The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (9 page)

I wish he didn’t hang out with Alexander so much. Just because they’re cousins doesn’t mean they have to be friends. Yet the ties of blood and friendship are strong; I only have to think of my own family and of my sorority sisters to remind me of that. I half wish they were here now, to help me kick Rupert’s massive ego into touch.

Alexander mouths ‘Fuck’ as I curse Rupert and myself. He saunters over with a smug smile and I find myself smoothing down my dress guiltily.

‘I must say, Alexander, you’re taking this international relations thing very seriously.’

Alexander’s eyes glitter dangerously. ‘Fuck you, Rupert.’

‘Fuck
me
? Haven’t you got the wrong person?’

‘Tread very carefully.’ Alexander’s tone drips with danger.

All I want to do is leave. No, all I want to do is rewind to when I was reeling with Angus in the ballroom. Maybe rewind to the moment I rushed out of the welcome dinner and bumped into Alexander in the cloisters. A quick apology then, and I should have walked away, not stayed to fence with him. Not stayed to find out how much I wanted him.

‘No offence intended.’ Rupert holds up his hands in conciliation then shoots me a glance that makes my skin crawl. ‘You seem a little flustered, Lauren.’

I dare not look at Alexander; I don’t have to. I can feel the struggle he has not to retaliate. I hate Rupert knowing our private business. I hate the sneering way he speaks and the assumption that I’ve jumped into bed with Alexander. It’s been a week since I arrived – less than a week, and already I have been sucked into a world that I despise.

‘While I’d love to engage in scintillating banter, I’m going to find Immy,’ I say.

‘Lauren, wait.’ Alexander’s hand brushes my forearm.

‘I expect I’ll see you later.’ I flash him the briefest of smiles before turning my back and heading for the ballroom. I wanted to keep my head down here and immerse myself in this amazing opportunity to study. Yes, I wanted to have a little fun, but I never asked for this: to fall in lust with a man who epitomizes a decadent, privileged world that will use any tactic to get its own way.

He doesn’t come after me, of course, not that I want or expect him to. I don’t even
know
what I want or expect any more.

And that, of course, is the problem.

‘Forty–fifteen!’

Immy raises her arm, serves and the ball flies over the net. I may lose the match but I’ve got this point. People who don’t play tennis much don’t realize that you have more time than you think; the important thing is not to panic, but to slow down, prepare and
think
. The ball bounces in front of me, I swing my forehand at it – and my racket connects with fresh air.

When she said she can ‘get a few balls back’, she wasn’t joking. The sweet, fun-loving Immy turns into a ruthless demon when she gets a racket in her hand and not even my Wilson can save me from a drubbing – again. It’s Thursday of Second Week, five days since the party and, even though my ankle twinges when I lunge for a ball, I’m more than grateful for the distraction. It’s been hard concentrating in seminars and although I’ve made a start on the research for my submission essay my mind keeps wandering to Alexander.

‘Sor-rrry!’ Immy calls cheerfully from the other side of the net, obviously embarrassed by almost doing a double doughnut on me.

‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I can play a lot better than that.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You can beat me tomorrow if the weather stays dry.’

‘You think?’ I glance up at the schizophrenic sky. One half is benign and blue, the other steel grey and threatening clouds. As a metaphor for the conflicting emotions I’ve battled since the ball, it couldn’t be more perfect. I zip up my top over my tennis dress, pick up my sports bag from the side of the court and swallow the lump in my throat. Immy’s cheeks are pink and she’s buzzing with adrenaline as we walk off court towards the Wyckham sports pavilion.

We hover in front of the drinks machine. ‘Evian? Coke?’ I ask.

‘Definitely Coke. Full fat.’

I grab an Evian and we flop down on benches under the pavilion terrace as the first drops of rain fall on the roof. I had to open my bag to get some change for the machine, but I still haven’t checked my phone. Alexander has now called three times and texted seven since Saturday night and I have ignored every single one. I have the phone set to ‘meeting’ and it must be exhausted by vibrating so often, for so long.

The rain comes in sheets now, driven by gusts of wind that were no more than a breeze while we were playing. As I watch the leaves eddying around the court, I come to the conclusion there is something austerely beautiful and melancholy about Oxford in the rain, as long as you’re watching it from inside, that is, not squelching through puddles, shivering with cold.
Or perhaps that’s purely my state of mind. Or does it remind me of Alexander?

That gorgeous shell around him, the sharp cheekbones, and the uncompromising way he speaks. Is it arrogance – or brutal honesty? He hates bullshitters, that’s for sure.

An insistent buzz from the depths of my bag startles me. Immy sips her Coke as I keep my eyes on the rain, driving across the tennis courts.

‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ she asks.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It could be your parents.’

‘Not this early.’

‘Or Professor Handy?’

‘I think he’s lecturing this morning.’

‘Alexander, then?’

The phone stops and I slump with relief, sipping my water as Immy drums her heels against the wooden deck.

My phone buzzes again and, mouthing a curse, I reach into my bag, check the screen, see the number on it and stab the off button.

There’s a pause then Immy says quietly, ‘You can’t keep ignoring him, you know. He won’t give up. He’ll carry on going until he gets what he wants. That’s what Alexander Hunt does.’

Is the reason for my irritation with the phone so obvious?

‘He hasn’t dealt with Lauren Cusack yet.’

‘If you really want him to go away, you’ll have to meet him face to face and tell him to leave you alone.’

‘I’d have thought ignoring thirteen attempts to contact me might have given him the message by now.’

‘Perhaps he feels the messages have been mixed so far.’

‘What does that mean?’ I sound a little snappy and it’s not like me, more like something
he
might say. ‘Sorry, Immy, I don’t mean to gripe, and you’re right. I shouldn’t have gone off with him at the ball.’

‘I knew something had happened, but you clearly didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t want to push you.’

I raise an eyebrow and she sighs. ‘OK. I
did
want to be nosy, but you clammed up so tight on the way home, that I knew I’d have to be patient and wait for you to tell me what went on. It’s almost killed me.’

I have to smile, even in the midst of angsting over the situation.

‘What went on? I’m not sure myself. Alexander and I, well, we kissed and things went further than I’d expected.’ A whole lot further, but that would be way too much information.

‘Did you shag him?’

I can’t be angry with Immy for being so direct. ‘No, not exactly, although we did almost everything but.’

Her jaw drops. ‘Everything
but
!’

‘Yes.’ The image returns: Alexander taking off my dress, lifting me on to the billiard table, climbing on top of me. My body’s response to him was about as direct as it could be.

‘Oh. My. God.’

‘You think that’s crazy, that I almost had sex with Alexander Hunt and then stopped him?’

‘Not crazy. I understand why you’d want to shag him. He is absolutely gorgeous and you won’t need me to tell you that half the girls in England would kill to get him into bed. You must have made a very big impression on him. Huge, in fact …’ She hesitates and bites her lip. ‘I don’t want to worry you, but I did try to warn you about him, not that I know him that well – I’m not sure anyone knows him that well, not even Rupert.’

‘That’s what worries me too. If his closest friends don’t know him, who does?’

‘Rupert says that Alexander doesn’t get close to people. Not since his mother was killed.’

‘What? His mother was
killed
? I had no idea!’ I shudder and feel almost physically sick. Poor Alexander.

‘Yes, she died in a car accident while taking Alexander back to school. I think he was thirteen and Emma, his sister, was in the car with them. I don’t know exactly what happened, but Alexander and Emma were badly hurt and their mother died instantly.’

‘That is truly awful. I can’t bear to think of anything happening to my parents. I worry about Daddy as it is, with his public role.’

‘My parents drive me insane at times, but I love them to bits. I don’t think any of the Hunts have ever really got over it. Not that you get over losing someone, but there’s more to it. Rupert says that Alexander’s father blames him for the crash.’

‘What? Why would he do that?’

Immy shrugs. ‘Rupert’s not sure but he says it wasn’t Alexander’s fault. Alexander’s father is a shit. He’s a general in the Guards and he wanted Alexander to join the same regiment. General Hunt makes General Tilney look like a pussycat.’

‘So he went and joined the Paras …’ I think back to the hints Alexander dropped about his choice of regiment and Immy’s words make sense. ‘It’s complicated’ doesn’t even begin to cover Alexander. My stomach swirls. I wonder how losing his mother at that age – and, worse, being blamed for it – has affected his relationships with women. Then again, the more I hear about him, the more I think he should come with a danger sign and barbed wire around him.

Immy lowers her voice as a couple of guys in tennis whites stroll out on to the terrace. ‘I can’t tell you what to do about Alexander. I can understand the appeal. He’s gorgeous, rich … and seemingly unattainable.’

‘I never set out to attain him, that’s the whole point, and his money doesn’t impress me.’

‘Hey, I know that and that’s precisely why he’s pursuing you so hard. The fact he’s called Hunt is no coincidence.’

‘That had occurred to me.’

‘I’d hate to see you get your heart broken and if you’re looking for an easy ride you couldn’t have picked a worse person.’ She glances away from me, perhaps a little guilty for offering advice – after all her own love life isn’t perfect – yet I can’t deny that everything she has told me fits with my own experience of Alexander.

‘I wasn’t looking for anything.’

‘Which is precisely why Alexander has come along now. Doesn’t it always happen like that? Fuck, it’s bucketing down. I wish I could keep my Audi in Oxford during term time, but the parking for students is non-existent – unless of course you’re Alexander and have your own garage.’

‘So that was his house I went to? It’s not rented?’

‘I think it was his mother’s when she was studying here, and it was rented out until Alexander started his degree. I’m not absolutely certain; the Hunts have a lot of property. Now, we have two choices, cycle home and get soaked or persuade that hotty over there from the Blues tennis squad to give us a lift back to college. What’s it to be?’

The hotty, a tanned, lean blond who reminds me of Eric from
True Blood
, needs no persuasion to run us home once Immy works her charms on him. I spare a thought for Freddie as ‘Eric’, a.k.a. Skandar, scrawls his number on Immy’s palm before we dash into the Lodge at Wyckham.

Back in my room, I dry my hair after my shower, trying to find answers behind the mirror. I crave Alexander like some kind of new drug that’s been custom-made to give me my own unique high – and the fact that I want him that much only confirms my determination to go cold turkey.

The morning sun shines through the window as I scroll down through my notes on my iMac. We’re nearing
Halloween and the rays don’t even have enough power to warm my hands as I type. It’s Saturday, Third Week officially starts tomorrow and I plan to get as much work as possible done today because a bunch of us are going to dinner at the Cherwell Boathouse on the river and tomorrow I’m heading for the V&A with a couple of people from my course. I went with Todd on his one and only visit to London, but he was bored within an hour and dragged me off to some pub.

There is so much I want to see there that I can’t even begin to think about it, but the costume display is sensational. I’m disappointed that I missed the Fashion in Motion live catwalk events they held over the summer, but as a consolation there’s a new exhibition of Photography and Truthfulness that’s a must-see for me. If there’s time, I’d like to call into Harvey Nicks while I’m in South Kensington tomorrow, but I guess I’m so close to London now that I can always go back another day.

I undo the catch on my window to let in some fresh air, and the chapel clock chimes noon. Last night, I lay awake thinking about the stuff Immy told me about Alexander’s background and the car accident. The thought of what he and his sister went through makes me shudder even now. His father too; no matter what kind of pressure he’s placed on Alexander, it can’t have been easy for a man like that to raise two young children on his own, even with the help of the nanny I guess they had. Not that his family troubles are any concern of mine, especially as he hasn’t called again since yesterday. Hopefully, he’s finally given up hassling me.

And that makes you feel, how, Lauren?

‘Arghhh.’

I cross to the window as if I’ll find any kind of answer in the austere beauty of Wyckham’s Jacobean front quad, where the statues of its stern founders gaze back at me through sightless eyes. Voices drift up from the path that skirts the quad, and I spot one of the younger porters walking through the arch that leads into our staircase. His footsteps thump up the stairs, growing louder and louder until they stop outside my door, and then there’s a knock.

‘Lauren Cusack?’

He knows who I am already, but I open the door and play along. ‘Who wants to know?’

He grins. ‘There’s a courier in the Lodge with a parcel for you. Normally, we’d sign for it and we don’t allow strangers into college, but he says he won’t hand it over to anyone but you.’

The proverbial lightbulb clicks on in my mind. After the emergency trip to the ballgown emporium, I asked my mother to send over my Alexander McQueen dress in case I get invited to any more of these white-tie events.

‘OK. I think I know what that might be. Sorry you had to trudge up here. I’ll come down and collect it.’

Five minutes later I am in the anteroom of the Lodge, staring at the contents of the parcel, in shock. The package is not from my parents and it is not an Alexander McQueen gown. It is much smaller and it is from a different Alexander.

The Cartier necklace nestles in its box. It’s a white-gold chain with a trilogy of pink diamonds glittering in the light. It is classy, understated and just about the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I know from the design and the cut and colour of the diamonds that it must have cost tens of thousands of pounds.

And I cannot possibly accept it. Shutting the lid on the box, I dash out of the Lodge on to the street. The courier’s van is still parked outside and he is climbing into the driver’s seat. I run over and bang on the passenger window.

‘I can’t take this. You have to have it back.’

‘Miss?’ The window opens and he stares at me as if I’m a crazy woman, yet I know I’d be crazy to accept it. No matter how much I sympathize with what happened to his mother, the fact remains and always will: what Alexander wants, Alexander gets. He will do anything to get it. I feel as if I’m being hunted. I am his quarry. He never gives up. He has to win. He will do anything he can to get me into his bed. Including, it seems, buying me.

‘Take it back to the store.’ I drop the box on the passenger seat. ‘Please.’

‘Miss, wait!’

Too late. I’m running back to college, through the postern gate in the great oak door and along the quad to my room. By the time I’ve raced up the staircase, my lungs are about to burst, but I don’t care. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why.

What made him think he could buy me? Does he think I’m that easy to manipulate? I can buy my own jewellery; I don’t need a guy to do it, yet the image of the necklace glittering in its box is seared on my memory. It was heart-stoppingly beautiful and also a symbol of how far apart we are in the way we view the world and our places in it.