My Oxford Year(53)

I didn’t sleep much last night.

After walking around for hours and building up a solid appetite, we gladly sit down to our dinner at a swanky hotel in Mayfair overlooking Grosvenor Square. It’s mostly empty, except for a couple of American tourists and, directly next to us, a family of four. An American mother trying to explain the holiday to her very, very British children.

“But, Mummy, why are we eating turkey? Turkey is for Christmas,” they say. The woman looks to her English husband for assistance. Together they try to answer their adorable children. I imagine myself in her position: British husband, British kids, stranger in a strange land. I’m surprised to find that there’s something appealing about the notion. When the husband leans over and kisses her forehead, however, I turn away.

“Ella?” Connor’s voice brings me present. Again. The waiter is standing beside me with a tray, holding two glasses of champagne. “The hotel is offering us some complimentary bubbly. Want one?”

“Who are we to refuse?” I say, attempting enthusiasm. We clink glasses. We look into each other’s eyes and take a sip. I can tell Connor’s having a good time. And I am, too. Really. He’s an interesting guy. On our walk, we talked schooling, past jobs, D.C. neighborhoods, restaurants, bars. I think these things, the details that technically define you, are what you give to people in exchange for not talking about the real things.

Connor comes from a good family. His father’s a judge and his mother’s a surgeon. He’s had two ex-girlfriends worth mentioning (I was right), he’s impeccably educated, politically moderate, well traveled, well read, fluent in Spanish, likes Ethiopian food, and spends two weeks every summer at the family “cottage” on the Vineyard. His post-Oxford plans are uncertain. As we sip champagne and listen to harp music wafting in from the lobby, Connor describes his dilemma: go back to Washington and make a ton of money or go to India on his own dime and volunteer, becoming “just another white dude mansplaining how to use a water filter and wear a condom.” His dismissive tone belies the excited spark I see in his eyes.

“Have you read Middlemarch?” I blurt.

“No,” he answers, seeming relieved that I decided to speak, taking a breath and a sip of his champagne.

“First of all, you should. Secondly, there’s this one part,” I begin, but the server interrupts us, dropping down a plate of Thanksgiving. It’s a decent effort, but as Bentsen told Quayle in the 1988 vice-presidential debate, “I knew Jack Kennedy and, Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy.” Yes, there’s turkey, but the potatoes are roasted reds. There’s a puddle of pink sauce with the consistency of mint jelly (the cranberry, I’m assuming?) slowly making friends with everything else on the plate, including some unidentifiable wet bread (stuffing?) and, of course, courgettes. Always with the courgettes in this country. It’s all topped off with a culturally incongruous bubble of Yorkshire pudding.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Connor says, lifting his glass.

I lift mine and try to maintain eye contact. “Happy Thanksgiving.” We smile at each other. I put my glass down without drinking. It’s turning my stomach and I seem to have acquired a headache just by looking at it.

He cuts into his turkey. “So, Middlemarch?”

“Right! So, the book is, like, eight hundred pages and the main character has been in love—” Next to my plate, my phone rings. “Sorry. Thought I’d turned it off.” As I pick it up, I glance at the name on the screen. Mom.

Connor can see it, too. “Take it,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

“Ella, it’s your mother. It’s a national holiday. You’re not going to at least say hi? Really, I don’t mind.”

He thinks I’m not answering because I’m trying to be polite. He has no idea. Connor probably talks to his parents all the time. He probably sent them a Thanksgiving cornucopia. Great. Now I have to answer it.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey!” she bleats, obviously surprised I picked up. There’s a suspended moment of silence. “Well, happy Thanksgiving!”

I tear off a piece of Yorkshire pudding and pop it in my mouth. “Happy Thanksgiving to you. Are you going to Aunt Mal’s today?”

“Yes, soon. And how are you? Are you celebrating Thanksgiving over there? You sound like you’re eating something.”

“I am. I’m eating turkey at a hotel in Mayfair. Which is a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

“You’re not all alone, are you?”

Her suddenly worried tone instantly grates. I look at Connor’s handsome head bent over his plate. “No, actually,” I answer, because what the hell, “I’m on a date.” Connor’s head lifts and he smiles at me.

“Ooh!” she exclaims, just-add-water excited. I can sense across an ocean all the questions lining up in her head. I never talk about my love life. If that’s what you’d even call it. “What’s his name, is he English, what—”

“His name is Connor, he’s American, he’s a doctor.” Connor raises a brow at the inaccuracy. I wave my hand; whatever, close enough.

“He sounds perfect,” Mom breathes. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone, El. You never tell me—”

“We’re not ‘seeing each other,’ Mom. Unless you mean naked.” Connor almost chokes on his champagne.