My Oxford Year(58)

Jamie breaks the silence. “Tuppence for your thoughts?”

I shake my head. “I was just thinking . . . about a trip I’m supposed to take over break.”

He perks up. “Where are you off to, then? Back to America for the vac?”

“No, actually. Europe.”

“All of it? Really?” I throw a bit of bacon at his head and we both smile. “Where exactly are you going?”

“Everywhere.”

“You’ve obviously put rather a significant amount of thought into this.”

“Considering I’ve never been anywhere, everywhere is a perfectly reasonable answer.”

“Hang on,” Jamie says, straightening. “What do you mean you’ve never been anywhere?”

“Ella from Ohio’s never been outside of the good ol’ U.S. of A. Until she arrived at Heathrow on September twenty-eighth, that is.”

Jamie now sits ramrod straight. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Nope.”

“But you seem so . . .”

“Worldly?” I suggest, putting on an air. “Sophisticated?”

“Opinionated.”

It feels so good to laugh with each other again. “Do you want to hear the plan?” I ask.

“Absolutely.”

I’m excited again. I tuck my leg underneath me and resituate myself. “All right, on December twentieth, I’m taking the Eurostar to Paris, where I’ll spend Christmas, and then I’m training to Brussels for three days—”

“Brussels? Why Brussels?”

I shrug. “It’s Brussels.”

Jamie’s mouth forms a confused moue. It’s the same look I’d give him if he said he was coming to America and wanted to see Ohio. I persist. “Then I’m heading to Amsterdam for New Year’s, spending four nights—”

Jamie interrupts again. “What happened to the rest of France?”

“I don’t want to rent a car. Too expensive.”

Jamie makes the same face again. I persist again. “Then from Amsterdam, I’m doing the overnight train to Venice—”

“Hold on, you’re going to be that close to Bruges and you’re not going?” I huff, growing exasperated. “Tell me you’re going to Ghent, at the very least?” I glare at him. He shrugs and says, “Sorry, but it just seems a waste. Hilary Term doesn’t begin until January eighteenth, you have almost a month, and you’re going to simply take trains back and forth between major cities, which all have the same McDonald’s and the same cheap T-shirt shops and fake gelato and Irish pubs called the Blarney Stone and everyone you meet speaks English?”

A silence hangs in the air, that anticipatory moment right before the curtain goes up at the theater. And then I say it. “Well, if you have such strong opinions about it, you should come with me.”

Without missing a beat, Jamie reaches across the table and grabs his phone, tapping the screen and studying it. “My final treatment is on December the sixteenth. I’ll most likely need three days to recover.” He looks from his calendar right at me. “Ah. What a coincidence. That’s the twentieth. Shall we leave then?”

My heart quickens. “For where?”

“Everywhere. Or was it anywhere?”

That pang of guilt comes round the bend again. “Jamie, hold on. We’re acting like you’re fine, like everything’s normal. I think, just to be safe—”

He leans in to me across the table. “Nothing. Changes. That was the deal.”

I rub my forehead, wanting so badly to believe him. But something else occurs to me. “Also, there’s no way I can afford the Jamie Davenport version of this trip.” We’ve never discussed money, and Jamie doesn’t flaunt it, but it’s clear he has it, that it comes from somewhere other than his meager JRF stipend. The classic car (which he’s said he’s had since he was eighteen), the ability to renovate the town house however he wants, the wine habit. The velvet trousers.

He waves me off. “I’ll take care of it.”

I bristle. “No. Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

“What?”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“Who said anything about taking it? I’m sharing it. ‘Can’t take it with you,’ and all that.”

“Stop it,” I snap. “That’s not funny.”

Now Jamie really looks at me. I’m not ready for jokes about his illness. I swallow, soften a bit. “Look, no one’s ever paid for me, for anything. If you’re going to come with me, we’re going to do it on my budget. I won’t be, like, some . . . kept woman.”

Jamie looks at me. I’m gratified to see that he gets it. He’s not rolling his eyes or belittling what’s clearly a matter of pride for me. He’s just nodding slightly, thinking. Before he even opens his mouth, I know a negotiation is coming. “If any of the plans you’ve already made can’t be refunded, I’ll pay for that.”

So far, so fair. “All right.”

“We’ll take the Aston. A car’s the only way to access some of the more remote hill towns. You can pay for petrol?”

I nod. “Done.”

“And I get five trump cards.”