by Pippa Croft
He watches me while I rant at him, without registering any emotion himself. He has pulled down the shutters again and I think it’s final this time. Well, so be it.
‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll take Emma back to Falconbury and you can stay here until your flight to Washington,’ he says.
‘I don’t need your charity. I’m going back to college.’ I hold my head up high, trying to control the tears that threaten.
‘Whatever you like. The last thing I want to do is hold you back,’ he spits out bitterly, and I turn and leave the room to gather my things.
Chapter Eighteen
From the Front Quad, the statues stare back at me, and their puritanical stone faces seem to say ‘I told you so’. I’ve been back in my room a while now, convincing myself I’m working on my exam essays but largely staring out of the window and trying not to flick through my Facebook albums. I haven’t cried yet; I still feel numb at what’s happened, even though, looking back now, the whole mess was inevitable. When someone knocks at my door, I’ve half a mind to get into bed and pull the comforter over me and never come out, but then I hear Immy’s voice. ‘Lauren.’
When I open the door, in place of the smile, I get a face of doom and raw, red eyes.
‘Skandar and I broke up,’ she says.
‘Oh shit. Come here.’ There’s a group hug and I know she’s trying not to cry so I let her go and say, ‘Come in. I’ll get the vodka.’
I sit her in my office chair and find the bottle, some orange juice and some glasses. I could say, ‘Join the club,’ and tell her about Alexander but that can wait. She needs me to listen now; she needs me to be the shoulder to cry on and the maker of large vodkas, the finder of secret stashes of Hotel Chocolat.
‘What happened? You seemed so happy last time you saw him.’
‘I was. I thought he was too but he said it was better to do this now than wait until next term, when we have exams. He said he wants to go off to the States to coach tennis and just bum around, as he put it, and that it was better to make a clean break now. A clean break? What’s that?’
She blows her nose noisily. I sit by her, helpless to do anything other than listen.
‘Maybe he really thought it was best, but that doesn’t help. I do know how you feel.’ So much more than you think.
‘Things turned out OK in the end though, didn’t they? You got back with Alexander, not that I want Skandar back, the shit. I could never trust him again. You and Alexander got through so much, with Scott, and Alexander’s vile relations and the whole sex tape thing, and anyone who can drive away that witch Valentina must mean a lot to him.’
‘You think?’ I swallow the lump in my throat, which has grown to brick-sized proportions. I can’t keep this facade up. So is now the time to tell her? Really, there is no point going through the whole ‘men are bastards’ scenario. They are, of course – that’s a given today – but in my case, I shoulder half the blame for even hoping that things might have run smoothly between Alexander and me. Whoever said marriage was the triumph of hope over experience must have had dating Alexander in mind too. Or maybe that should be the triumph of lust over experience.
Instead of whining, I nod and agree while we drink the vodka. I also fetch a new box of Kleenex and feel guilty because Immy deserves my undivided attention yet inside my own heart slowly cracks in two. The shock of the anaesthetic is wearing off: finally the pain starts to hit, sharp and unrelenting. Alexander and I are over.
‘What am I going to do, Lauren?’ Immy winds a Kleenex round her finger.
‘I can’t give advice. I wish I could, but I’m the queen of fuck-ups myself.’
‘What do you mean?’
I wish I could keep up the facade a while longer but I can’t, and maybe it will help Immy to know she’s not the only one feeling like shit. Or maybe I need a hug so badly that I don’t care how selfish I have to be.
‘I’ve had a huge row with Alexander, I’m really not sure we can come back from this one,’ I manage, as the sadness hits me.
‘What?’
‘Yep, this row was terrible; he wouldn’t listen to anything I said and honestly, Immy, I think I’ve had enough. I didn’t come here for this kind of shit.’
‘But what was the row about?’ asks Immy, eyes widening in shock.
‘Well … he blames me for something that wasn’t really my fault, and whatever the rights and wrongs, I felt I was in the middle of an impossible situation. I guess I should have known it was going to end like this, but that doesn’t make things any easier.’
The whole break-up story pours out and when I finally draw breath, Immy gives her verdict.
‘Jesus Christ. That’s so fucking unfair. Emma should never have put you in that position and Alexander shouldn’t have blamed you for it!’
Well, at least I’ve taken Immy’s mind off her own love life for a little while.
‘I guess I have to take some of the blame. Henry is a piece of shit and I knew it and that he would hurt Emma and I should have told Alexander.’
‘But she trusted you, and surely it was better to have one person she could open up to than keep everything secret!’
‘They both trusted me, so I suppose I couldn’t win. I still don’t know what I ought to have done. Emma’s had a crappy time, and a shitty childhood for all her privilege. She did try to tell Alexander it was her fault.’
‘And he didn’t listen?’
‘Of course not, but I don’t think he could cope with anything right now. I think he wants life to be black and white at the moment. He wants to keep Emma safe, but I think he maybe wants to control her a bit too much and that’s backfired. I don’t want to walk away from the Hunts, because I really care for Emma, let alone Alexander, but this latest row might just have pushed me too far. I can’t be the punchbag for ever …’ I stop talking, feeling utterly washed out. Pouring out the latest saga to Immy has made me feel worse, not better.
‘Those two must be so fucked up,’ Immy says. ‘Is there a chance they just need some time to sort themselves out?’ she offers hopefully.
‘You told me the very first time we saw him to steer clear. You told me to keep well away and that he was a load of trouble yet I ignored you. I went looking for trouble and I got addicted to it, the danger, the drama, the rollercoaster, but now the Hunt grenade has exploded in my face – twice, in fact – and I’ve finally learned my lesson.’
‘Oh, Lauren, I am so sorry.’ Immy’s face is full of sympathy.
‘Don’t be.’ I try a weak smile. ‘I had the ride of my life, but I wish I hadn’t wasted two terms taking it.’
‘What a mess,’ she agrees, then her face brightens. ‘I know this isn’t the greatest time to ask, but you will still come to the Boat Race party? It’ll be fun, packed with Blues rowers looking for a good time. We can get pissed, hit the clubs and shops.’ She looks at me pleadingly and I realize she needs cheering up as much as I do.
I summon up a smile. It’s all bravado, of course; what I actually feel like doing is lying down and howling, but that would be letting Alexander win, letting him and his troubled, screwed-up life damage me even more. I won’t let it and if I have to pretend I want to go to this party and dance and drink and laugh, I’ll do it.
I force a bigger smile on to my face, even though it physically hurts. ‘Try stopping me.’
So the term has come to a close, not in the way I expected and not that different from the way the last one ended. I had a final meeting with Professor Rafe after the weekend, at which he said he was ‘pleased with how I’d worked despite the circumstances’ and told me to keep up the standard of the final pieces of work I handed in. He also said that Trinity term – the summer one – would be a huge challenge that would demand my total commitment. I assured him that I was going to be completely focused on my work from now on. I’ve no intention of telling him why but he’s bound to find out that Alexander and I are history at some point.
But now work is over fo
r a while and I’ve needed the distraction of a week away from Alexander and my worries so badly.
For the past few days, we’ve been staying at Immy’s parents’ flat in Chelsea, trying to console each other with a round of shopping, cocktails, dinner and clubbing. Hey, we even managed to get some work done, and I hit the Wallace Collection, the National Portrait Gallery and the Tate Modern. I guess we’ve had a good time, and Immy has shown remarkable powers of recovery. Yet even while I was dancing, I had the strangest sense of not quite being part of my surroundings, like I was watching myself dance and laugh from outside myself. Then again, that could have been the Manhattans.
I’ve had a couple of texts from Emma, saying she’s sorry for causing so much trouble, but I haven’t heard from Alexander. Did I expect him to come after me? Did I even want him to?
And by now, I guess he’s infiltrating some desert outpost or tracking insurgents. I don’t even want to think about it or him, because every time I do, I get angry with myself. But it would be good to know when he gets back, though what right or reason do I have now to ask? Maybe I can text Emma on Sunday, to see how she is? There has to be some way of working in his name.
Then again, if I don’t hear from her, I have no need to ask. I shake my head, laughing at myself. I won’t text, because Alexander will be back on Sunday, screwing up Emma’s life and his own, no doubt.
This morning, we surfaced late after another night out and Immy took me for brunch at a little Russian deli across the street from her flat. We got changed for the party and now I’m watching cherry blossom drift on to the black cab crawling through the traffic to Jocasta’s riverside house in south London. We had a few days of glorious sun that brought people out in shorts and T-shirts in the parks, although the rain has started again now. Immy is next to me, scrolling through her emails. I think she’s secretly hoping to hear from Skandar too, although she seems breezy enough. She glances up from the screen, rubs condensation from the window and says, ‘Oh, we’re here.’
The cab stops and we climb out. Behind the wrought-iron railings, the brick house is what you might call ‘handsome’, with rows of sash windows and a portico with stone pillars. It reminds me, just a little, of our house in Washington, which is modelled in the English style, and suddenly I want to forget trying to salvage what’s left of my term and be there right now.
‘Not a bad party house, eh?’ Immy pays the driver and we stand on the sidewalk, admiring the house, while he pulls into the traffic again.
‘So this belongs to Jocasta’s family?’ I say, forcing myself to man up.
‘Her granny owns it but she’s moved into a retirement place now. Jocasta’s parents keep meaning to sell it for her, but the family is making so much from renting it that they can’t bear to get rid of it yet. Of course, it’s perfect for watching the Boat Race. The Thames is literally at the end of the garden.’
Immy had said the house was nice but it defies all my expectations. The moment we arrive under the portico, the door opens.
‘You made it, then.’
Jocasta air-kisses us both and gives Immy a hug. She’s blonde, like me, but there the similarity ends. Jocasta is barely five feet tall, I’d say, and coxes the Wyckham Women’s First Eight. Uniformed staff arrive to whisk away our coats.
‘You might need them later. It’s bloody freezing out by the river. Do you want a drink or a quick tour?’
‘Both,’ says Immy with a grin.
Jocasta laughs. ‘OK. There’s Pimm’s or you can have a beer. I know it’s not technically Pimm’s season, but who cares?’
A waiter arrives on cue with a tray of Pimm’s and we follow Jocasta through the hall and into a sitting room with high ceilings and plasterwork. The building may be Edwardian but the furniture is ultra contemporary, with metal tables, black leather sofas and bare-wood flooring. A huge flat-screen TV dominates one wall and is already showing the build-up to the race. A dozen or so people are chatting and drinking in front of the TV and there are more milling about on the other side of a wall of glass doors.
‘Let’s go out on to the deck.’
Jocasta leads us out on to a wide wooden deck which has steps leading down into a lawned garden. The river laps a muddy shoreline directly below it. We’re elevated above the water and I immediately regret handing over my coat so soon because the wind blowing off the river cuts through my dress. Little white horses flick up on the brown surface and iron-grey clouds scud across the dirty white sky.
‘I am so glad it’s not me out there today,’ I say, trying not to shiver.
Jocasta laughs. ‘Mmm. It is a bit choppy but maybe it will settle down when the tide turns. Immy says you know one of the Blues rowers? The big blond American, Scott Schulze?’
‘Yes, I do. He’s a good friend,’ I say warmly, realizing that I mean it, and that I’ve missed Scott’s uncomplicated company.
‘Lucky you! He’s gorgeous. I’ve invited him over later, along with a couple of the other boys from the Blue and Isis crews. I don’t expect they’ll arrive until very late because they’ll probably go to the Blues Ball first, and God knows what state they’ll be in by then. They may also decide to drown their sorrows, of course, if they lose.’
‘Do you think Oxford will win?’ Immy asks me, as if I have insider information.
I shrug. ‘Cambridge are slight favourites, aren’t they?’
Jocasta snorts. ‘They must be so pissed off after last year’s thrashing and out to get revenge, but who knows? Anything can happen. Remember that guy who jumped in front of the boats a couple of years ago? I can’t remember his name now.’
‘Twat,’ says Immy with a vicious slurp of her Pimm’s. ‘We lost that race because of him.’
‘What time is the start?’ I ask.
‘It’s scheduled for half past three. Most people should be here by then, although some of them like to watch the race from the pub or one of the bridges. Of course, quite a few aren’t interested in the race at all, so the real party won’t get going until late.’
Immy’s teeth start to chatter and my fingers are numb. Jocasta takes pity on us.
‘Shall we go back inside for now?’
My throat is hoarse from shouting, my hands are numb from the cold and my hair is blown around like a wild thing, but Oxford have won. We’re all gathered in front of the TV now, about thirty of us squeezed into the sitting room, watching the Oxford squad throwing their cox into the river. Cambridge have a look of sheer devastation, standing to one side, with no purpose any more after all the months of training. Despite the gleeful jibes from some of the guests, some of whom have friends in the Dark Blue boat, I actually feel sorry for the defeated Cambridge team.
Corks pop as magnums of Moët are opened and the waiting staff hand round flutes of champagne.
Jocasta has climbed on to a sofa. ‘To us!’ she shouts and everyone cheers.
‘There’s Scott again!’ Immy says, and Scott’s face flashes up on the screen. He’s being interviewed by a woman from the BBC. I don’t think I have ever seen him, or anyone, look so happy. I want to cry for him but I hold back the tears, because it most definitely wouldn’t be the done thing. I wonder if he will come along tonight. It would be nice to congratulate him. I haven’t seen him for ages, what with all the dramas in my life. I must get my priorities right from now on.
Even though I’m determined to enjoy myself, I can’t help feeling down; the way I parted from Alexander was so cold and bitter. The unfairness of his comments still stabs at me, even though he was upset and felt betrayed. He had the same look about him as when I confronted him about the nightmare. It’s like he has some kind of emergency switch inside that he activates when he feels threatened. I guess it’s a survival instinct he’s developed to protect himself but it leaves the people around him cut off. I don’t know how I lived on that knife edge now, no matter how glorious the sex, and how exhilarating the whole Hunt cocktail of glamour and excitement.
I must admit I felt alive e
very day I was with him and, yes, I wonder where he is now, even though I hate myself for allowing him to occupy my thoughts.
‘Are you OK?’ Immy gives my arm a little squeeze.
‘I was wondering if I should phone Emma. She was incredibly upset when Alexander and I had the row. She’s texted me a few times, saying she blames herself for splitting us up.’
‘Good. It was her fault.’
‘I replied a couple of times telling her not to stress about it, but I still feel sorry for her. She’s had such a horrible time.’
‘Does she know where Alexander’s gone?’
‘I think he told her it’s a training exercise in Wales, but I know it isn’t.’
‘Are you worried about him?’
‘No …’ I say. I’ve always worried before when Alexander has gone away but this time, I realize, there’s been so much going on, I haven’t really had time to think about that side of things.
Immy raises her eyebrows. ‘Have another Pimm’s?’
‘Maybe I ought to pace myself,’ I say ruefully, though the Pimm’s does look very tempting.
She smiles. ‘Yes, maybe we both should. I’ve got a feeling tonight’s going to be quite lively. I do hope Scott turns up.’
By the time Immy’s wish is finally granted, it’s well past midnight. Despite the effort of the race, and the fact I suspect he’s been drinking most of the evening, Scott looks fresh as a daisy and incredibly handsome in his tux. No wonder every female head turns to look at him. The guys slap him on the back, congratulating him, and one guy even kisses him smack on the mouth.
Scott pulls a face and makes a barfing noise but his mile-wide grin is soon in place again; I guess nothing can ever wipe it away now that he’s achieved his dream. I hang back, feeling awkward, with so much I want to say to him that I don’t say anything at all. I also feel slightly not myself, and this time it has everything to do with the Pimm’s, Moët and vodka cocktails I’ve been drinking since we arrived, despite my attempts to go slow on this.
