.’

‘Oh, touch-y-y. You’re not a rug-muncher, are you?’

‘So your parents spent all that money on your education for you to come up with that gem?’ I ask.

He snorts, spraying me with spittle. ‘Just a little joke. Why do so many American girls have to be so uptight?’