“Hey, you should get a drink and join in our game,” said Ella overenthusiastically.
“What are you playing?” I asked.
“Categories. Do you know how to play, Lucy?”
Lucy shook her head.
“It’s dumb,” I said.
“No, I want to play,” said Lucy.
“It’s easy,” continued Ella. “We pick a category and then go around the table taking it in turns to think of an example. If you can’t come up with one or if you repeat one that’s already been said, you have to down your drink. And, of course, you have to drink while you think!”
“Okay!” said Lucy.
“What category are you on?” I asked.
“We just did Oxford colleges,” said Jack. I could sense Lucy’s enthusiasm dying a very sudden death. “How about poets? Or famous scientists?” Oh fuck …
“Ermmm, I think we’ll just go to the bar and get a drink. You guys play on though. What do you want to drink?” I asked Lucy. I was terrified she would say something like Smirnoff Ice or WKD … hell, why not a bottle of White Lightning in a brown paper bag like we used to drink down the rec. Lucy carefully surveyed the bevies on the table. The boys were on pints, Abi and Megan were sharing a bottle of rosé, and Ella was sipping a glass of white.
“Mmm, I’ll have a glass of white wine please.”
“Sure.”
We got up and headed to the bar, the sticky floor threatening to tear our shoes from beneath us. “Eliot,” came Lucy’s shadowy whisper over my shoulder. “Whereabouts is the loo?” Her scent made me crumple.
“It’s through the corridor over there. Are you okay? Happy and that?”
“Yeah … I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I couldn’t tell what I was so nervous about. I rested my arms on the sloppy bar. “Alright buddy. I guess I’ll have a San Miguel and a white wine please.”
(My phone has just vibrated against my thigh again. It’s not a call this time—just the two sharp buzzes of a text message. Lucy, can’t you see I’m trying to explain you here?)
I watched the narrative unfolding in the long mirror behind the bar. There were a couple of lads rattling away on the foosball table, a misfit assembly poking and jabbing at the quiz machine, and random groups of library refugees spattered about, small-eyed and finger-biting. My lot were chatting excitedly.
Are they discussing Lucy? Evaluating her? Passing judgment and sentence? Compliments or criticism? Or are they just kicking off their drinking game …?
An interminable two minutes swelled around me as I watched for Lucy to return from the loo and waited for my round. And there she was, walking over to the gang and sitting—
Why the fuck has she gone and sat next to Jack? What’s she trying to do? Betrayal! My insides punched me heavyweight slogger style as I brought the drinks over.
Here’s your bloody wine. I’ll just sit on the other side from you then, shall I? Fine.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a swig.
“S’okay.”
So I was next to Ella and Sanj, and Lucy was next to Jack and Scott. Jack, then Lucy, then Scott; or Scott, then Lucy, then Jack, depending on which way you look at it. Abi and Megan appeared somewhere in between. But Lucy was next to Jack and Scott, and Scott and Jack were next to Lucy, and they’re both lads …
Her chest heaved slow and full as she sat up, absolutely straight. I didn’t quite catch what Jack said to her but she chuckled lavishly, baring her shiny white Kodak smile. Lucy’s laugh is a force of nature: rich and voluminous, it borders on the dirty. It’s a sexy laugh, for sure. A laugh you want to be responsible for … a laugh you want to provoke and roll around in, lapped by its gurgles and rumbles, tongued by its air and chimes. You want to ride the wave of her guttural joy. But you want it to yourself … you strive for exclusivity. Okay,
I
want it to myself …
I
strive for exclusivity. A laugh is for the other as much as for the self, nearly always a collaborative project, and I want Lucy’s to myself.
She was laughing again, this time more vigorously, and Jack was starting to look a tad overencouraged. Even Scott was smirking. They both watched her as she bubbled and wriggled, gazing wide-eyed at the drink in her hand, down there on the table. I took rapid pulls from my pint and showed a little seethe. Lucy was an exotic to Hollywell College, being actually fit and not conforming to the private-schoolgirl fashion model so dominant around here. They’re carbon copies of each other, the Hollywell anti-babes: big fuzzy hair, draping scarves like wizard’s sleeves, gilet, jogging bottoms (Jack Wills, not Sports World), and ugly Ugg boots. Lucy was demonstrably not one of them, with her straightened hair and high heels.
“Is this your first time in Oxford?” inquired Ella across the table.
Who gives a flying fuck?
“Yeah. I don’t know why that is really.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat,” said Jack. “We’ll show you some of the hot-spots tonight … have a little boogie and that.”
“Hehe,” etc. etc.
Oh fuck this.
Recognizing an unrecognizable girl, Terrence Terrence, who had just dropped into the bar to purchase a tipple, came over to our table and pulled up a stool.
“Terrence?”
“I don’t believe we have met,” he said, extending a hand to Lucy.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. “I’m Lucy.”
“Terrence. Pleased.” Terrence kissed Lucy on the top of her hand, which made her giggle. “Is this your paramour, John?” he asked me. Throughout that first term he had called me John. I have no idea why.
“Eliot. Yes, Lucy is my girlfriend … from home.” I don’t know why I felt the need to add this last bit—like it would grant her some leeway or something.
“Oh, I see. How very … parochial.” He crossed his legs effeminately. “So which college are you at?”
Lucy chuckled some more, this time at the assumption that she might be an Oxford student. “I’m still at school,” she answered, taking great pleasure in sipping her wine. I dropped my head once again. Terrence sat up … perked, even.
“A babe in the woods! How positively charming.”
“I like your outfit,” said Lucy. Terrence, fancying himself
a thespian, was wearing yellow tights, mascara, and eye shadow.
“I’ve just been at rehearsals,
so
…”
“What are you rehearsing for?” asked Lucy, eager to show interest.
“A student production,” I dived in, before Terrence could baffle her with some play she’d never heard of.
“Ah, that’s cool.”
“Yah, I really want to go into theater after uni, actually. I love to tread the boards, liiiiike …” a dickhead.
“Oh, awesome. Like panto?”
That’s not
theater
, I snapped derisively in my head. He means
serious
stuff …
The whole gang erupted with laughter and Terrence darkened with embarrassment. They thought she was joking … they thought she was breaking his balls! Lucy had just become a heroine.
“Well, errrr, no,
actually
. Shakespearean,
so
…” He uncrossed his legs in the hope that it might alleviate some of the ridicule.
“Oh right, that sounds lovely,” Lucy said in recompense. I think she was upset to have made him so uncomfortable. Jack and Ella were visibly delighted with Lucy’s presence. (You’re welcome.)
“Do you like Shakespeare?” asked Terrence.
“Can’t say that I know any. Did he write
Romeo and Juliet
?”
“Are you okay for drink?” I asked Lucy, in a desperate shift of—
(There goes my phone,
again
. Lucy, give me a chance to explain you! I’m going to need some space to get this done! But I suppose I am alone in my quest to level things tonight.
I notice that Jack and Ella are standing over by the quiz machine, holding their drinks against their chests and funneling chat into each other’s ears. Jack slaps his empty pint glass on top of the machine and appears to split for the john. Ella, left on her own, clocks me and smiles. She’s coming over—)
After a bit of reshuffling and a few more drinks, Lucy found her way back next to me. We were on to our fifth or sixth.
“Hello, stranger,” she said.
“Hey. Where’ve you been all my life?”
“About two meters away.”
“Hehe” (I didn’t actually say this). “Sorry if I’ve been a bit tetchy. And I know you’re not shy … I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s okay, Eliot,” she said, snuggling against me. I kissed her. “I wish you would just relax.”
“I’ve missed you really bad this week and I want you to like it here is all.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry.”
I bit her on the nose, gave it a little lick, and she screwed her face up, playfully … adorably.
“You’re so cute,” I whispered.
“And you’re silly,” she whispered back, smiling.
“Are you having a nice time anyway?”
“Yeah, it’s cool.” I was pleased to hear it. “Scott and Jack seem really sweet. Jack’s great. He’s
so
funny.”
Oh fuck off! Why don’t you just marry him if he’s so perfect?
“How about that for a first tute last week,” I said to Ella, turning my back on Lucy and cultivating a conversation I knew she’d feel alienated by.
“I know,” said Ella, surprised by the seeming spontaneity
of the question. “I’m so relieved to get it out of the way. I didn’t know what to expect.”
“I wasn’t banking on Dylan knowing so much about Hardy. He must’ve read everything … I don’t get how he remembers it all.”
“Totally. I felt so dumb.”
“Yeah, right! You said so many interesting things … like all that stuff about the poeticity of Hardy’s prose … and, errrr, the influence of like evolutionary thought, you know?” Ella modestly shrugged this off and turned to Lucy.
“Have you read any Hardy?” she asked, wanting to include her in the conversation.
“No. Can’t say that I have.”
“What kind of stuff do you read?” asked Ella.
“She’s not interested in reading,” I answered for her. I could feel her hand relinquishing mine under the table.
“No … I guess I’m not.”
She was unhappy now, I could tell. She looked demoralized; disheartened and challenged. I had done it. But why was I trying to show her up? I was purposely making things difficult and I didn’t even know why. I simmered in guilt.
“I don’t blame you,” said Ella. “You’d just wind up making boring conversation like us.” She gave Lucy a supportive smile. All the encoded comments and body language weighed down on me like a universal betrayal.
“Right, let’s head off. I can’t be fucked to go out any more,” I announced, getting to my feet. “I’ve been partying too hard this week … I need a quiet one for once.” (Did you get that, Lucy? I’ve been having fun
without
you.) “Come on, we’re going.”
“Fair enough,” muttered Lucy, rising to the racket of screeching stools.
I wondered if she was actually relieved to bring the evening—her trial—to a premature close. She said it was a shame, that she had been having a good time. But I felt otherwise.
Later that night, back in my room, we got undressed and made up. There in the depths of our inexperienced bed we learned about greed and jealousy, about give and take. I held her in my arms to let her know I was a fool. I kissed the back of her neck to show her I had been unfair and tickled the inside of her legs to undo my wrongs. She had made all that effort for the both of us, and we had gone to bed early. Awake, I spooned her through the night while she slept peacefully, to show her how much I needed her. I spooned her throughout the night to show myself—
Ella has taken the empty seat on my left. Swollen tears form around the outside of her wineglass and drip down the stem to its cloudy base. She fiddles with it absentmindedly, turning and tilting its curvaceous body, drawing attention to its transparency.
“Let’s make this a bloody good one, yeah?” says Jack as he ferries another round to the table. There’s nostalgia in the timbre of his voice: this one’s for all the other great nights, yeah?; out of respect for everything gone by, yeah?; let’s just have one last fucking good night—
yeah
? “This night is real,” he adds, nodding in approval at his new pint.
The windows in the King’s Arms have steamed up, the nighttime streets looking like they’ve been soaped over, obscured by the forces and emissions of the pub. Pockets of energy throb throughout the place.
“So, have you got much planned at home for the next few weeks?” asks Ella.
This is my chance. We’ve got some privacy and she seems to be really focusing on me. I should just tell her how I feel and deal with the fallout afterward.
“Yeah, I’ve got quite a lot of, uh, you know, stuff on, I guess,” I struggle to say, bottling it, thinking about Jack and Lucy and a whole range of other potential obstacles. I’m a humdrum conundrum, my mind and mouth no longer bedfellows, no longer on speaking terms.
“Oh, okay.”
The night is young. Plenty more opportunities will present themselves, I’m sure. No need to start panicking just yet.
So here we are, gaping zeros of insufficiency, trying to mouth genuine feeling but coming up short. The feeling’s there alright; the momentousness isn’t lost on us. It’s hard. That’s all.
“Let’s just have one final fucking good night, yeah?”
“Time to move on?” asks Sanjay, testing the mood.
“Defo. A round of tequila for the road?” suggests Scott.
“Doubles, pussies!” challenges Abi.
Everyone laughs and chatters, shifting around in ready assent.
Without arrangement or silent signal, Ella and I hang back.
“You seem sad,” she says.
“Err … it’s just the weight of the occasion,” I say, somewhat misleadingly.
“Yeah. For three years, a night out like this seemed so trivial … so habitual, right? But now all of a sudden it’s …”
“Meaningful.”
“Yeah.”
I finish the watery dregs of my pint and look up at her. I look up at her because I don’t know what else to do. I go to say something but change my mind.
“Ready?” she says, probably to avoid whatever I might’ve been boiling up.
“Yeah.”
It’s time to check my phone. I can’t ignore it any longer. The others are slightly ahead, having downed the tequilas, weaving their way through the door and onto the pavement. I pull it from my pocket, shuffling around to ease the tightness of the jeans.