Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  Tessa sat shivering on the steps, the bag of croissants clutched against her chest. Her balloon had burst – its pathetic rubber corpse drooping from the string tied round her wrist. She unfastened it, tossed it in the litter-bin, then slumped down again on the wet and chilly stone. There was still no sign of Vicky, nor any of the others. Radcliffe Square was empty, save for a drunken man puking on the grass. Usually she loved it here – the peaceful heart of Oxford, with no throb of buses or roar of Kawasakis; colleges and libraries clustered all around her, dwarfed by the thrusting tower of the university church, which gazed down at the garden blooming at its feet – an attractive sheltered garden where tramps and pigeons fought for scraps, and rambler roses relieved the sombre evergreens. But today it seemed a wasteland, the first brave roses battered, the one lone bird bedraggled. She kicked her shoes off, rubbed her squelching feet. She had trailed to the Turf Tavern, to see if they were there, but the bouncer on the door had ordered her to scat; said they were serving champagne breakfast to ticket-holders only. So she’d jogged back to Rosie Lee’s, braving the torrential rain, found it full of giggly Sloanes, out of bounds again to all but the champagne crowd.

  Maybe Vicky had decamped on purpose, the whole group glad to shrug her off. Although she hung around with them, they weren’t exactly soul-mates. It hadn’t been that easy to find a kindred spirit at Oxford, either male or female. She had arrived with high ideals, expecting a Shelley lookalike to sweep her off her feet, or a T. S. Eliot clone to declaim the ‘Four Quartets’ to her while she lolled back in a punt. Rob declaimed cricket scores, and called Shelley self-indulgent, and though Vicky was amusing, there was so much they couldn’t share. Victoria Amanda Shaw had been to private school and lived in a five-bedroomed house with the sort of conventionally wealthy parents who bought hardback books, and claret by the case, then mopped up any spare cash by saving seals or rain forests.

  Parents weren’t supposed to matter, especially not at Balliol, which was renowned for being non-elitist, and bragged in its literature about wooing state-school entrants with open arms and special grants. True there were few snobs, and even the Old Etonians played at being lefties, but that was half the trouble. Easy to slate privilege when you’d imbibed it with your mother’s milk, or to boycott meals in Hall because you’d eaten every day at school in imposing panelled refectories, and found it an amusing change to queue for beans on toast.

  The thought of beans on toast sparked her hunger once again. She hadn’t touched the croissants, had been waiting for the others – much more fun to share them, enjoy a crazy picnic to the music of a band, or watching Scottish dancers leap across their swords. The dancers had packed up now, discouraged by the weather, the sudden vicious downpour which had lashed the streaming pavements for half an hour or more, and was threatening to begin again. She glanced up at the sky: domes and spires and pinnacles fighting for their share of it; majestic still, despite the lowering clouds. Extraordinary how Oxford could make you feel inadequate – not just in terms of brain or class, but if you didn’t match its mood. It seemed wrong to be dejected while living in this perfect place, with its aura, its mystique, its rich icing of tradition. Yet at times it felt unreal, too exalted and superior for the messy lives within it – the awkward clumsy love affairs, or wary not-quite friendships. What she really longed for was someone to confide in, someone she could trust enough to admit that she was lonely; that things hadn’t quite lived up to her initial expectations. But lonely was a word to be avoided like the plague, with all its connotations of self-pity, social failure. Nobody was lonely – not in the dream city.

  She reached out for her shoes, rammed them roughly on again, grimacing, as always, at her large inelegant feet. She sometimes wished she was smaller altogether: slender and petite like Liz, rather than a strapping five-foot-eight. Big meant bold and brave – except it didn’t, in her own case – and being tall and female caused problems with a lot of men. And the strange thing was she often felt quite small inside – not the overgrown brunette reflected in her bedroom mirror, but more a fragile sylph.

  The first relentless drops of rain were stinging on her face, dispelling thoughts of sylphs. She struggled to her feet, stood cold and indecisive, torn between heading back to college and making one last effort to find her missing friends. She could maybe try the Queen’s Lane Coffee House, if only because Richard fancied a French waitress there, and sought any chance to practise his bad French.

  She arrived dripping wet and limping – no Richard, no French waitress – immediately tramped off again, this time back to college. She could do with a complete change of clothes and a mug of steaming tea. She also had some work to do for her tutorial at two. Her essay on Heloïse and Abelard was finished, more or less, but there were still a few references she ought to double-check. Only her pernickety female tutor would arrange a session for two o’clock on May Day, when most students would be hung-over, or catching up on sleep. She shrugged and jumped a puddle, carried on, head down against the rain, turning into New College Lane, which was so narrow, dark and winding, she seemed to be back in medieval Oxford once again. She dived across the road, lost her footing as she tripped on a discarded bottle; heard a car approaching the blind corner. She panicked for a second, shaken by her fall. Was she imagining those crashing gears? Cars weren’t meant to come down here, only cyclists and pedestrians. But suddenly the noise crescendoed and a red MG came hurtling round the corner, stopping with a screech of brakes, missing her by inches.

  ‘What the bloody fucking hell do you think you’re doing?’

  She opened her eyes, paralysed by fear, saw a pair of battered moccasins, contradicted by an expensive sheepskin coat. The driver of the car was standing over her, emitting oaths like petrol fumes. He checked on her perfunctorily, making sure she was in one piece, though he seemed more concerned with justifying himself than offering any sympathy or help.

  ‘How in God’s name d’you expect me to stop in time, when you’re weaving down the middle of the road?’

  She all but choked, fighting tears and fury, trying to control her voice, so it wouldn’t sound hysterical. ‘Oh, so it’s my fault?’ she retorted, rubbing her raw knees. Only minor grazes, but she could well have broken half her bones, landed up in hospital. ‘Christ! You’ve got a nerve! This lane is closed to traffic, yet you still manage to blame me. You’ve no right to be here at all, let alone careering along at seventy.’

  ‘I was doing twenty-five. And when I want advice on driving, I won’t ask a drunken jaywalker.’

  ‘I’m not drunk! Speak for yourself. You could have killed me, and all you do is shout. You might at least apologize.’

  ‘Apologize? You’re the one who should bloody say you’re sorry. How’s anyone supposed to drive, for crying out loud, with maniacs like you constantly hurling themselves in the road?’

  Tessa ignored him, scrabbled for her bag and started gathering up its scattered contents. The croissants were a write-off, completely waterlogged; had split their paper carrier and landed in a puddle. She picked one up, held it out accusingly. ‘Look at what you’ve done to these! They were meant to be my breakfast, and you couldn’t give a damn. I haven’t eaten anything since seven o’clock last night.’

  ‘And I haven’t eaten anything since a sub-standard tuna sandwich at lunch-time yesterday.’ He laughed – a disconcerting laugh which seemed to change his mood entirely, dissipate his anger, and transform him from a savage to a Good Samaritan. He crouched down beside her on the pavement, dabbed her oozing knees with an unironed handkerchief; then squeezed her arm – a belated wordless ‘sorry’.

  For the first time, she looked up at him, took in more than just his shoes and coat; experiencing a shock of recognition. She had never met the guy before, but he could have been her elder brother, the non-existent sibling she’d sometimes pictured in her mind. He was built on the same generous scale – not just tall, but chunky. Unlike her slimmer friends, she had always refused to diet; accepting her
large breasts and curvy hips as something she could no more change than her broad shoulders and big bones. But now she felt positively dainty, compared with his six-foot and more, his opera singer’s chest – almost the genuine fragile sylph, in fact. Both of them were dark, with the same thick wavy hair, the colour of ground coffee; self-opinionated hair which defied lacquer, combs and barbers. His eyes were darker than hers – Latin eyes with extravagant black brows and almost girlish lashes. A striking man, good-looking – in his middle twenties, as far as she could judge – and dressed conventionally, though the posh coat was missing buttons, and he clearly hadn’t shaved: stubble dirtying his jaw, smudging his strong chin. She was suddenly aware of how scruffy she herself must look: hair tousled and still wet, skirt crumpled, flecked with mud. She turned away, embarrassed, mumbled a goodbye.

  ‘What the hell d’ you mean – goodbye? We’re having breakfast, aren’t we?’

  ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘You just accused me of destroying yours.’ He pointed at the croissants, floating in the gutter. ‘The least I can do is offer you a substitute.’ He opened the door on the passenger’s side, tried to wave away her protests, but she resisted, stood her ground. Half a dozen cyclists had come swarming up behind them, and were trying to squeeze by, one jangling his bell; another breaking into a boozy off-key version of ‘Why are we waiting?’

  ‘Look, for Christ’s sake, girl, get in, before those morons scratch my paintwork. We’ll argue about it later.’ He pushed her in, slammed her door, slammed his own, then accelerated up the lane, swinging right, then left, driving with impatience, as if he resented every lumbering coach or dithering pedestrian.

  ‘Let’s get out of Oxford,’ he muttered, following the sign for ‘Stratford and all traffic north’. ‘I’ve had enough of this damned town.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Tessa angrily. ‘I don’t know who you are or where the hell you’re taking me, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to have my breakfast back in college.’

  ‘Oh, a student,’ he drawled, raising the black brows and slowing for a second to appraise her. ‘You surprise me. You look too stylish for a student.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘It was actually a compliment. I rather like that ruffled thing you’re wearing.’

  ‘That ruffled thing is an Edwardian skirt. I bought it in the Portobello Road.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Now d’you mind if I get out?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do mind, yes. We’re on our way to Woodstock, to a slap-up six-course breakfast. Not at the Bear, I hasten to add. I consider it absurdly overrated, and it’s bound to be awash with tourists anyway. I know another place there, with just as much atmosphere, and an absolutely first-rate chef. Mind you, I doubt if he’ll be on at eight o’clock in the morning, or deign to grill our kippers.’

  ‘Eight?’ said Tessa, startled. ‘It must be later, surely.’

  ‘Eleven minutes past. I’m glad you’ve got some time in hand. Maybe you won’t be quite so keen to rush away.’

  ‘It’s not a question of time. I don’t know you from Adam. You could be a rapist or a murderer or …’

  ‘I’m a doctor, actually.’

  She glanced up at his face, to see if he was joking. Did doctors break the speed limit, mow down pedestrians without the slightest concern? And didn’t they normally shave, and have clean hands and well-scrubbed nails? His were stained with paint. ‘A GP?’ she asked, comparing their own well-groomed Dr Cunningham, who drove a tame grey Volvo estate, not a panting red-hot sports car.

  ‘No fear!’ he said. ‘A cardio-thoracic surgeon. Well, that’s the general idea. It may take a year or two – or ten.’

  Tessa fiddled with the zipper of her bag. She was so used to meeting fellow undergraduates, it was difficult to change gear to a surgeon, especially when she wasn’t sure what cardio-thoracic meant. Cardio was heart, but what about thoracic? She didn’t like to ask, and all the other standard questions – ‘What are you reading?’ ‘Which college are you at?’ – were clearly inappropriate. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked instead, recalling childhood warnings about accepting lifts from strangers. If she knew his name, it would make him less a stranger, though she still felt apprehensive. He could be an impostor, pretending to be a doctor when he really had diplomas in thuggery or homicide.

  ‘Michael,’ he said briefly, as if reluctant to reveal too much, or entrust her with his surname. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Tessa.’

  ‘Short for Teresa?’

  ‘No. Tessa plain and simple.’

  ‘I like plain and simple names. The two guys I share my house with are called Joshua and Tristram, though they look more like Keiths or Brians, to tell the truth. Names are damned important. My Ma named me after an archangel, the conqueror of Satan, so I suppose I’ve always felt I couldn’t let her down.’

  ‘And have you?’ Tessa asked.

  He laughed. ‘In my mother’s eyes, I can’t do any wrong.’

  ‘And in other people’s eyes?’

  He dodged the question, asked her one himself. ‘Which college are you at?’

  ‘Balliol,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, a clever girl, then.’

  She bridled at his patronizing tone, reflecting for the umpteenth time on the whole matter of intelligence and how relative it was. She’d been the bee’s knees at school – A-plus for all her essays, prizes every year, even her photo in the local press, towering over a smirking Miss MacDonald. But at Balliol she was reduced to merely average, overshadowed by all those other students whose brilliance seemed quite effortless; the sort who got Firsts almost on the side, while spending the bulk of their time rehearsing their future roles as prime minister of England or director general of the BBC.

  ‘I was at Christ Church,’ Michael volunteered.

  You would be, Tessa thought – the cream of the Oxford colleges, with its own private art collection worth a hundred million pounds. She’d been there once, to formal Hall – invited by a friend of Rob’s – and though the dinner had been mere spaghetti bolognese, the spaghetti had been served in silver dishes by obsequious white-coated men who looked as ancient as the panelled walls. Rob’s plummy friend and Michael had certain things in common: the same Veuve Clicquot accent, the same breezy arrogance. She was becoming uncomfortably aware of her own voice; knew Michael would be judging it as flat suburban London – what he’d call a ‘Keith and Brian’ voice. She tried to spruce it up a little, frowning with the effort. ‘You mean you did your first degree there?’

  ‘Yes – physiology. Then I went on to the John Radcliffe to do my three years’ clinical. And I’ve been working as a houseman there since February. Overworking, you might say. It’s only Wednesday, and I’ve clocked up fifty hours this week already. It’ll be nearer a hundred and fifty by the time I’ve struggled through to Monday morning. I’m on again tonight and all weekend.’

  Which might account for your foul temper in the street, Tessa stopped herself from saying. Probably better not to speak at all, since anything she said would either sound sarcastic, or expose her total ignorance of matters medical – including the term ‘houseman’, which had left her mystified. She’d never been to hospital in her eighteen-and-three-quarter years, and had only consulted Dr Cunningham for the odd sore throat or tummy bug. Her mother watched ‘Casualty’, if she wasn’t working Saturday night, but she herself always decamped to her bedroom once she heard the theme-music. Ambulances and scalpels failed to turn her on.

  She peered through the window, which was misted up with rain, though the downpour had abated to a half-hearted lazy drizzle, and even that was easing. They had left the town behind, and the road had opened out; fields stretching either side beneath trees of flaunting green – green so fierce it hurt. Last night, they’d been discussing whether spring or autumn featured more in literature, and though she’d favoured spring, her thoughts had crept back to October – her first confusin
g week in Oxford, when the trees had been a Joseph’s coat of bronze and gold and yellow. Yet for all its gaudy finery, October was a phoney month, dying more each day; its blazing colour concealing flimsy funeral clothes, tattered underneath. Whereas leaf and life were new in May – nothing stale or jaded, nothing smeared with death. Even the sun was trying to break through now, dappling the wan sky, transforming it to watered silk. She breathed in very deeply, as if to gulp down the whole landscape. Much as she loved Oxford, it was a confining crowded city, which choked its sky with spires. One so rarely had the chance of driving out, escaping its stone clutches. Almost nobody had cars – or not in her year, anyway.

  She watched the speedometer creeping slowly up, as they streaked past field and farm; felt her spirits leap to match; exulting in this jaunt with a man she didn’t know, wasn’t sure she even liked.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said suddenly, turning round to smile at him. Perhaps he didn’t like her either. She hadn’t been exactly gracious; hadn’t given him a chance yet. And, anyway, a six-course breakfast in a pretty country town was undoubtedly a better bet than stale cornflakes in her room.

  ‘Good!’ he said, veering left and jolting down a narrow road, fringed with spindly poplars. ‘Because in just two ticks we’ll be pulling up our chairs.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Happy May Day, Tessa.’ Michael touched his glass to hers. It was the first time he’d used her name, the first time he’d really looked at her, leaning forward to gaze into her eyes. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, Tessa realized, shrinking back. His own eyes were slightly mocking, and he was clearly sizing her up, probably noting her thick eyebrows, or the fact that her hair was wet. Though who was he to carp? He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair at all, whereas she’d spent frantic minutes in the ladies’ room, battling with the tangles and sponging mudstains off her skirt; trying to make herself more worthy of this elegant hotel. She still felt a shade uncomfortable sitting with a stubbly man who had flung aside his tie as he strode into the restaurant, declaring in a ringing tone that it was bloody hot and could they turn the heating down. The other guests had shot him angry looks, and the head waiter been quite sniffy – at least, until he’d ordered a bottle of the best champagne.