The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2

by Pippa Croft

  The moment I step out of the shelter of the portico, my hair and coat are drenched, but I don’t care. I stumble down the street in the dark and rain, tears pouring down my face. I’ve had far too much booze or I wouldn’t waste a tear on any of them, Rupert, Valentina, or even Alexander. Eventually, I see a black cab and I step into the gutter and stick out my hand.

  London flies past in a neon blur, obscured by the raindrops chasing down the windows. I’m tired, I keep telling myself as the tears run down my face. Even though he’s unreasonable, maddening and unfair, I still struggle to believe Alexander would string me along while sleeping with Valentina. But there’s a small niggle there, as Valentina knew there would be, that makes me wonder. God knows, she was right when she said he does his duty. He’d definitely have no problem at all about finishing with me and telling me why, if he wanted to get back with her.

  Yet, even now, I see his hand on her butt at the hunt ball, and the way he let her crawl all over him.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  All the insight in the world isn’t helping me feel any less shitty than I do now and I don’t like the face that stares back at me from the window, miserable, unravelled and forlorn. That face is not mine; it’s not me. I take a deep breath, and another, and try to calm down. By the time we reach Immy’s flat, I’ve stopped crying and a new determination has taken hold of me. I’d like to say it was steely, but it’s far too brittle to be called that.

  I hand over most of the notes in my wallet to the driver and let myself into the apartment, thanking every lucky star that Immy insisted I have my own key when we first arrived.

  I strip off my wet clothes, dry my hair on a towel and crawl into bed, even though it’s past four a.m. and I wonder if it’s worth getting into bed at all. Nine weeks ago, I landed in this city, ready to make a fresh start. Instead, it’s been a term of angst and trouble. I hate the drama, the uncertainty, the lack of trust and the fact things are getting so serious that they have affected my studies and dreams for the future – yet I have to admit I can’t quite get Alexander out of my head.

  There, I admitted it, and I hate myself for it more than I ever have.

  There’s no point in trying to sleep while I’m in this mood so I switch on the light and sit up in bed, but that only makes my head throb like crazy. No wonder – I started on the booze at three p.m. I get out of bed and fetch a glass of water from the bathroom, trying to remember in which of my bags I put the Advil. After opening all the zippers of two bags, my brain feels like it’s pulsating, but there’s no sign of the pills. Finally, I resort to the trolley case. The pills must be there, in the compartment under the lid. My relief at finding the packet is overwhelmed by another discovery, one that temporarily eclipses the pain in my head.

  The blister pack of pills is there, and so is something else: a small white envelope addressed to ‘Ms Cusack’ in handwriting that I know instantly. What I do not know is how this letter got in my case: not only did I not put it in, it wasn’t here when I unpacked a few days ago. I know that because I now remember the last time I needed the Advil, for the period pains that seized me when I first arrived at Immy’s. I took two pills and the letter was not there then, and nothing will convince me otherwise. Sleep deprivation and being hungover can’t explain it.

  Even as I run my finger under the edge of the envelope, sawing at the edge of the thick paper, my hands aren’t quite steady.

  Inside, there are two sheets of white notepaper, heavy and creased sharply so that each half is precisely the same size. Opening them in my lap, I flatten out the crease with my palm.

  Alexander’s bold script, sloping to the right, fills each side of the sheets. The words flow along in thick whorls of dark-blue ink. I picture the fountain pen in his hand and him sitting at his desk, writing the letter. Then I read on and realize it may not have been written at Falconbury at all but in some barrack room or hut.

  Dear Lauren,

  By now, you’ll probably be back in Washington. Probably still hating the sight of me – and I can’t say I blame you – because I wasn’t the nicest person the last time you saw me. In fact, I may have behaved like a total shit.

  May have behaved like a total shit?

  Perhaps I should have phoned you to tell you what’s in this letter, but I wasn’t sure you’d take the call nor that we wouldn’t have ended up shouting at each other again.

  Closer to the truth is that I’m being a coward and find it easier to put what I want to say down on paper. Not that I’m given to this sort of stuff, as you’ll see.

  I’ve a couple of letters to write at the moment, because it’s what we always do before we go on an op like this, ‘just in case’. It’s a pain in the arse and, as you can guess, it tends to sour the party atmosphere somewhat. However, it falls to me to bully the guys into doing it and I’m supposed to lead by example, so …

  Here’s the thing, Lauren. After you left, it occurred to me how fucking ridiculous it is to leave off saying the things we need to say until after we’re dead. That is, as you might put it, ‘crazy’.

  I shake my head and realize I’m smiling and crying at the same time. I turn over the page.

  So, here goes. I suppose I owe you an explanation of why I kicked off when I found out you knew Emma was still sleeping with Henry Favell.

  Suppose he owes me an explanation! That’s an understatement. I rub my hand over my face, wiping away the tears. No wonder he didn’t want to phone me, not that I’d have answered the call, of course. Of course not, Lauren. Fuck, a tear splashes on to the paper and I brush it away with my fingertip, blurring some of the words. There’s a few words missing but I get the gist.

  I think you know that Henry and I were at school together. He was two years above me at Eton, in fact, and it won’t surprise you to know that he was a grade-A tosser even then. Cutting a long and sordid story short, he made my life a misery, particularly so after my mother died. I was thirteen, and when I’d recovered from the accident and was sent back to school, the nightmares started. Henry was in the same dorm as me and he made the most of it, taunting me for crying at night and calling me ‘loony’ and ‘mental case’. There were other things too, but I’ll spare you the details of those.

  ‘Why? Why spare me, when you’ve started?’

  I’m talking to the air here, but I can’t help it. I want to know everything. I also have to stop reading and take a few deep breaths before I pick up the letter again, watching the writing grow smaller and tighter and the letters slope more steeply.

  Now, I’d laugh in Cavell’s face before I punched it, but back then, after my mother died, I simply couldn’t handle it. I suppose I could have gone to the staff, but there was absolutely no way I was going to draw any more attention to myself and, of course, no one ever told on another boy, no matter how much of a misery he made your life. As for telling my father, I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions what use that would have been.

  By the way, Emma knows nothing of the bullying and thinks I hate Henry only because he may be after her inheritance (which he is, of course, but that’s another matter). There’s something else too that I don’t want to put down on paper, but let’s forget that. All you need to know is that I don’t want him anywhere near Emma.

  After hearing all of this, you may wonder why Henry was at the ball at all, but the Favells are – were – old hunting friends of my parents. My father invited them, and he had no idea of what had gone on between Emma, Favell and me.

  Are you still reading? Thinking I’m a coward and obsessed? Hating me, still, for the way I blanked you that morning?

  In that case, there’s nothing I can do, but I needed to tell someone – you – about my reasons and the way I feel.

  I’ll probably be home soon and regret I ever sent this. I may even be back by now, but if not, you should know that where I’ve gone and what I’m doing means they won’t be giving me a medal – posthumous or otherwise – and you won’t hear about it on the news either.
So if my corner of a foreign field ends up being some dusty hellhole, be a friend to Emma for me, would you? Because I know, now, that you meant well, and I shouldn’t have judged you so harshly. I do see what a difficult position you found yourself in, though I couldn’t see it at the time.

  I race straight on to the second sheet.

  So, it seems I’m on to a second page, having intended to write only a brief note. Maybe I won’t send the first one, maybe I’ll only send this one. I don’t know where you are right now, who you’re with – if it’s Scott, I guess I’ll have to suck it up. I know he will.

  But. If you’re not with Scott, you’d better watch out.

  Because if I ever get the chance again, I’m going to carry you off somewhere and lock the door on the rest of the world. I’m going to peel off those hundred-dollar knickers I know you’re wearing, Ms Cusack, and have you until neither of us has the energy left to walk or speak or even think. I know you thought I was joking when I said I could break into your room any time I wanted and you wouldn’t even know about it.

  So, how do you think this letter got into your bag?

  What? ‘My God, you are unbelievable, Alexander Hunt!’

  Ah, now I’m smiling because I can picture your face, hear your gasp of outrage and feel you bristling with indignation. I may be joking about that but this much is absolutely true: I want you so badly it physically hurts, and all I can think about is having you back in my bed, naked, probably furious with me, perhaps rightly, but there despite everything. Because I think you can’t stay away from me, Lauren, and I know damn well I can’t stay away from you.

  The letter trembles between my fingertips, yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the words.

  I know you’ve hated me at times – perhaps most of the time – and especially now, but I swear this: if I ever get the chance, I’m going to make good on all the things I’ve lain awake promising myself I’d do.

  Sweet dreams.

  With love,

  Alexander x

  He hasn’t quite reached the bottom of the page. There’s still an inch or so of white space beneath the sign-off and the kiss. The solitary kiss.

  I lay the letter across my lap, shell-shocked. I can see the blue marks on the page but I can’t read them any more. The ink smudges and blurs and I have to push the paper away from me before his words merge into one inky blot and I literally can’t read it. I ask myself the question: does this letter make any difference to the way I feel about him? Do I want to see him again? Touch him? Have him make good on his threat?

  The answer won’t come, or rather so many conflicting answers invade my head at once that I can’t find the right one. Maybe there is no right one.

  I get back into bed and lie down.

  I’m going to carry you off somewhere and lock the door on the rest of the world.

  The curtains are drawn; they’re black-out curtains to shut out the neon-orange street lamp outside the window.

  How do you think this letter got into your bag?

  I reach for the rocker switch on the lamp and the room is plunged into darkness. Total blackness at first, but gradually my eyes adjust. I hold my hand in front of my face, turning my fingers this way and that. I think I can see the outline of my hand, or maybe my brain is filling in what my eyes can’t see.

  I strain my ears; of course I can hear things. This is London, an apartment block. Even on Sunday morning, through the double glazing, there is noise: cars in the street, birds singing, the creak of floorboards and footsteps above me. The world is waking up but I turn over and lie face down, the pillow soft against my cheek, the darkness absolute now because I have my eyes closed. He said he’d peel off my knickers.

  I push my hands down the front of my pyjama shorts.

  I touch myself, trying to remember how it felt to have his hands upon me, caressing my breasts. The ache in my breasts as he undressed me and the tight, almost painful contraction deep inside me when he looked at me.

  I wriggle my pyjama shorts down my hips and press my fingers to my clit, now a swollen bud that blossoms under my fingers. In my fantasy, the door closes and the scrape of a key in the lock echoes around the room. Alexander bears down on me, the sensual intent burning in his eyes, while I back away. My legs bump against the bed and I know there is nowhere to hide or run.

  All I can think about is having you back in my bed, naked.

  He reaches out suddenly, grabbing my arm. I overbalance and cry out in shock when he pushes me down on to the bed, pinning my arms over my head, flattening me on to the duvet.

  I’m going to make good on all the things I’ve lain awake promising myself I’d do.

  Without warning, he sits astride me, pinning me to the bed, both iron-hard thighs planted either side of my legs. I’m saying ‘no’ inside my head, but the sound isn’t coming out. He undoes the button of my jeans and tugs them roughly down my thighs. Then he gets off me, and I’m still paralysed, body and tongue, when he strips my jeans down over my legs.

  He moves back on to the bed, kneeling beside me, so swiftly; everything is happening all at once and some of it over and over. Before I can do anything, his hand is at my waist and finally I cry out at the sting of lace and silk being torn from my hips, at the ripping sound. Then I hear and see and feel it again, even more vividly this time: the brutal parting of my panties from my flesh, the destruction of the delicate lace, the exposure of my intimate parts.

  As I replay this violation again, I squirm against the duvet, touching myself, imagining that it’s him – longing for it to be him – stroking me, teasing me, bringing me slowly towards my climax.

  The bed dips as the fantasy Alexander climbs astride me. I think he would tie me up – yes, with the cords to the bedposts. I’m helpless and blinded. I have some kind of mask on – he put it there – and the springs creak and the hair on his thighs brushes against the tender inside of my legs as he kneels between them. His erection is huge, hard, hot and thick. A voice keeps saying ‘no’ in my fantasy, yet I still open my legs wider, inviting him, teasing him, waiting for him.

  ‘I’ll have you until neither of us has the energy left to walk or speak or even think,’ he tells me, nudging inside me.

  He drives straight into me.

  I screw my eyes tightly shut, and my body spasms and my orgasm overtakes me. It pulses through me, and just when I think it’s over, it takes me again. It’s half a minute before I open my eyes to find the room still dark, and the same workaday noises intrude again. There’s no Alexander standing by the bed, of course. It was pure fantasy, on his part and mine. There’s no sound of Immy either, moving about in the bedroom next door or making coffee in the kitchen down the hall.

  I get up to use the bathroom, take the Advil and crawl back under the duvet, hoping the world will just go away.

  There’s a buzzing in my ears. I’m not sure where it is or what it is, but I don’t like it. It goes on and on while I pick clothes off the bed, looking for the source of the noise. I throw the pillows on the floor, pull open the drawers of the dresser, rip my dresses off the hangers. I can’t find it and I know I have to. I have to find the buzzing noise or something terrible will happen. Just as I find it and realize it’s my phone, the buzzing stops.

  Almost immediately, it starts again and my eyelids flutter open. It is my phone, not a dream or a fantasy but real. It’s right next to me on the nightstand, throbbing angrily, accusing me of ignoring it.

  I make a grab for it, knocking it on to the wooden floor with a clatter. I scrabble for it and stab in the code.

  ‘Immy?’

  The phone’s clamped to my ear as I lie across the bed, half in and out of the covers.

  ‘Ms Cusack? Ms Lauren Cusack?’ An English voice, crisp, female, unfamiliar, speaks. It’s barely eight a.m. Who would call at this hour on a Sunday? How does this woman know who I am?

  I answer slowly, reluctant to own up to my name. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘I believe you know Captain Ale
xander Hunt, of Falconbury House, Oxfordshire?’

  ‘Yes, I know Alexander, but who is this?’

  ‘It’s Sister Dixon from the Royal Infirmary here. I’m sorry to tell you that Captain Hunt has been involved in a serious incident.’

  I’m still lying half on and off the bed, the blood pounding in my ears. ‘What? What are you saying? Oh Jesus …’ Icy fingers clutch at my stomach.

  ‘Before he went into theatre, Captain Hunt asked us to contact you because his sister is underage.’

  I scramble up on to the bed. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. ‘What happened? How is he? Is he going to be OK?’

  ‘He’s in theatre at the moment.’ That’s not what I asked you, damn you; I asked if he’d be OK.

  Her cool, crisp voice resonates against my ear. ‘Is there anyone who can come with you to the hospital?’

  ‘No. No one. No one but me.’

  There’s a pause, one that seems to go on for ever. ‘I see. If you can get here, I think you should come as soon as possible.’

  Acknowledgements

  Once again I have so many people to thank for their help with the research for this book, including Leah Larson, John Schulze, Catherine Jones, Lizzie Forbes, Debra Ross and my US friends. Also many thanks to Nell Dixon and Elizabeth Hanbury for their continued encouragement, hugs and the coffee and cakes.

  I also want to apologize for the fact that while I’ve tried to be as feasible as I can re military and Oxbridge ways, etc., this book is wholly fictional – which is why the Boat Race is two weeks earlier than in Real Life. If I’ve backed the wrong winner, I’m sorry.

  Thanks to Broo, my agent, who is a gem beyond price, and to the awesome team at Penguin, especially Alex Clarke, Clare Bowron, Charlotte Brabbin, Bea, Emma and the energetic publicity, sales and marketing team.