The Love We Left Behind

by Katherine Slee

  ‘Leave it, Duncan.’ The last thing she needed was the two of them discussing whether Leo was a suitable candidate to pop her cherry, deflower her, actually go further than second base with. It had never been an issue back home, mainly because it had never been an option. But since arriving in Oxford it became apparent that one of the most popular extra-curricular activities was having sex – lots and lots of sex with as many beautiful strangers as you could squeeze in around lectures.

  ‘I have an essay to finish,’ she said as she shrugged on her coat and waved goodbye to Erika, who was busy devouring an enormous portion of apple crumble with lashings of cream.

  ‘I’m making pasta for dinner.’ Duncan kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And there’s a housewarming in Cowley later, so don’t forget to buy some booze.’

  Pasta. Of course it would be something Italian. Just one more reminder of that boy and his smile. And by booze, Duncan invariably meant wine, red and full-bodied and nothing less than a tenner would suffice. Her friends meant well, their hearts and intentions were always in the right place, but the security and freedom that came with money meant that sometimes they failed to understand she couldn’t afford what they took for granted.

  Exiting the market, Niamh turned right, side-stepping a couple of cyclists. The pavements were filled with a mixture of students and tourists alike, all jostling for space and intent on where they needed to be.

  Coming out on to Broad Street, she looked up as a drop of wet fell on her cheek. The sky was filled with cloud, a patchwork of grey and white completely covering the blue. It made her think of Leo, of the way the drizzle had settled on his curls like a dusting of icing sugar. Her own hair would never behave so well, and so she pulled a band from around her wrist, using it to secure a knot on top of her head.

  As she walked through the rain, retracing her steps from the previous evening, she couldn’t help but think that fate was playing her for a fool. But she didn’t know if where she was headed was even his college, Leo’s college. Just because he’d been in the bar last night didn’t mean he lived there.

  Still, she needed a specific book in order to complete her essay, which, according to the library system, had been taken out by Robin Mackenzie-Forbes, a second-year history student at New College.

  Checking the code on the piece of paper she had been given by the college porter, she pressed down firmly on the silver square keypad affixed to the ancient stone wall. Two floors up and Niamh read the nameplate next to the dark wooden door before knocking, twice.

  ‘It’s open,’ someone called from within. Niamh nudged the door with her foot and stepped inside.

  The room was large with a leaded bay window overlooking Holywell Street, in front of which sat a grand piano. There was a three-seater sofa that dipped in the middle, a battered leather armchair and an enormous TV on a stand in the corner with piles of video cassettes stacked against it. Two doors led off either side of the room, one of which was open to reveal a small, rectangular bedroom with a single bed, the floor barely visible under a pile of dirty laundry and books.

  In the centre of the room was a desk, pushed up against the wall. It was there that a boy sat, wearing a rugby shirt over a white t-shirt, dark-blue jogging bottoms and nothing on his feet. He looked up, staring at Niamh from behind a pair of glasses, which made him seem younger and more approachable somehow.

  ‘Hi,’ Leo said as he stood, knocking over his chair and sending a few sheets of paper zig-zagging to the carpet.

  ‘You’re not Robin,’ Niamh replied, peering back round the door to reread the nameplate attached to the wall and smoothing her hair from her face. She wasn’t prepared for this, wasn’t wearing the sort of outfit that was required when coming face to face with a boy who made her heart stammer and shake.

  ‘He’s my room-mate.’

  ‘I gathered that. Is he here?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘He’s got a book I need for my tutorial. Well, for my essay that’s for my tutorial. Which is on Monday.’

  She was there, in his room, talking to him with that soft, lyrical voice about a book.

  He was there. Again. Staring at her in that way of his that made her nervous and tumble out her words without thinking.

  ‘I could look in his room, if you like?’ If he looked, it meant she wouldn’t leave and he didn’t want her to leave, perhaps not ever.

  ‘It’s a diary. About the abolition of slavery.’ She shrugged off her fur coat and draped it over one arm as she nodded her agreement. Underneath she was wearing a thin-strapped vest top and around her neck were several silver chains, the ends of which disappeared between her breasts. Leo felt himself stir as he realised she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Ducking into the bedroom, he was aware of her moving around the main room as he nudged at a pile of dirty laundry with his big toe. He looked inside his room-mate’s trunk only to find some Hustler magazines and a packet of Durex, the seal still intact.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’ He stood in the doorway, watching as she peered at the contents of his desk. The hem of her red suede skirt was wet and the backs of her legs were spattered with tiny flecks of dirt. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but sections of it had escaped and were sticking out at odd angles.

  ‘Are you English?’ She tossed the question over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m from London,’ he replied, looking over at Robin’s desk and realising he’d never be able to find anything of use amongst all the random bits of paper and cups he always used instead of an ashtray. ‘But my great-grandfather was Italian.’

  She gave a small laugh. ‘I meant are you studying English?’

  He looked across to see her pointing at the stack of books next to his desk. The top one was open to reveal a print of William Blake’s The Ancient of Days, a poster of which hung in his own bedroom, next to the window.

  ‘Law, actually. I just like reading.’

  ‘Huh.’ It wasn’t a reply as such, more an acknowledgement that he had somehow surprised her.

  Loads of people had books on Blake, Niamh thought to herself. It was nothing more than a coincidence. Just because she had been reading The Little Black Boy only last night, deciding whether or not to reference it in her essay, it didn’t mean anything.

  Niamh ran through the scenario in terms of probability. There weren’t that many history students in Oxford. Roughly six hundred per year split across twenty-nine colleges. She was the only one in her college studying the American Civil War that term, so did that mean the chance of someone from a different college choosing the same subject was higher or lower? And in turn, what were the chances of that person being the room-mate of a boy who seemed to be appearing every time she turned around?

  Leo was trying to find something better to talk about than a history book, but every time a thought popped into his mind, it was smothered by the sight of her with raindrops caught in her hair and tiny goosebumps all the way up her arms.

  ‘I should go,’ Niamh said, rocking back and forth on her heels and staring over at the piano.

  ‘Do you play?’ He took one step closer, registering the rise and fall of her chest as he did so.

  ‘I thought only music scholars got these rooms?’ She moved towards the piano and traced the tips of her fingers over the ebony and ivory keys.

  ‘We were lucky,’ he said, going over to stand at the other end.

  ‘Seems like more than luck to me.’ Niamh could almost smell it, the scent of money and privilege. She didn’t need to ask in order to understand that for some people, luck came more from heritage than anything else.

  ‘When you see Robin’ – she glanced out of the window, then up at the brightening sky – ‘can you let him know I really need that diary.’

  As she spoke, she stepped behind the piano, away from him, and he reached out a hand, but left it hanging in the air above her arm.

  ‘I could drop it round later.’


  She lifted her eyes to his and he noticed a tiny particle of sleep caught in one corner.

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I just need to know . . .?’ He left the question unfinished and she seemed to be considering whether or not to reply. It felt to him as if there were so many questions he should be asking, but he was afraid she might not tell him anything at all if he did.

  Part of her wanted to stay, to examine each and every part of the room, every clue. But she was also terrified of him, of the way he looked at her.

  ‘Niamh. Univ.’

  ‘University College?’

  Niamh nodded as she swung her coat around her shoulders and headed for the door. ‘On the High Street, opposite Queen’s. You can leave it at the lodge, if you like.’

  Leo stood, just as he had done the night before, watching her go and doing absolutely nothing to make her stay. He felt like an idiot, but the way his heart was dancing about inside his chest prevented him from moving. He was quite simply incapable of anything more than breathing in the faint scent of tobacco and oranges that Niamh had left behind.

  ERIKA

  MINIATURE STORYBOOK

  London, 2010

  The church clock strikes ten as we walk arm in arm through the back streets of London heading for our regular Sunday hang-out. Spitalfields Market is in full swing, bustling with locals and tourists alike, all vying to grab a piece of the artisan scene that is rapidly taking over East London. When Hector first brought me to his part of the city, he told me a little of its origins, of how the market was named after the ancient priory and hospital of St Mary’s Spital and once stood in a field. But mostly I think he likes living in an area that is considered to be cool, populated by artists and creative thinkers alike.

  I’ve found that I like nothing more than spending Sunday mornings sitting at a table by the window of our favourite café, chosen because of its rustic food that I told Hector reminds me of home (and he wholeheartedly approves of their particular brand of coffee). In fact, it reminds me more of a certain café back in Oxford, but that’s not a part of my life I ever really talk about.

  Today, I am in desperate need of both carbs and caffeine to help me make up my mind about two very different yet similar situations involving charismatic, but slightly overbearing, men. The first is whether or not I should tell my boss that I really don’t think it’s appropriate to use my connection to the Browne family and their vast resources in order to set up an investment meeting. Layla is nervous enough as it is about stepping into the fray, especially as Oscar, her younger but oh-so determined brother, is now the company CEO. The second dilemma is about where I will be living in the not-too-distant future.

  Hector gave me a key a little over a week ago, telling me that it was an invitation to spend more time with him, rather than asking me to actually move in. He’s in the process of buying somewhere, even asking my opinion on whether to stick to Shoreditch or edge closer to Clerkenwell. Not that there seems to be a huge difference between any of the places he’s put on his shortlist. They’re all open-plan, refurbished warehouses that are achingly cool and way overpriced, but Hector can pretty much afford to buy anything he wants, thanks to both the bank of Mum and Dad and several bestselling novels.

  I know what he really wants is for me to leave my pink mews house behind in favour of his rainwater showerhead and walk-in wardrobe, but as is so typical of Hector, he also understands that it at least needs to appear as if I’m the one making the decision.

  It’s not the decision I’m worried about, more about what happens next. Because moving in would only be the first in many pre-determined steps towards the happily ever after that Hector has talked about pretty much since the day we met. Most girls would give up a kidney for such obvious declarations of love. My issue is what happens if those declarations turn out to be untrue, just like before.

  ‘Oh,’ I say as we exit the south end of the market and cross the road to find that our preferred spot is closed due to a flash flooding. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Hector replies, looping his arm around my waist and steering me in the direction of Brick Lane. ‘Spontaneity won’t kill you.’

  But it nearly did once. Or at least threatened to shatter my entire existence so completely that I swore never to leave anything to chance ever again.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ Hector has stopped in front of a brightly painted café with tables spilling on to the pavement. Sitting at one is a man with a baby strapped to his chest. He is currently using one hand to shovel forkfuls of smoked salmon and scrambled egg into his mouth and the other to scroll through his phone.

  ‘Somewhere quiet,’ I reply, slipping free of his touch and walking away. I need time to think, but there’s always so much to think about, to calibrate and digest, that it’s beginning to feel as if I’m no longer capable of deciding on anything at all. And that man with the baby, who he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to, has most definitely darkened my mood. Part of me wants to turn around and go over to him, snatch his phone away and toss it into the street. Doesn’t he realise that the perfect little human he has created is worth so much more than checking the football scores?

  It’s not him or the phone, or even the sight of that adorable little baby that’s got me so worked up. Something has been brewing for weeks now, only I’m slightly afraid of letting the truth out into the open. I have no idea how Hector will respond to what it is I think I need to do, nor do I really know if it’s the right choice.

  As I turn the corner I spy a shop that looks a little out of place amongst all the gastropubs and independent boutiques.

  Inside it’s like someone has simply dumped the entire literary works of fiction into one small space with no thought to any kind of order. Bookshelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, with countless more positioned on tables of every shape and size – there’s even a rolltop bathtub filled to the brim.

  ‘Looks like the books are holding up the walls,’ Hector says as he ducks his head to pass under a worm-eaten beam. ‘Smells a bit weird too. Like bonfires and mouldy oranges.’

  ‘I like it,’ I reply as I pass through a narrow archway to find myself in a much larger space, which is just as disorganised as the shopfront. At the back is a staircase covered in a red velvet carpet, worn thin along the centre. As I climb, I can smell something else behind the smoke and citrus – the familiar scent of old paper and ink, which transports me back to all those hours spent locked away in the Bodleian, along with so many of my fellow students. As always, I try not to think of one student in particular.

  Is that what attracts me to Hector? Have I simply swapped one genius for another, or is there something more, something deeper that binds me so tightly to him?

  The sound of a mantel clock pulls my attention around and back to the front of the shop, where a table is adorned with a townscape in miniature, complete with houses, a frozen pond and villagers wrapped up in woollen scarves. It looks as if it’s been left over from Christmas, with fake snow hidden under a thick layer of dust, reminding me of the markets back in Stockholm with their sweet treats and lights that blinked through the winter’s gloom.

  Hector comes up next to me and peers inside one of the dolls’ houses, picking up a porcelain figurine then putting it back down again and wiping his fingers on the back of his jeans.

  ‘Look,’ I say, tugging at his sleeve as I point to the last house on the table, which seems to be fashioned into a school. One of the rooms has been laid out like a library, complete with tiny, hand-folded books and I reach inside, stealing one away.

  I know why I chose it, this particular book, and not just because of all the scents that are hidden around the shop. Books and sweetened coffee were just two of the multitude of things we had in common, along with oranges secretly eaten in libraries, and hand-rolled cigarettes. We also had just as many things that made us so very different to one another, not least the ability to keep a prom
ise.

  Hector’s looking at me, no doubt noticing that I’m chewing the inside of my lip, which we both know means I’m keeping something from him.

  ‘Little Women,’ Hector reads over my shoulder. ‘Isn’t that the one about a family of four impoverished sisters, but one of them dies?’

  I had an argument about it once, in a pub by the river where an albino peacock strutted around looking for scraps or, more likely, an ankle to peck. She claimed that Meg was the epitome of sadness because she gets the life she always thought she wanted, only to discover that the idea of something is so often better than the reality.

  Ever since, it has struck me as profoundly unfair that the most authentic, hopeful version of myself was back when I had very little understanding of what it really means to be free, to have nobody else to blame for all the choices you make. How sad it is to think that I peaked before I knew it was happening, that the happiest moments of my life will forever be tainted by the mistakes I made because I dared to believe everything would be OK.

  ‘Can we go?’ Hector asks with a yawn and a pointed glance at his watch.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ I say as the sound of another clock chimes through the air. I turn, seeking out the culprit and catch sight of myself in a full-length mirror propped up against the wall. The glass is mottled and half-covered by an oil painting that looks like a bad copy of a Rembrandt, but the woman staring back at me seems a little lost, almost afraid. The pristine white t-shirt tucked into skinny grey jeans, military-style jacket and ballet flats aren’t exactly the Barbours and pearls I once envisaged. In all fairness, my fashion sense has evolved into something far less adventurous than the way any of us used to dress.

  ‘Who are you?’ I whisper to my reflection, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear to allow a diamond stud to wink back. The watch around my wrist is designer, along with the tote bag hooked over my elbow. My hair is highlighted every six weeks without fail and I run every morning before breakfast to ensure I stay a covetable size eight. In short, every single part of my life is controlled, each possible outcome considered before deciding which way to turn. Yet it wasn’t that long ago I didn’t even wear a watch, let alone worry about what message I was giving to the world through my choice of clothes.