My Oxford Year(24)

And not in paths of high morality,

And not among the half-distinguished faces,

The clouded forms of long-past history.

Charlotte Bront? (possibly Emily), “Stanzas,” 1850

The grilling began at the Bombay Curry House when, after being uncharacteristically quiet all evening and barely eating my chicken tikka masala, I failed to dodge Charlie’s loaded question: “How was the tute?”

Now, after thirty minutes of detailing and defending, I need a drink. Badly. “Guys! It wasn’t a big deal. Really. Let it go.”

Maggie looks at me. I can tell she senses that I was more affected by the tutorial than I’m letting on and, unlike Charlie and Tom, I think she also senses that the undertow of sexual chemistry is secondary to something larger. Something I don’t even understand myself.

I stand up from the table and announce, “Well, I don’t know about you locals, but this American’s going to her first British pub.”

Charlie and Maggie gasp. Tom drops his fork. They shout, “You’ve never been to a pub?!”

ON THE WALK up St. Giles, Maggie informs me, “Pubs are like churches here.”

“Right,” Charlie replies. “Except we consider them sacred and attend them religiously.” Then he pulls open the old, beaten-to-hell door of the Eagle and Child.

The Eagle and Freaking Child. This isn’t just a pub, this is the legendary watering hole that hosted the Inklings, an informal assemblage of writers including J. R. R. Tolkein and Magdalen’s own C. S. Lewis. I get a chill when I walk through the door. I turn to share the moment with my companions, but they’re already halfway to the bar, immune to the ghosts of history.

The pub has beams that make the ceiling head-bumpingly low in places. Tom stands with his head at a constant tilt, unbothered. Rooms lead to other rooms, which grow progressively smaller, like caverns in a cave system. It smells like hops and rain.

Charlie turns to me, taking me by surprise. “Tipple, darling?”

I come back to reality. “Yes! Cider!”

He shakes his head. “Save your cider for Old Rosie at the Turf.”

“Then a Grey Goose dirty martini, straight up, three olives.”

Charlie attempts a kindly face. He fails. “This isn’t a bar. It’s a pub.” He turns away from me, leans in to the burly bartender, and says, “Gin and tonic for the missus.”

We take our drinks over to Maggie and Tom, already halfway through their pints of thick black beer. Charlie waves at someone, his hand brushing the ceiling. I go up on my toes to see above the crowd.

Oh.

Cecelia.

I quickly scan the group she’s with and ascertain that Davenport isn’t among them. Surprising.

“Cecelia wants us to join her. Shall we?” Charlie asks, but is already walking over. Tom, seeing where we’re headed, waves enthusiastically at Cecelia, as if welcoming a soldier home from war. She gives him a princessy three-fingered wave back.

As we approach the table, it occurs to me that Davenport could actually be here somewhere. At the bar, or in the bathroom. But Cecelia is making introductions and I force myself to pay attention. “This is Ahmed,” she says, indicating a suave-looking guy with a pencil-thin mustache who gives us a cheeky salute. “His father’s the Jordanian ambassador.” Seems like unnecessary information, but no one else blinks. Ahmed puts his finger to his lips—shhh—and pretends to hide his beer. I smile at him. Cecelia then turns to a ridiculously hot guy sitting next to him, who I realize is Charlie’s rower. “And this is my second cousin Ridley,” Cecelia says, smiling. Of course they’re related. Gorgeousness this obvious can’t be coincidental.

Charlie elbows me and breathes into my ear, “When our children ask me, ‘Funny Daddy, where did you meet Pretty Daddy?’ I shall answer, ‘Why, the back room of the Bird and Baby, of course.’”

“And this,” Cecelia continues, gesturing to a guy slouched over at the end of the bench like a zombie, “is Ian.”

Ian rouses himself enough to say, “Ian is arse over tits, at the moment.” He gives us a smile that reminds me of one of Dalí’s melting clocks. Then his half-lidded gaze finds me. “An’ who’s this?” He leers.

Cecelia brushes the hair back from her face as if she is being photographed. “This is Emma.”

“Ella, actually.”

“Of course,” she says, not even glancing at me. “And this is Charlie, Maggie, and Tom.”

“Please, join us,” Ahmed says gallantly, sweeping his arm at the table. They’re collected around an L-shaped banquette with two chairs opposite the long side.

“I’ve been saving this spot for you all night!” Ian slurs, patting the space next to him on the bench, looking, unfortunately, right at me.

Charlie doesn’t waste a second, hopping into the chair directly across from Ridley, as if joining him in a scull. Tom takes the chair next to Charlie, hoping that his newest “friend,” Cecelia, places herself next to him on the short side of the banquette. No dice. She takes Maggie’s arm and, in a very girlfriendy way, slides to the far side of the bench, pulling Maggie in after her, placing Maggie between Tom and herself.

And then there was one.

There’s one spot left and its occupant has been preordained by Drunk Ian, who crawls out of the booth. “Ladies in the middle,” he slurs. Reluctantly, I slide in next to Ridley, and Ian follows me in, already a bit too close for comfort.