Our Little Secret(24)
HP and Ezra tilted their bottles to him with their mouths pressed closed.
Once we were huddled in the yellow doorway of the café, Freddy gripped my wrist.
“Do you seriously expect me to believe that that is the guy?” He threw furtive glances back at HP, who was in the booth with Ezra, both of them laughing. “Angela, they’re . . . they’re children! You’re miles beyond them.”
“What’s it to you?”
He blinked at me for a few seconds and let go of me, quietly hooking his umbrella over his forearm.
“That call was from Keble College. They have our May Ball tickets.” Freddy adjusted the tuck of his handkerchief in the pocket of his blazer. “I took the liberty of ordering two more for your . . . friends. I assume they’re staying? I’m off to pick the tickets up now.”
“Thanks.”
He sighed and reached out for my forearm again, gentler this time. “You can do what you wish, of course. Romance-wise, I mean.”
“You think you know me, Freddy?” I pushed forwards off the window and pulled the café door open. “I’m miles beyond you, too.”
I watched as the hurt unfurled in his eyes like squid ink through water. He turned on his heel and clipped briskly away down Dawson Street.
Ezra wanted to do typically tourist things while he was in Oxford, so we spent days punting on the Isis, or visiting the arts cinema in Jericho where Ezra refused to read the subtitles and spent hours throwing popcorn at the prettiest girls. As much as I liked the joviality of Ez, I was getting tired of him fast. In my college room, HP and I shared my single bed, but with my arm outstretched I could literally touch Ezra’s knee as he lay on the floor. Every time we tried to whisper in the darkness, Ezra either shushed us or joined the whispering. Finally HP and I carved out some time for just us, and I took him to my favorite haunt.
HP slowed as we reached the courtyard of the Radcliffe Camera, where the sky was cloudless behind the dome. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring up at the glass and masonry as I sat down on the broad step of the Bodleian Library, my back against the door.
“Amazing, hey?”
HP turned. “It looks different every time I see it. Maybe it’s the color of the sky.” He sat down next to me.
“Are you having fun?”
“I am.” He nodded slowly. “You?”
“Good. I’m great. Listen, I wanted to thank you for coming over. I haven’t had a chance to say that yet.”
“You’re welcome.”
Our words felt formal, like we were interviewing each other for a corporate job. In the three days that had gone by, we’d rarely spoken of home.
“So how’s Cove? Anything to report?”
“Coaching’s good. Carpentry’s good. But you know Cove. Nothing ever happens.” He kicked the heel of one shoe against the step. “Especially compared with here.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“I don’t know—I just feel like you’re . . .” He took a breath. “Do I need to worry about this Freddy guy?”
“Oh, God, no,” I said. “There’s nothing going on with me and Freddy. Seriously, the guy irons his jeans so there’s a pleat down the front.” I pulled HP’s arm so he rocked closer. “I didn’t tell you about him because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Look, it’s all good and I believe you and everything. Just . . . don’t lie to me, LJ. I can’t stand liars.”
“Freddy’s just a friend. I swear to God.”
“Okay,” he said, kissing me quickly. “Enough about Freddy. Enough.” He looked out over the courtyard, where the tourists were making peace signs for photos. “So are we together still? Or are we ‘seeing what happens’?”
“Don’t ask me! You were the one who wanted to make it vague in the first place.” It came out sharper than I’d intended, and I saw his eyebrows knit again. I slipped my arm through his. “I think we should stop worrying and just relax back into each other.”
“Yeah.” He stretched and ruffled his hair. “Yeah, let’s just have some fun. Good call. Enough of all this heavy shit.” He pulled me towards him by the neck of my T-shirt.
We kissed as we stood, surrounded by tourists and pigeons and the singsong bells of bicycles. We couldn’t get to my college room fast enough.
That night we drank in the bars on Cowley Road and partied in the O2 nightclub. It was full of synthetic smoke and weird lighting that gave all the clubbers blue teeth and dandruff. We hadn’t checked ahead so it was some kind of jungle DJ who played music so manic, it made me feel like I was about to have a panic attack. I retreated to the back bar where the beat was reduced to a dull thump and let the boys get on with it.
At around 2 a.m. we wandered back up Cowley Road, stopping at Kebab Kid for the boys. The puddles shone psychedelic with grease. I waited outside, sitting on a nearby bus shelter bench, and stared at an old man in the doorway of a betting shop. He’d vomited on the front stoop and couldn’t get up from it—every few minutes he’d skid his toe forwards looking for a foothold before slumping back against the door.
A guy with a foot-high Afro loped along the sidewalk asking everyone he passed for money. His hips led his stride, his gait spongy. If denied money, he’d point in the person’s face and say, “Fuck you.” He moved through the whole late-night crowd that way, repeating his script until, by the fifth attempt, he simply said, “Can you spare some change fuck you,” all in a single breath. Wherever you looked on Cowley Road there was humanity, the true slimy viscera of it.