by Croft, Pippa
Now, Immy is popping with excitement. ‘Well, don’t you want to know?’
I have to smile. ‘You want to tell me and I have no objection to hearing it.’
‘Oh, stop it, Lauren!’
‘Sure I want to know and you better tell me before you burst.’
‘OK. Right. So …’ She pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?’
‘I was thinking of going to a USSoc intro party?’
Her face falls. ‘Oh, fuck.’
‘But … I’m always wary of “expat” events and I did come to Europe specifically to immerse myself in a new culture and get away from my fellow Americans, much as I love my country …’ Her face brightens and I really shouldn’t tease her. ‘So if you’ve got a better idea.’
If she could, I think she’d actually hop about in glee. ‘How would you like to go to a ball?’
‘A ball? Sounds awesome.’
‘It is, indeed, awesome. One of my old friends from Marlborough called. She’s at Oriel and she’s been invited to a winter ball at Rashleigh Hall. Jocasta can’t go because her boyfriend has broken his ankle and she wanted to know if we would like to go instead.’
‘I’d love to come, but what about Freddie?’
She waves a hand airily. ‘Oh, he’s going on his older brother’s stag do. Rupert will be there, though, and Oscar maybe if he isn’t knackered after being on the river.’
‘Rupert? That’s a mixed blessing if ever I heard it.’
She laughs and then there is a moment when neither of us speaks because there is a big gap in the conversation that I realize is an Alexander-sized gap. One of us has to fill it and it turns out to be Immy.
She pretends to fiddle with her phone. ‘I suppose there’s a chance Alexander might put in an appearance. He was at Eton with Jocasta’s brother, Hugo.’
‘Oh, really?’ I take refuge in the dregs of my Diet Coke.
‘He’s bound to have been invited. He generally gets invited to everything, though he rarely turns up of course.’
‘Of course.’ I try not to show I am disappointed by this, or to actually be disappointed. Because I am not.
Immy goes on. ‘Then again, Hugo is a friend of his, Rupes is definitely going and it’s a private party, so he might be there, especially if there’s the chance of a game.’
Briefly, I have visions of Alexander and Rupert tossing a rugby ball to each other across the dance floor. Then a vision of Alexander naked in a communal locker room, towelling himself down. I give myself a mental rap on the knuckles.
‘What kind of game?’
‘Poker, of course. Alexander loves playing it.’
‘What for? Castles? Small republics?’
‘Gosh, no, although rumour has it that he did once win a polo pony in one game.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
She shrugs. ‘Actually, no. Oscar told me about it a while back. But don’t get your hopes up. I haven’t seen Alexander all week. Have you?’ She glances up at me, eyes wide with innocence.
‘No. Why would I?’ It’s fortunate that the pub is so dimly lit because otherwise Immy would see the red in my cheeks as I utter what is plainly a bare-faced lie.
Immy tuts. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’ve no interest in whether he turns up at the ball or not, but it has crossed my mind that I haven’t seen him around this week.’
I am not going to lie any more – it makes me look and feel as if I’m protesting too much where Alexander is concerned and Immy deserves my trust. ‘To tell the truth, it was outside his house that I twisted my ankle on Tuesday. He strapped it up for me.’
Her eyes are wide again, but with surprise. ‘Alexander Hunt asked you into his house?’
‘Sure. He had to fetch an ice pack and some vet tape for me.’
She squeals in delight. ‘Vet tape!’
Oh, hell, what have I started now? ‘He, um, said it was the best thing for sports injuries and that he’d used it on his horses.’
Immy’s shriek attracts the attention of some of our fellow drinkers.
‘Immy, please.’
Her face is mock solemn. ‘And, pray, what happened after he’d done his Nurse Alexander act?’
And? Should I tell her that he kissed me and had his hand inside my shorts and that we were on the verge of having sex on his sofa? No way. We may have got to know each other pretty well in a short time, but I’m not ready to share that info with anyone.
I shrug. ‘He drove me back to college.’
‘So,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘Let me get this straight. Alexander Hunt carried you into his house, laid you on his sofa, strapped up your injured ankle and brought you home in the Range Rover and you say it’s nothing?’
‘He didn’t carry me into his house and I didn’t say he’d laid me on his sofa.’
‘But you were lying on it?’ Wow, Immy could work for MI6.
‘Sitting, actually. I had no choice.’
Immy snorts. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re saying here?’
‘That I fell over outside some random guy’s house? That he taped up my foot? Is that such a big deal?’
‘It is when Alexander Hunt is the random guy in question!’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘So?’
‘So, he’s incredibly choosy about his women and a huge catch and when this gets out half the girls in Oxford will have the knives out for you.’
‘His women? Hey, I’m deeply flattered to be one of the chosen few – I don’t think – but there’s no need for anything to “get out”. I’d hate people to get the impression I set out to “hook” Alexander or something, which incidentally makes him sound like some huge great fish that I’ve landed.’
Immy wipes her eyes and I see her mascara has run where she’s been laughing at my horrified response. ‘I know you haven’t set out to get him and that’s probably half the attraction with him – not that you’re not gorgeous and glamorous, of course.’
I roll my eyes and Immy smirks mischievously. ‘And he also totally cannot resist a challenge.’
That figures. ‘And I suppose he rarely gets any opposition?’
‘What do you think?’
‘That he needs a reality check. He may be wealthy, titled and I’ll admit he’s pretty good-looking – but I’m not that shallow.’ But am I? I’m thinking, because deep down there’s a part of me that is, damn it, very flattered by being singled out by Alexander. And another part that’s annoyed for being flattered.
‘I don’t think for a moment you are, and actually you’re probably driving Alexander insane by not taking his bait. So, after he dropped you off at college, did he say anything else?’
‘Like what?’ I study my fingernails as if I’m about as interested in the topic of Mr A. Hunt as the shipping forecast.
‘Like seeing you again,’ says Immy.
‘I … um … kind of got the impression that he might contact me again.’
She frowns, suddenly serious. ‘Did he actually say he would call you?’
‘Well, yes, he did.’
She blows out a breath. ‘Did he say exactly when he’d call?’
‘No, and I haven’t seen him around college for the past few days either, not that I’ve been looking out for him.’
‘Hmm. I wonder if his mysterious absence may have something to do with his military work.’
‘The military?’ I shake my head as small but telling details slot into place, like a few things Rupert said at dinner and the way he waded into the fight. ‘So he’s in the army?’
‘Not sure it’s the army, strictly speaking …’ She lowers her voice. ‘Rupert hinted to me that Alexander’s in the special forces, but he’s not supposed to spread it about.’
‘Special forces?’ Momentarily I’m thrown off kilter. ‘He’s a marquess’s son and now he’s in the SAS?’
‘I don’t know for sure that it’s the SAS and I’m not sure Rupert does. He might be
embellishing the facts. He’s hardly the most discreet man in Oxford and there’s no way Alexander would trust him with any detail, even if they are cousins.’
‘Alexander doesn’t seem old enough and how will he find time to study for his master’s if he keeps disappearing off campus to do all this stuff?’
‘He’s almost twenty-six and I think he was in Afghanistan before he came here, but I don’t know the details. As for disappearing off all the time, I can’t imagine the Master or his tutors would be thrilled about him being away so much during term time, but then Alexander doesn’t play by the normal rules. Of anything … Look, Lauren, I hate pouring cold water on things, but I’d tread extremely carefully where Alexander is concerned.’
‘You mean he has a girlfriend?’
‘Not now … not as far as I know, though he’s so bloody secretive, you can’t tell for sure. There was someone but it’s totally over now and, whatever you say about Alexander, I don’t think he’d ever lead a girl on. I’m only suggesting you go into this – and him – with your eyes open.’
‘Thanks for the warning, but I’ve no intention of going anywhere with Alexander. He’s hot, I won’t deny that, but I’m not into all that macho, stiff-upper-lip posturing and I can see that he’s a player.’
‘I didn’t say he was a player, more that he’s … well … difficult to get close to.’
‘Don’t worry, I already put crime-scene tape round him. Besides I want to concentrate on my studies. Did I tell you that Professor Rafe is trying to organize a trip to the Klimt Museum in Vienna?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘No. Really? Does he plan on inviting anyone else along or is it just you and him?’
‘Ha ha.’ I may laugh but I must admit I haven’t seen any notices about the Klimt trip on the faculty notice board.
‘He mentioned it when I bumped into him on my way back from the faculty. I’d stopped for a hot chocolate in Georgina’s while I checked my emails on my iPad.’
‘Rafe was in Georgina’s?’
‘Yes. He came in after me.’
‘Quelle surprise.’
‘Don’t look at me like that. He’s entitled to drink in a cafe and that place does have an arty bohemian vibe.’
‘Of course it does, Lauren.’
‘Stop it!’
Though I join in her laughter, I can’t suppress my uneasiness that Rafe might have stalked me to the cafe. Then I see her laughing eyes, and realize Immy’s teasing me, and it’s pure coincidence he walked in there.
‘Tell me more about the ball,’ I say, and her eyes light up.
‘It’s a masked ball,’ she says, barely able to conceal her delight. ‘Take a look at this.’
She scrolls through the Rashleigh Hall website on her iPhone.
‘Wow. That looks fantastic. But tomorrow?’
‘Yes. It’s very short notice, but there’s no way I’m going to miss it.’
‘What’s the dress code? Black tie? Cocktail?’
‘Noooo. White tie for the guys and full-length glamour for us. I’ve got a few things I could wear already, but my parents have treated me for passing my exams so I was thinking of getting something new. Jocasta said that Tatler might be there and I would kill to be in Bystander. What about you? Haven’t you got anything in your luggage mountain?’
‘I brought a few cocktail dresses with me. I’ve got an Alexander McQueen dress at home that would be perfect.’ For a nanosecond, I think of having it couriered over on the night flight then think better of it as Immy’s eyes widen.
‘Oh my God. Really?’
I laugh. ‘Yes, my parents took me to New York to choose it for my twenty-first but there wasn’t any more room in the luggage for it and I wasn’t aware I’d need a mask.’
She laughs. ‘In that case, be ready at nine tomorrow. We’re off on a rescue mission.’
‘To London?’
‘Sadly no. There’s no time for that because we’ll need to get our hair and nails done in the afternoon, but worry not – I know the perfect place.’
I am ascending the steps of Rashleigh Hall, holding up the most divine dress I ever owned. I say ‘ascending’ because plain walking would not do justice to The Dress – a full-length silk column that’s subtly draped at the front, but cut so low at the back it skims the base of my spine. As soon as I spotted it on the rail at the store, I knew I had to have it, even though it’s more daring than anything I’d usually wear. Immy looks sensational in a full-skirted cobalt dress that’s a perfect foil for her brunette hair, which is styled on top of her head like a Grecian goddess.
After the store arranged to deliver the gowns and matching masks to Wyckham, Immy and I parked the bikes in the racks and grabbed a cab to a boutique spa in the countryside, which is owned by one of her cousins. We got our hair done by the spa’s head stylist, who Immy says is from some TV makeover show, and squeezed in mani-pedis, just in time to make it back to Wyckham to do our make-up
Holding our skirts above our ankles, we finally reach the top of the steps. I’ve been to formal events at the White House and a couple of embassies, not to mention high school and university proms, but this is different. There’s an air of fairy tale about Rashleigh Hall, accentuated by everyone around us wearing masks. They make it tricky to see but add to the mystery.
Flames flicker from metal baskets arranged along the edge of the steps, casting shadows on the ground and warming my skin as we pass. The October evening is chilly and dark, of course, because it’s eight o’clock now, but I’m so excited I don’t even mind the wind blowing the leaves around my skirt and chilling my bare back.
We got a cab to Rashleigh Hall, which rests in its own estate a few miles out of Oxford. I have to say that the website doesn’t do it justice. The grand facade is in the baroque style with a series of huge columns ranged across the front of the house and a vast classical portico above the door. Apparently the architect was inspired by a design for the Louvre, which seems kind of appropriate.
‘Is this a public venue?’ I ask Immy as we pass through the doors into the huge reception vestibule. The mask, a silver affair that matches my dress, cuts down some of my peripheral vision, yet even so I can see the vivid colours of the painted ceiling three floors above us. The buzz of excited chatter overlays the sounds of a string quartet playing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ as waiters glide around with trays of champagne and canapés.
‘It’s owned by one of Jocasta’s relatives, some earl or other, but he rents it out for photo shoots and weddings. These places cost a fortune to run these days – you have to make them pay.’ Immy lowers her voice, her black-feathered mask fluttering mischievously. ‘But it’s a shed compared to Alexander’s place.’
I give a little laugh in reply because, truth to tell, I’m not comfortable that Immy may think I am interested in Alexander for his wealth and title. Money, even old money, holds no real appeal for me although I’m well aware that life would be a whole lot tougher without enough of it. The thing is that my great-grandparents started off in life with hardly a bean and worked their way up by succeeding in business. OK, my grandpa was well-to-do by the time my father was born, but he always instilled the work ethic in Dad, who passed it on to me. Not that he needed to, because as far back as I can remember I wanted to succeed on my own terms. That’s another thing that bothered me about Todd: he never really took my passion for art seriously.
I certainly don’t need to hang on to the coat tails of some aristocrat now, even if he does turn up.
A waiter hands us glasses of champagne as we’re sucked deeper into the marble vestibule. The room is full of men in white tie and girls in glamorous dresses but my eye is drawn to the artwork. A huge portrait of an aristocratic young woman, dressed in white with a blue silk sash, dominates one wall. I’m sure it’s an original of a copy I’ve seen at the White House.
‘Immy, have you checked out this amazing Reynolds?’
She sips her drink then murmurs, ‘No, but I’ve checked out some pret
ty stunning talent. We seem to have made quite an entrance.’
She nods at a knot of guys a few yards away, who raise their glasses to us.
‘Do you know them?’ I ask, sipping my fizz, acting as if I haven’t noticed them.
‘No, but I might make closer acquaintance with the tall one in the dark purple mask. He’s completely hot.’
As I check him out, a curly-haired guy in a kilt smiles back at me then nudges his purple-masked friend. ‘I do believe they may be coming over …’
Immy giggles. ‘Good. I knew you and that dress would be a major attraction.’
‘Hey, I think the word you used in the store was “elegant”.’
She finishes her fizz and swipes a canapé from a tray. ‘It is elegant, and it also makes the most of your assets. Now, let this nice man top up your champagne and let’s see how we can wangle seats next to the Purple Pimpernel and his Scottish friend for dinner.’
It’s past ten thirty now, dinner has been over a while and there’s still no sign of Alexander. I gave up scanning the room hours ago and now I don’t care if he’s flown off on a mission to Mars. I really don’t care because I’m being whirled around the floor by the boy in the kilt. There’s a disco starting in one of the other rooms, but Immy and I thought it would be a laugh to try out the Scottish dancing in the grand ballroom. The band is playing a reel which is wild and has the whole dance floor shrieking and hooting with delight. This Angus is a doctor-friend of Rupert’s who has entertained me over dinner and I could not resist when he pulled me to my feet. It’s almost impossible in the dress and hardly anyone knows what they’re doing apart from Angus, but it’s a blast.
The fiddle player stops and we come to a halt, breathless and laughing. The room is spinning a little as I stop. With the endorphins kicking in, not to mention wayyy too many glasses of champagne, I don’t really mind when Angus puts his arms round my back for the slow waltz the band has struck up.
