My Oxford Year(32)

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.”