My Oxford Year(59)

“What does that mean?”

“Five instances where, if you’re whingeing about how much something costs—hotels, experiences—I get to trump it and we must do it. Because there are some things you’ll regret not doing when you had the chance, and I can’t have that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Three trump cards.”

“Am I a genie?”

“The number three has a nice fairy-tale symmetry to it, don’t you think?”

He snorts. “Deal. And one more thing. If I want to do something for you along the way, buy you something small, take you to a nice dinner, you’ll let me because I’m your boyfriend now and that’s the sort of special preferment boyfriends are afforded.”

I’m unable to contain my smile, excitement bursting through me like a supernova. But almost immediately it’s doused. I peer at him. “Don’t you need to be with your family for the holidays?” A whisper-like sound comes from the foyer, followed by the gentle slapping of something landing on the floor. Before I can question what it is, Jamie stands, unconcerned, and walks out of the room. I call out after him, “Because we could leave after—”

“I really have no need to be with my family at present.”

I chew on this as he reenters the kitchen carrying a pile of mail. I persist. “But you’re . . . you know.”

“Dying?”

I give him a reproachful look and he drops back into his chair and starts sorting the mail into three neat piles. “All I’m saying is if my mom lived in the same country and I didn’t show up for Christmas, I’d hear about it for the rest of my life.”

“Yes, but if you knew the rest of your life was to be significantly abbreviated, I should think you could bear it.”

He actually has a point. Sarcastic, macabre, but a point nonetheless. Eventually I want to discuss his family, especially his father, but not right now. Right now I’m too excited. The possibility of traveling with him is a dream come true that I didn’t even know I had dreamed.

Jamie drops the last piece of mail on what’s clearly the discard stack and stands, going to the counter for more coffee. It’s a very ornate card to be so casually thrown onto the discard pile. It’s square, gilded around the edges, and made out of a thick cream-colored card stock. There’s calligraphy on the front. I pick it up as Jamie says, “Would you like a spot more?”

“Huh?” I turn the card over in my hands.

“Coffee.” Then, in a bad truck-stop diner accent, “‘Warm up on the joe, darlin’?’”

I smile but don’t look up. The card I’m holding is a final invitation. A reminder invitation. To the very ball Charlie mentioned when we were trying to help Maggie: the Blenheim Ball. The don’t-tease-me-with-something-I-can’t-have Blenheim Ball that’s happening in two weeks. “Jamie?”

My voice has him side-eyeing me suspiciously. “Am I correct in assuming my name is going to be followed by a request of sorts?”

I hold up the card. “This invitation, it’s to the Blenheim Ball. I’ve actually heard of it, and, well . . . I’ve never been to a ball. And actually—”

“You can’t imagine how much I detest these things,” he interrupts.

I soldier on. “But it’s a palace. And I’ve never been to a palace.”

Jamie waves his cup dismissively. A drop splashes over onto the floor. He uses a socked toe to wipe it, and says, “We shall see many palaces. Wait until you see Versailles. In fact, let’s go there first. We’ll start in Paris, take the train out, I know a lovely little inn in the village there.”

“I want to go.”

“And we shall. The weather might be crap, but—”

“Jamie!” He finally looks at me. I hold the postcard up with fervor, like it’s a map to some buried treasure. “I want. To go. To the ball.”

He looks appalled. “Why?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to!” This is probably true. I guess. I mean, who doesn’t want to go to a ball? “I’m from Ohio!”

Jamie shakes his head, sitting back down. “Ella, these things are dreadful. Awful rich people affirming to each other how awful and rich they are.”

“Right! Great!”

“And my parents will be there.” He says it like a warning.

“So?” Jamie sighs, looks at the floor. I go coy. “Unless . . . you don’t want them to meet me.”

“Oh, you are a sly one. You know it’s not that.”

I switch effortlessly into wheedling political-operative mode. “Are things so bad with them that you can’t fulfill the simple dream of your American girlfriend”—I stutter slightly over the word—“because your parents might be on the other side of the room?” Jamie levels a look at me. I push it further. “Either tell me why it’s impossible to be in the same room as them or take me to the ball. Your choice.”

Jamie’s jaw flexes. After a moment, he sighs. “Fine. We’ll go.”

“Really?!” I’m surprised by his response and even more surprised to find that I’m genuinely excited.

“Just let me—” But I’m jumping into his lap, coffee splashing everywhere. Jamie lets out a laugh as I kiss his face all over.