by Rosie Thomas
‘Ask away,’ Stephen smiled at her. He looked round and saw with pleasure than Tom and Oliver had gone. ‘Or better still, let me buy you a cup of coffee, and then you can ask me.’
With a touch of his hand at her elbow, Stephen turned Chloe round in the direction of the senior common room.
‘In here,’ he murmured.
Chloe found herself sitting in a deep, leather-covered armchair in a sombre, quiet room. There was a log fire at one end, and at the other a long table covered with a white cloth and trays of china and silver. There was a promising smell of fresh coffee.
This is more like it, she thought.
Chloe had already admitted to herself that her first few days in Oxford had been very short on glamour of any kind. She hadn’t come up expecting immediately to dine off gold plate in ancient halls while the greatest minds in the world sparred wittily around her, but neither had she anticipated quite so many anoraks and queues, and so much junk food served and eaten cheerlessly in plastic cafeterias. And Follies House had been lonely, echoingly quiet. She had heard the third lodger, Pansy whoever-it-was, arriving with huge quantities of luggage, but she had left again immediately, apparently for a long weekend. Helen had been there and Chloe would have liked to see her, but she had vanished disconcertingly early every morning with a forbidding pile of books. Chloe’s only chance of companionship had been with fat, chuckling Rose in her witches’ kitchen. Pride was the only thing that kept Chloe from turning tail and running back to London.
But this was different. This peaceful room with its scattered figures in black gowns was more what she had expected. And here was Stephen himself, leaning over to pour coffee, his eyes even bluer at close quarters than they had looked across the lecture room.
‘Cream? Sugar?’ he asked, then handed over a deep cup with, she saw in amused satisfaction, the University crest emblazoned on the side.
‘Well?’ he asked, smiling a lopsided smile that made Chloe shift a little in her chair and forget, for a moment, the bright opening that she had planned.
‘Ummm …’ Now they were both laughing. He’s nice, Chloe thought. Nicer than anyone I’ve met for, oh, a long, long time.
‘Dr Spurring,’ she began, but Stephen leaned across at once and rested his fingertips lightly, just for an instant, on her wrist.
‘Stephen,’ he told her. ‘Even my students call me that.’
‘I am a student,’ she told him, half regretfully. ‘A mature one, as they say. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about, as it happens. I’m very new to all this, you see. I haven’t read nearly enough. And I’ve been out of the way of – oh, just thinking properly, for years and years. Will you give me some advice about where to start? Tell me what to read, to begin with. Not just reading lists, but what’s really important. I feel at a disadvantage. And I’m not used to that,’ she finished, candidly. She had intended to make herself sound interesting for Stephen Spurring’s benefit, but she seemed to have blurted out something that was closer to the real truth. I’ve only made myself sound naive, Chloe thought, with irritation.
‘You? Feel at a disadvantage?’ Stephen leaned further back in his chair and grinned at her. ‘Come on … Chloe … look at yourself, and then look at those kids out there.’ He waved in the direction of the window and its view down a flight of steps crowded with people hurrying between classes. ‘Okay, apart from your obvious advantages, and you don’t need me to list those, you’re a little bit older. It can’t be by very much …’ he smiled again, into her eyes this time, ‘but you’ve had the chance to live some real life. Adult life. Which means you know yourself a whole lot better, and you understand people and their funny little motives more clearly. Isn’t that true?’
Chloe nodded slowly. ‘Yes, but …’
‘Listen. What could be more important, particularly in our field, in literature?’
Our field, Chloe thought, suddenly proud. I really am here, talking to this clever man, who’s still got the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen. Even better, he’s not going to start the bitchy business gossip in five seconds’ time, nor is he going to try to get me to put some work his way. I’m glad I’m here. This is where I want to be.
‘… what matters is what comes from you,’ Stephen was saying. ‘Your own ideas, drawn on your own experience. That’s better than having read and being able to regurgitate every work of criticism on every set text there is. And that’s why you’re lucky. Literature is about people, after all,’ he said softly. ‘Men. Women. Their loves and their tragedies. Yes?’
Yes, Chloe thought. ‘In your lecture you said …’ but Stephen interrupted her.
‘In my lecture, in my lecture. I’m a teacher. I have to put things across in a certain way because that’s what I’m paid to do. But as a human being, as a man, I might think differently. I’m not just a don, although students tend to forget that.’
I won’t tend to, Chloe told herself, I can promise you that.
‘You know,’ Stephen’s eyes travelled over her face, from her eyes to her mouth, ‘I envy you. Having put whatever, whoever it is behind you, to come here, you’re starting afresh. Make sure you enjoy it, won’t you?’
Was he challenging her? They were looking intently at each other as Chloe whispered, ‘Yes, I will,’ and it was a long moment before either of them spoke again. In the end it was Chloe who broke the silence. She reached forward to the silver pots. ‘More coffee?’
Stephen shook himself slightly. For both of them, it was the signal to slow down just a little. Chloe always thought that the anticipation was half the fun, and she didn’t want whatever was going to happen with Stephen Spurring to unfold too quickly. She was delighted to find that Stephen’s understanding matched her perfectly.
‘Thank you. Well,’ he said, in quite a different, polite voice, ‘what does bring you here? Thirst for learning, or something more necessary?’
He was an easy audience, Chloe found. She made the edited version of why she had decided to come to Oxford sound as amusing as she could, and she gave him a quick, vivid sketch of her London advertising life. Stephen laughed with her, admiring her animated face as she talked. The morning’s good humour consolidated itself inside him. At length, he made himself look at his watch.
‘Oh God, I’m due to watch some auditions at twelve. I must go.’
‘With the young Apollo and his business manager?’
Stephen laughed. ‘Exactly. I’d forgotten you were there.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The tall fair one is Lord Oliver Mortimore.’
Chloe saw again the aquiline good looks and the unmistakable hauteur in Oliver’s bearing as he stood back to watch the world go by. Just as if it was there for his benefit alone, she thought, and her heart sank for Helen’s sake. Helen’s eyes had been just too bright when she talked about him, and her bewildered eagerness had been just too obvious. Chloe sighed. A mismatch, she thought, if ever there was one, and the only person likely to be damaged by that was Helen herself. Well, perhaps it would come to nothing anyway.
‘Do you know him, then?’ Stephen was asking.
‘No. It’s just that a friend of mine does. And who was the other, the business manager?’
‘You’re quite close to the truth, as it happens. Tom Hart, son of Greg Hart and heir to just about the entire New York theatre business.’
‘What can he be doing here?’ Chloe asked, interested. Hart was a famous name.
‘God knows. Nothing to do with the University. He’s got an assistant directorship at the Playhouse, so I suppose he’s dabbling in front of the scenery instead of behind it. He seems to have a dramatically clear idea of who he wants to know over here, anyway. He attached himself to young Mortimore within days of arriving in Oxford, and now he’s cast him as Orlando. Not that they make a bad pair – they’re both as self-satisfied as each other. I’m responsible for seeing that they don’t make a travesty of the production …’ Stephen made a quick, boyish face, ‘… and
so I try to sit in on things from time to time.
‘Look, why don’t you come along too, if you’re not doing anything else? It might interest you; they’re looking for Hart’s idea of the perfect Rosalind.’
‘Yes, why not?’ Chloe wanted to see if her first impression of Oliver had been the right one, and she was more than happy to spend another hour in Stephen’s company.
Once more she felt the light touch of Stephen’s guiding hand at her elbow, and they walked down the steps together and out into the wintry sunshine. As they turned in the direction of the theatre, Stephen peeled off his gown and bundled it under his arm. Chloe tucked her hands deep into her pockets and let herself enjoy the cold air in her face and the play of the light on the stonework around them. They were crossing the inner quadrangle of the great library, the Bodleian, and unconsciously Chloe’s step slowed as she looked up at the ancient façades.
‘Mmm, yes,’ Stephen said beside her. ‘I must have walked through here a million times, and it can still stop me dead in my tracks. On the right day, and in the right company, of course.’
They paused for an instant in silence, and as Chloe’s gaze travelled downwards she caught sight of a familiar, slight figure. Helen was standing under the great arch that led through into Broad Street, silhouetted against the intricate tracery of the wrought-iron gates. She was carrying a stack of books that looked too heavy for her thin arms, and was struggling to hoist a heavy bag over her shoulder.
Chloe waved at once, and called out, ‘Helen! Over here!’
Helen stopped at once and they caught up with her a moment later. It was Chloe, she saw, with Stephen Spurring. She couldn’t prevent a smile from escaping. It was so perfectly in character that Chloe should already have secured for herself a tête-à-tête with the heart-throb of the faculty. Helen herself suspected that Stephen was more two-dimensional than the image he projected, but she was well aware that he cut a wide and successful swathe through the hordes of women surrounding him.
‘I was just going to lunch,’ she told them quickly, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was they were doing together. ‘If you go early it doesn’t take so long, and I want to get back to work …’
‘Hello, Helen,’ said Stephen easily. ‘I haven’t seen you since last term, have I? Good Vac?’
Helen bit her lip, but it wasn’t a question that needed to be answered. Stephen had cocked his head to one side to read the titles of the books under her arm.
‘Mmm, mmm, good. Oh, don’t bother with that one,’ he pointed. He was effortlessly back in the role of teacher again.
Impulsively, Chloe took Helen’s arm. ‘Look, we’re going to the Playhouse to hear some girls audition for your friend Oliver’s play. Come with us. That’ll be all right, Stephen, won’t it?’
‘I should think so,’ Stephen said without enthusiasm. He would have preferred to keep this effervescent, glowing girl to himself rather than have half the students in town accompanying them.
‘Really?’ Helen’s face lit with a wash of colour that spread over her pale cheeks. ‘I’d love to come along and watch. You know, Tom Hart even asked me to have a go, so I’d be intrigued to see what people have to do.’
It was something else that had brought the blush to her cheeks. Oliver had asked her, too, one morning during the breathless week that had just passed.
He had come strolling into the library where she was working and she heard the rustle of people turning to stare before she looked up herself. Oliver leaned over and took the pen out of her fingers before kissing the knuckles. The girl next to Helen gasped audibly.
‘Come and be my Rosalind,’ he said. He made no attempt to whisper and she heard his voice carrying to the far corners of the room. But no-one tried to say hush to Oliver.
‘I can’t act,’ she murmured.
Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A good thing too. Don’t ever try to act with me, because I’ll know.’ He kissed her, a gentle experimental kiss as if they were alone in the world. Even here, Helen felt herself tremble in response. ‘No,’ he said meditatively. ‘You don’t pretend anything.’
Helen left her papers in a drift on the desk and stumbled out of the library.
Oliver followed her, bestowing his dazzling smile on the rows of readers.
‘Oliver,’ she gasped, shaking with laughter, ‘don’t do this. What must all those people think, in there?’
There was a narrow stone window beside them, with a dizzy view down to an oval of lawn set like a green jewel in an ancient ring. He drew her into the window embrasure and held her there against the smooth stone.
‘It doesn’t matter to us,’ he told her, ‘what anyone thinks. Does it?’
Helen looked up into his tanned face and saw his tongue against his even teeth. ‘No,’ she said, almost believing him. ‘Not one bit.’
Oliver reached out to her and undid one button at her throat.
‘Cold, and then hotter than fire,’ he murmured. ‘You know, I came to ask if you would sit in at a rehearsal for us. Read Rosalind’s lines and help me to concentrate. But now I don’t feel like rehearsing at all. Come back to the House with me. Now.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Oh yes, Helen, you can.’
They laughed at each other, and she repeated, delighted at how easy it was, ‘Oh yes, I can.’
He took her hand and they ran down the spiral stairs, along a cobbled lane and across a little square, and out into the brightness of Canterbury Quad. Oliver banged his oak behind them and locked the inner door.
‘You see?’ he asked. ‘It’s easy.’
‘Yes,’ Helen said. His closeness chased everything else out of her head. She was shaken by her own urgency, and she looked down unbelievingly at her own hands between them.
‘Never say you can’t,’ he said, with his mouth at her throat and then moving so that his tongue traced a slow circle around her breast. ‘There isn’t much time.’
Helen felt a beat of cold anxiety. She looked down sharply but his face was hidden from her.
‘Why?’ she asked, feeling that she was stupidly not understanding something. ‘Surely there’s all the time we need?’
She wanted to look into his eyes, but his head was still bent. She thought that there was something stiff about his shoulders.
‘There’s only ever now, this moment,’ he said. ‘Try to understand that. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘You won’t,’ she reassured him.
But even as he reached to unleash the floodwater dammed up inside her, she was sure that he would hurt her. At that moment she knew too that she didn’t care.
‘I love you,’ she said afterwards, so softly that she was sure it was inaudible. But Oliver stirred and opened his eyes. He stared at her before his quick smile came back.
‘That’s very reckless of you,’ he told her, and she couldn’t gauge his seriousness from his voice. ‘Shall we go out to lunch? We definitely need to be fortified after expending all that energy. I think oysters and Guinness, don’t you?’
The moment was past and she let Oliver take her hands and draw her to her feet. He watched her dressing so appreciatively that she forgot her embarrassment, and she felt herself growing more comfortable with him.
Outside, the black Jaguar was parked in a space marked ‘Reserved for the Dean’. When Helen was settled in the low seat, Oliver bent so that their eyes were level.
‘I like you. And I enjoy your company,’ he said. Then, as if the admission surprised him, he vaulted into his seat and the car shot forward into the cold air.
If this is all, Helen thought, it will just have to be enough. It’s more, much more, than I’ve ever had before.
Helen stared unseeingly at Chloe and Stephen, deep in conversation just ahead of her. In just a few minutes she would see Oliver again. A blurry kind of happiness mixed with apprehension gripped her, and for a panicky moment she thought that her knees might give way beneath her. Then as they reached the door of the Playhouse,
she saw Chloe and Stephen pause for her to catch up, and she hurried blindly forward.
The unflattering house lights were on inside the theatre, revealing the worn red plush seats and the threadbare patches in the crimson carpet between them. Three or four people were sprawling in the front stalls, with Tom Hart’s dark head prominent among them. Helen took all this in in a second, and then she saw Oliver. He was sitting centre stage with his legs dangling over the edge, intent on a paperback copy of the play.
Stephen strode down the centre aisle towards them.
‘Right,’ he said crisply. ‘Let’s not waste time.’ He settled himself in the third row, and Chloe and then Helen slid in beside him.
Oliver looked up. There was a flicker of surprise when he saw Helen, then a cheerful wave of greeting. He held up his play text with a grimace, then went back to studying it.
Helen was oblivious to everything else. She missed Tom Hart’s brief nod of greeting, and the frisson of irritation which vibrated between Tom and Stephen.
‘You won’t mind my bringing a little audience to keep you on your toes,’ Stephen said easily.
‘Not particularly,’ Tom answered. ‘Okay, everybody. We’re reading Act Three, Scene Two, Rosalind and Orlando. Ready?’
Chloe watched the director with interest. With his quick, economical movements and his authoritative manner, he looked a natural leader. His dark, sardonic, goods looks interested her without attracting her. An arrogant young man, she thought, as she watched him positioning Oliver and the plump girl who was to read Rosalind. But clever, too.
Tom had settled himself at the back of the stalls.
‘When you’re ready,’ he called, and the scene began.
‘I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him …’
‘Speak up, Anne. We hope that the audience will fill more than just the front row.’ Tom’s voice was cool, businesslike. The scene started up again.
