Words were had in the appropriate places. The Gridiron Club. Vincent’s, where Oxford sporting Blues with match’
49
ing blue blood liked to get very druuk on flue port. The Disraeli Society. And all the older, established colleges, which despite their PR to the outside world liked things exactly the way they had always bceu - Oriel, Lincoln, Jesus, Balliol, Queen’s, and especially Trinity. Only Christ Church held back. Rowena was one of their own.
And that was what really got the boys going. Because Rowena was being defiant. Charles Gordon’s daughter, educated at St Mary’s, Ascot, she should have known better. Gilbert and Peter could hay6 arranged the Presidency for her next term. But she still insisted on fighting them. And on pickiug her own team.
It was obvious that Gordou was walking away from the whole deal. She had hung around with that brash American practically since she came up. She talked loudly about going
.
into the music industry, of all things. She was a feminist. She was a traitor.
They would teach her a lesson.
If Gilbert Docker could have seeu underneath the cool mask Rowena was presenting to Oxford, he might have rlaxcd a little. At the moment, with all the orgauizing and whispering and trading of favours he could pull off, the relentless work of the other slate still put them ahead, and
most people saw Rowena herself as their greatest strength. They didu’t know what Peter Kennedy did. Rowena Gordon was out of control.
She gasped. Peter’s hands had moved from her thighs to her nipples, brushing her skin with’ the feathcrlight touch he knew fired her up most. She was slippery wet betwecu the legs, loving bow he felt iuside her, his cock pushing deeper and deeper into the quick heart of her pleasure, his gentle rhythm never faltering, never lctting up, scuding a light, sweet orgasm rippling across her stomach, and then another a fcw minutcs later, just enough prcssurc for one or two contractions, keeping her hot, ucvcr ]ctting her reach the final climax.
50
‘It’s not so bad, is it?’ Peter teased. ‘Sleeping with the enemy?’
‘I’m Mata Hari,’ Rowcna mauagcd. ‘Usiug you.’
He gave a low, confident chuckle and auswered her with an exquisite little twist of the hips, stroking her inside her body, letting her respouse speak for itself.
Rowcua moaned with pleasure. This close to orgasm, she forgot all the other emotions that crowded into her mind whenever Peter came round. The guilt. The jealousy, because he was still seeing Topaz. The shame, at not being able to dismiss him. And the bittersweet joy at seeing him again.
Every time, Rowcna said it was the last.
It never was.
She was simply no match for him. Closed away in a convcut school, a virgiu, faintly contemptuous of boys, Rowcua had never come across anyone who called to her body like Peter did. She had been a cold girl, determined, closed-off, proud; Topaz Rossi had been the first really close friend she’d had. For the sake of that friendship, she’d tried to hide her feelings. She’d even turned Peter down at the ball.
It wasn’t enough. Her desire was too strong.
She drew back from Topaz, refusing to admit to herself what she was doing. After all, there were a thousand excuses. Topaz was all wroug for Peter. Too brazen. Too forcigu. Too poor. And she was perfect: from the same country, the same background, the same class. Kennedy was a gentleman, she was a lady. Prejudices which Rowena had fought against all her life, which she’d always despised, she started using to convince herself of what she uccded to believe. She became cold and distant when Topaz tried to talk to her. Told herself the friendship was a mismatch from the start.
‘Do it again,’ Rowena said, intently. Her nipples were throbbing with pleasure. ‘Again. Now.’
‘You’re good,’ Peter whispered, excited. It was true. She was a uatural at sex. She loved it. The way she leapt under
5
his touch aroused him. She responded to every tiny caress,
every hot glance, every touch of his fingers. Even that first time, she had come. Cold, haughty Rowena Gordon.
Kennedy grinned to himself, thrusting deeper into her. Life was full of surprises.
Topaz Rossi walked along Broad Street, heading towards Christ Church. She was in a good mood. Unlike all the English kids who took it for granted, the beauty of Oxford always enchanted her. Compared with small-town New Jersey, this is another planet, she thought, looking across at the wrought-iron gates protecting Trinity’s immaculate gardens, the spectacular busts of the Roman emperors ringed round the entrance to the Sheldonian Theatre.
Some scholars cycled past her, long black robes billowing out behind them, on their way to Blackwell’s, the university’s bookstore of choice. She smiled, wondering whether they were picking up obscure textbooks or a sex-packed trashy novel. One of the things Topaz liked best about studying here was that it could just as easily be either.
“She turned down towards the main Hertford entrance, glancing into the courtyard of the Bodleian, Oxford’s main library and one of the finest in the world. Topaz walked around there sometimes just for the sheer beauty of it, but you couldn’t take out books there, so she didn’t use it often. She was a modern girl. She preferred to study in her rooms, where she could make a cup of coffee and listen to Aretha Franklin.
A couple of young Cherwell wannabes waved hi to her. They were assigned to the arts pages, covering some new student production at the Playhouse.
‘How’s the report going?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ the younger girl replied. ‘Looks like a couple of West End scouts were in the audience last night. I want to interview Mary Jackson, since she’s directing.’
‘What she means is, she wants a part in the next one,’ her friend said, grinning. The other girl hit her.
52
‘As long as we get our story,’ Topaz told them, feeling extremely grown-up. She wasn’t in the mood to rain on anybody’s parade just now. She was on her way to surprise
Peter, she couldn’t wait to see him. Life was good.
The two girls waved and walked away.
Topaz pushed back her mass of red curls from her face, enjoying the easy camaraderie of the moment. Some American kids had a tough time here; not understanding the dry English teasing, they left Oxford convinced that the natives hated all foreigners with a passion and Americans in particular. Topaz knew better.
‘Or maybe Rowena’s just blinded me to their faults, she thought.
Or maybe Peter has.
Her skin still felt warm where he’d caressed it that morning. Where he’d licked off the champagne. ‘A congratulations present,’ he’d said, ‘for finishing your second article for national paper.’
It was a good article, too. She’d submit it as Soon as the first one had been published, after the elections. Rowcna would be thrilled, once she was a bit less nervous and stressed-out. She’d been acting weird lately.
Topaz paused for a second at the top of Oriel Square, the back entrance into Peter’s college, thinking about her article, her lover and her friend, letting it all sbimnaer round her head. The soft warmth of the sunshine beat down on the nape of her neck. She felt like she was taking a bath in pure happiness.
Rowena felt the fist in her chest again. Like she couldn’t breathe, certainly couldn’t cry. Agut reaction, probably, to help her kccp control.
‘We have to stop,’ she said bleakly. ‘I shouldn’t have done this.’
Peter offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head. ‘But you did do it,’ he said.
A sense of power came to him. That every time he could overcome her scruples, her conscience, whatcverl
53
It appealed strongly to his vanity to know that he could fuck
both Topaz Rossi and Rowena Gordon in the same day.
Not that Rowena knew that, of course. But she knew he
was still seeing her best friend. And that counted.
Tve told you before, I have to let Topaz down gently,’ he continued. ‘I thought we’d agreed on that.’
Rowena was silent, staring at the wall. Shame and heartache and restless desire were all mixed up inside her.
‘What is it? The election?’ Peter demanded. ‘You know
how I feel. I have to keep my word. What we have together
is nothing to do with politics.’
She shook her head, no. They both knew that the sex was
better because they were opponents. It added another edge.
‘What about your word to Topaz?’
‘You said it was the last time yesterday,’ he reminded her cruelly.
Rowena flushed. It was true. Yet again she’d given in; partly as a result of her deep craving for him, partly because he’d refused to let up. He’d climbed up the drainpipe outside her window, sent her two dozen red roses and a bottle of vintage champagne. He’d sat next to her at every meal in Hall. Waited for her in the porters’ lodge when she came to get her morning post. He had been as insistent as a Sherman tank and as romantic as Lord Byron. It was almost a relief to give in to him, to let him do what she longed for him to do.
We’re at the same college, Rowena thought. I can’t get
away from him.
Out loud, she said, ‘I mean it. This isn’t about not hurting Topaz. It’s about you refusing to give either of us up.’ She wanted to cry.
‘You’re the one I want,’ Peter said carefully, hearing a
new note in her voice. He took her in his arms.
Despite herself, Rowena felt too weak to resist. She wanted him to comfort her. To tell her he loved her, that it would all be OK.
‘Topaz is my best friend,’ she said. A fresh wave of shame
beat up in her. How could she say that? She’d sneered at her, despised her, pulled rank on her, the works. All .because
Topaz had done the uuforgivable thing. She’d been betrayed. And Rowena had let a guilty person’s dislike for their victim take over.
Peter looked dowu at the sexy, lithe body, stiff in his arms. At those full lips set dead agaiust him, strong with rejection.
Neither of them noticed the door swing open. Neither of them saw they were beiug watched.
‘What are you talking about?’ he said. ‘You were the person who told me the whole thing was crazy. A hick from New Jersey and a girl like you. She wouldn’t even help you with me, remember? I seem to recall you told me last night you’d break ifoffafter the election. She does edit Cherwell, after all.’
He touched her cheek, softly. ‘Dou’t blame Topaz Rossi for what you feel about me. She doesn’t matter to you. Dou’t try and hide behind that. You owe me better.’
‘Hide what?’ Rowena murmured. The smell of him, the nearness of him. She wanted to cling to him. She didn’t want to let him go.
‘The fact that you don’t love me,’ Peter said.
‘That’s not true.’
There was a pause, while he sensed her sexual heat blossom again.
‘Show me,’ he said, and Rowena, with a little sob of capitulation, lifted her lips to his.
At the door, Topaz found her eyes had brimmed over with tears, so she could hardly see. She blinked, and felt the salt water roll away down her cheeks. In total silence, she backed into the corridor.
Neither of them noticed her go.
The Cherwell offices were crammed. It was Wednesday, the final review meeting day for copy. Everything had to be filed by Thursday afternoon and they went to print that night. The atmosphere was fun, a cocktail of apprehension: excitement, moalfing about the work. Seventh week of
55
Trinity Term was going to be a thick edition, too. There was sports news from the rowing, gossip from the various college balls, a bundle of recruitment ads, advice on the final examinations for unfortunate third and fourth years, and, of course, the Union elections. And that didn’t even touch on the features: benefits, computing and the city homeless. Students were jamming the place. It was a good paper to write for, a good thing to put on the r6sum6. And, since Topaz Rossi had taken over, everybody read it. Shock and amaze your friends! They were future media barons. They were ready to go.
People stopped chattering when Topaz and Sebastien walked in together. The editors had that kind of presence: good for a laugh, motivational, fun to work with, but you shut up when they told you to. Topaz never settled for
second-rate writing, photography or design.
You got it right, or you were out.
‘OK’, Topaz said. She was wearing a sexy outfit, a cutoff black tank top that emphasized her magnificent breasts and bared her flat midriff, teamed with low-slung black 5oI’s which hugged her ass. Her red hair was wound into a c6il and piled loosely on the top of her head, letting a few rebellious strands swing round her temples. Uncharacteristically, she was also wearing make-up: a dash ofcolour on her high cheekbones, soft brown eyeshadow, an inviting pink lipstick. Long chain earrings swung from her lobes, following every movement of her head. Her eggshell-blue eyes were sparkling with fierce determination.
Half the male journos in the room found they didn’t know where to look.
‘We’ve got one major change this week,’ Topaz said. Her ItalianAmerican accent seemed more pronounced than ususal. ‘Roger Walpole, I’m afraid it affects you.’
Roger, sitting in one of the comfortable black chairs, looked across at her. ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t like the piece?’
He’d been writing the lead story on a Student Union plot to increase the price of alcohol, a matter of concern to every
56
undergraduate in the city, if not a personal tragedy. It would have been a terrific headline.
‘No, it’s superb, as usual,’ Topaz smiled. ‘It’s going on the front page. But we’re running a new lead. I’ve written it.’
A murmur of surprise ran round the room. ‘About what?’ somebody asked.
Topaz paused for effect, feeling the white-hot rage, the burning satisfaction of a tiny measure of revenge.
‘About Rowena Gordon’s candidacy for President of the Union.’