My Oxford Year: A Novel

A man had given all other bliss,

And all his worldly worth for this

To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere,” 1842

Mornin’ to ya, lass!”

I hear a woman’s voice. Why do I hear a woman’s voice? Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming.

“So tidy, y’are! It wouldn’t knock a bother off ya to leave me something to do?”

My eyes pop open and I bolt upright, way too quick for my head’s sake. “Eugenia,” I say around the frog in my throat. The trusty scout moves through the room, muttering as I try to wake up. My blurry eyes begin to clear and I look down.

I’m naked.

I snatch the sheet to my chest.

Okay. Don’t panic. Piece it together. Bar. Snug. Taxi. Then, nothing. Nothing happened. Right?

Eugenia opens my bathroom door. “Morning.”

Not Eugenia’s voice.

The honeyed tone kick-starts my memory. Something definitely happened. Images from last night roll over me. Nice images. Very nice images.

“Mornin’, love,” Eugenia sings. “Anythin’ in the bin?”

“Not a whit,” he answers easily.

Eugenia sighs. “S’as if the wee miss don’t e’en live here.” She bustles out of the bathroom, gives me a conspiratorial wink, and leaves.

I prepare myself for the impending awkwardness. Hey, at least he didn’t leave before I woke up. I open my mouth to say something, anything, when I hear from the bathroom, “If you put your bin outside your door they won’t come in.”

“Like a sock on the doorknob?” I croak.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Sorry, I would have given you a stir but you were sleeping so peacefully.” He walks out of the bathroom and it all seems so oddly normal. Oh, nothing, just Jamie Davenport coming out of my bathroom wearing the clothes he was wearing yesterday, velvet trousers and all. God, was the tutorial only yesterday?

Rallying, I clear my throat. “How is Dr. Davenport this morning?”

He rolls down his sleeves and buttons the cuffs. “Good. Fine. Quite good, actually.”

Relieved, I exhale. “Great. Me too.”

Mutely, he slips on his jacket. Pulls a hand through his hair. He reaches for the doorknob, but turns back to me. “Sorry, I really must run. That lecture.”

“Of course,” I say breezily.

He turns back to the door, placing his hand on the knob. He turns back to me once again and says, looking at the floor, “Ella, I want to explain something to you—”

I cut him off at the pass. “Students are off-limits?”

He pauses. “Actually, technically no.” He looks up and grins at me. “Unlike some, Britain is not a nation of Puritans when it comes to matters of carnality between two consenting adults.”

I smile at him. “You’re not looking for a relationship?”

He takes a step back into my room, sighing. “That would be it. Quite.”

I clutch the sheet to my chest and leap irately out of bed. “How dare you!” I cry. “I thought you liked me! I thought we had something real! You’re just like all the others!”

Jamie pales, puts his hands out like he’s stopping traffic. “Oh dear God, please,” he effuses. “In no way did—do—I wish to make you feel—”

I can’t keep it up. I burst out laughing. “You should see your face!” Jamie blinks, finally realizing that I’m joking. He tries to chuckle, but it sounds more like he’s being strangled. Maybe we don’t know each other well enough for morning-after humor. “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “Really. I don’t want to be in a relationship either.” Then, for reasons unclear to me, I drop the sheet. Naked, I reach for the panties that have made their way to the back of my desk chair.

“Well,” Jamie breathes. “Brilliant. Glad we’re on the . . .” I bend over and pick up my bra. “The same page.”

“Totally,” I say, knotting my hair on top of my head.

“I shouldn’t like to have anything of a mess between us.”

“Done.”

He nods stiffly and turns back to the all-too-familiar doorknob. He pauses and says, to the door, “See you in class.”

He leaves.

I refuse to feel disappointed.

RAGING HANGOVER ASIDE, I definitely have an extra spring in my step all day. In fact, it’s impossible for me to sit still long enough to get any work done, so eventually I give up and walk around town for a few hours, hungrily absorbing the sights, sounds, scents, and textures like a bear coming out of a long, soul-deep hibernation. On Cornmarket, I amble from one busking musician to the next, tossing a quid into their open instrument cases, enjoying the variety, the internationalism. The guy with the sitar. The blues guitarist. The flautist doing Mozart. The Afro-Caribbean drummer. They’re all at home here.

It’s starting to feel like home to me, too.

My phone buzzes with a text from Charlie.

Hall for dinner at 7. Don’t be late. Academic gown required.

I still haven’t bought a gown (which is more like a sleeveless black vest with tails off the shoulders). Hugh had mentioned I could get one on Turl, so I walk over, and locate the shop right across the street from the Lincoln College gates. Jamie’s gates. I find myself glancing out the lead-paned windows as the shopkeeper rings me up and I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved when I don’t see him. I head back to Magdalen as the city’s church bells start peeling.

A bored-looking woman propped on a stool by the door scans my college ID card and I enter Hall, which feels like a rite of passage. I force myself to keep walking and not stop in the doorway, gawking like a tourist. It’s stunning. Soaring Gothic ceilings, flying buttresses, dark wood paneling, and three room-long tables with benches. At the front of the hall, on a dais, another table sits perpendicular to all the others, clearly reserved for invited guests. No one sits there yet, but the other three tables have begun to fill in with students. Despite my gobsmacked rubbernecking, I see Maggie waving from the front of one table. I wave back and hustle down the nearest aisle, taking in the white flatware, sparkling crystal, and three-pronged candlesticks.

Maggie, gown over a vintage green sweater with cartoon owls on it, pats the seat next to her and I sit down, kissing her on the cheek. Charlie and Tom sit across from me smiling welcomingly.

“This is incredible,” I say reverently, still looking around the room. “Why haven’t we come here for dinner before?”

“Because the food’s largely inedible,” Charlie answers. “You must check the carte in advance. Only for lasagna do we make an effort.”

Maggie touches my hand. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Even after last night?”

I freeze. I don’t allow my voice to have even the slightest tremor, my tone nothing more than inquisitive. “Last night?” I flick my eyes lightning quick to Tom and Charlie.

Charlie leans in. “Arse-Face Ian didn’t ruin your night?”

“Oh!” I nearly chortle. I pour myself a generous glass of wine from the bottle they have open before them. “Completely forgotten.”

Maggie sighs in relief. “Brilliant. We were ever so worried.” Tom and Charlie nod in unison.

Charlie adds, “Ridley and Ahmed took him home after forcibly hydrating him for an hour.”

“Ridley!” I cry. “How did things go with Row Boy? Does he paddle in the same current?” I waggle my eyebrows at Charlie and take a sip of wine.

“That remains to be seen. At present, he wants to see me cox.” I choke on my wine slightly. Charlie squints witheringly at me and says laconically, “Coxswain, darling. The tiny loudmouthed wanker who sits in the front of the boat and yells at the rowers?” He downs the rest of his wine and pours more. “Anyway. Were you completely put off or did you venture forth in search of other diversions?”

Everyone in the room suddenly stops talking and stands up. Maggie, Charlie, and Tom leap to their feet and stand stock-still, like soldiers waiting to be inspected. Instead of asking what the hell is happening, I decide to follow suit and ask questions later. After a moment, a procession of people, in much fancier gowns than ours, walks down the center aisle. They are mostly older and distinguished-looking, except for one head of mussed brown hair that—

What is he doing here? This isn’t his college. He doesn’t see me, but I keep my eyes on him, wondering, in some irrational part of my brain, if he planned this. If he’s trying to see me again.

The procession gathers at the front table, the “important” table. Then, from the back, a deep voice starts speaking quickly but purposefully in Latin, and everyone dips chins to chests and closes their eyes. The prayer is long. So long, in fact, that I can’t help but open my eyes ever so slightly. His beautiful head is bowed in prayer, but his eyes are open, staring down at the table in front of him, the slightest smile on his lips.

The prayer over, everyone takes their seats again and the din of chatter resumes. I risk another glance and see Jamie talking with the woman on his right. She’s laughing.

“So,” Charlie says, and I snap my attention back to him. “Last night?”

“Oh, I just went home. Got some sleep. I really needed it.”

I’m saved by the arrival of food. Servers descend upon us, dropping off plates. My eyes move to the front table again. Jamie pours the woman next to him some wine. Turning back, I find a plate of little fishes staring up at me accusingly. Anchovies. Whole anchovies. With the heads still on. “They still have eyes,” I murmur.

Tom, already digging in, nods happily. “Best part!”

I slide my plate over to him. “I’ll wait for the lasagna.”

“You were saying something about needing it?” Charlie prods.

“Yeah! I was exhausted. Probably adrenaline or something.” I don’t know for sure if what happened last night is supposed to be a secret, I’m just assuming Jamie wouldn’t want his students to know he slept with one of them. But Charlie’s far too perceptive. He’s a bloodhound. If there’s the faintest scent of scandal in the room, Charlie will sniff it out.

He sips his wine. “Did you not hear that catlike screeching in the wee hours?”

The lasagna arrives and I dig in, buying myself some time. “Uh, no.”

“No? It sounded as if it were being mauled right outside our windows. Maybe it was just in heat.”

Unbidden, my eyes flit to Jamie yet again as I take a significant swallow of my wine. He’s still in conversation with the woman on his right. He hasn’t seen me yet. Which is good. It would probably be awkward. For him.

“Did it sound something like this, by chance?” Tom asks, and then proceeds to make the most ungodly screech, a cross between a cat, a siren, and peeling tires. It’s ungodly loud, too, drawing attention to our table. I quickly pivot away from Jamie’s sight line.

Maggie, suppressing a laugh, slaps Tom on the shoulder. “Tom! We’re in Hall. Show some decorum, for God’s sake.”

Tom, oblivious, looks to Charlie and me for confirmation. “Mountain lion?”

“Perhaps it was the Magdalen Bridge troll,” Charlie drawls. “Perhaps he found his larder bare of children and made a dash to Sainsbury’s.”

Tom shakes his head, licking his fork. “Trolls don’t eat children. That’s witches.” I smile. I could listen to Tom being Tom for hours. I’m also relieved to have the focus off of me for the moment. The servers come back and grab our semi-empty plates. “Excuse me?” Tom asks one of them. “What’s the pudding tonight?”

“Custard,” she answers unexcitedly, already leaving.

“I’m well shot of it,” Tom says, tossing his napkin on the table. “I could do with some chips, cheese, and beans, actually. I’m starved.”

“I have chocolate,” Maggie suggests. “My dad just returned from Brussels. Shall I go get it?”

“Do.” Charlie jumps in. “Tom, get your coronary special from the kebab van and we’ll all meet back at mine. Oh, and bring your Scotch, will you, Maggie? We shall have a proper night in.” He smiles at me. “Ella? Will you join? After all, you’ve had plenty of rest. Got what you needed and all that.”

“It’s a plan!” I say, smiling back.

As we stand, Charlie pauses and drops his head to the side, gazing at the table as though it were a reflecting pool. “There was something else,” he mutters. “Something I wanted to—Maggie, some help. Do you recall?” He looks at Maggie. “Oh, come, I said we mustn’t forget to tell Ella.”

Maggie squints. “Tom, do you recall? I’m sure I told you to remind me.”

Tom puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling. “Bugger and blast, what was it? Wait! Might it have something to do with poetry?”

Charlie snaps his fingers. “Got it.” He looks at me. “I saw Davenport today.”

“Yes, that was it!” Maggie cries.

“Bang on!” Tom exclaims.

I swallow. “Oh yeah? When?”

“This morning, actually. But where?” Charlie turns his gaze contemplatively to the ceiling now. “Ah, right.” He drops his gaze levelly on me. “On our staircase landing.”

I move to say something.

“Coming out of your room.”

I freeze.

“Still wearing those velvet trousers.”

My mouth drops open. Charlie, Maggie, and Tom are grinning like three cats that ate all the canaries. Charlie reaches over and taps his finger under my chin, closing my mouth. “Careful, darling. You wouldn’t want to catch a foot in there, now, would you?”

They erupt in cackles. Maggie, at least, looks slightly repentant, her hands covering her laughing mouth as she says, “Sorry,” but Tom fairly bounces down the aisle, hopping and spinning about on one foot, an uncoordinated Pied Piper. Charlie simply strolls out, his jacket draped casually over one shoulder, the very posture of self-satisfaction.

I can’t tell which feeling is stronger: my mortification, or the relief that it’s out in the open. I take a fortifying breath, glancing once more at the front table.

Jamie is looking directly at me while everyone stands up. He wipes his mouth, shakes someone’s hand, and catches my eye again as he stands. He points covertly in the direction of the door. I nod.

I take a bracing gulp of my wine, then, before following everyone out, decide to finish it.

I STEP OUT of Hall and Jamie magically appears next to me. Barely touching my elbow, he guides me to a closed door marked BUTTERY. He opens it and sweeps me inside, closing the door quickly behind us. Cupboards and shelves are filled with glassware and other dining paraphernalia; napkin rings, candlesticks, saltshakers. It smells like a laundry room.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”

He sighs, says in a rush, “Styan forgot she’d accepted an invitation to High Table, I stepped in. Ella listen . . .” He holds up a hand, looks me dead in the eye. “Last night was exhilarating. And surprising. Truly. All of it. I haven’t had that much fun in the devil of a long time and I didn’t adequately convey that this morning.” This comes out in one breath and with unblinking eyes. Then he disconnects, glancing around the pantry as if mentally selecting glassware for a dinner party. Finally he says, “Forgive my bluntness, but—”

“You want to do it again?”

“No, I would never—” But his eyes whip to mine, surprised. “Actually, yes.” He inhales. “But I can’t. Is the point.”

I look steadily into his eyes, making a decision. “Jamie,” I say carefully, “I have a shelf life here. I hand in my dissertation and I’m on a plane to Washington. No matter what.”

He shakes his head. “Those types of arrangements never seem to work out as planned.”

I shake my head back at him. “They don’t work because people don’t know what they want. We do. Or, we know what we don’t want. A relationship.” We look at each other. “One condition.” Instantly, he looks panicked, like a stray dog convinced that the food in my hand is just a ruse and I’m going to grab him by the scruff as soon as he comes near enough. “If we do this, we have to be honest with each other. If one of us is getting bored, or starting to have feelings they shouldn’t, no lying. We need to be honest about it.”

“You want honesty?” He looks me dead in the eye, eyes sparkling like they were last night. “When you dropped that sheet this morning it took every shred of my willpower to leave.”

We stare at each other until everything around us blurs away and all I can see is him. Those swimming-hole eyes. I moisten my lips. I stick out my hand with a challenging smile. “Whaddaya say?”

He considers my hand, tempted. But shakes his head instead. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Don’t think, Professor. Feel.”

He tips his head, touché, a rueful acknowledgment, but takes a step back from me and I find myself wishing he’d kiss me. If this is going to be it, I want to have an accurate, sober memory of what his lips feel like. Our kisses last night were a hurried, sloppy means to an end. I’m better than that, and I’d like to think he is as well.

But he turns away, faces the door.

He stops. He pauses.

He turns around, strides back to me, takes my waiting hand, pulls me toward him, drops his head, and proves me right.

And then some.