Chapter 11
It is to Mebel’s utter surprise and delight that the following evening, the youths, as she refers to them in her head, take her not to Cowley Road but to the actual city of Oxford.
How funny, Mebel thinks as she walks down High Street, that she’s been in Oxfordshire for two weeks, but it is only now that she’s left Cowley and come into Oxford proper.
And despite Cowley’s vicinity to Oxford, it is like entering a different universe altogether.
While Cowley is full of squat, humble houses that look like they were built in haste in the seventies, Oxford itself is a city straight out of a fairy tale.
The university, made up of several different colleges, looks like a collection of little castles, each one with its own distinct architecture.
Mebel drinks in the gorgeous sights around her hungrily, she’s been so starved of beauty down in Cowley.
There’s All Souls College, which has the most intricate wrought iron gates she has ever seen, painted in gold.
There’s the Radcliffe Camera, a round building that is part of the Bodleian Library and built in a Baroque style.
As they walk past the Sheldonian Theatre, Mebel can hear the beautiful sound of orchestral music spilling from the building.
Everywhere Mebel turns, Oxford is ready to remind her that it is a city of culture, of art and philosophy and music and brilliance.
How is it possible that this place is only a ten-minute car ride from where Mebel has been staying this whole time?
“You all right, Mebs?” Gemma says.
Mebel nods, still speechless. They’re now walking past a small bridge that arches between two buildings. Though it is small, it’s somehow the most beautiful bridge that Mebel has ever seen.
“That’s the Bridge of Sighs,” Gemma says, following Mebel’s gaze. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Why is called the Bridge of Sighs?”
“Not sure,” Gemma says, “but I like it. I like to think it’s because Oxford students are probably so stressed that they sigh all the time.”
Mebel smiles, her mind going back to her college days at USC.
She had been under a lot of pressure back then with her studies, but at the same time, it had been pleasant in its own way.
A strong purpose in mind, goals with clear guidelines—study hard, get decent grades, and get your degree.
And, beyond that, the long-term goal of any self-respecting CHIP—get a good husband with a stable paycheck.
Mebel sighs. Things had been so straightforward back then.
“Mebs,” Bruce says, catching up with her. “When we get to Le Provencal, maybe you might want to stay behind us.”
Gemma glares at him. “And why would she need to do that?”
Bruce ignores Gemma, keeping his eyes on Mebel. “It’s just that they might wonder if you’re actually with us because—you know.” He gestures to himself, then to Mebel.
“Because I am so better dressed than you?” Mebel says innocently.
Bella and Adam, walking a step behind them, giggle. Bruce rolls his eyes.
“I hope I am not rude,” Mebel continues, “but you pair that newsboy cap with that tweed jacket, is somewhat…old-fashioned?”
Red splotches bloom on Bruce’s cheeks while the others hide their laughter behind their hands. “It’s English fashion,” Bruce cries. “You can’t talk, you’re wearing—” He gestures wildly at Mebel.
Mebel looks down at her outfit. For tonight’s exciting dinner, she has chosen to wear a black embroidered wool Chanel dress with gold detailing.
She has paired it with a Macrocannage cropped jacket from Dior and finished the look with a pair of the iconic J’Adior slingback pumps in transparent, embroidered mesh.
Now she is beginning to wonder if the shoes are a touch over the top.
“Bruce,” Gemma says to Bruce, “what are you talking about? Mebs looks like a total baddie.”
“Yeah,” Adam says. He waves his hands over Mebel. “I love your look, Mebs. I would describe it as elegant, with a hint of hussy.”
Mebel can’t decide whether to be horrified or delighted by Adam’s description, but since it makes Bruce look like he is questioning his existence, she decides she likes it.
Le Provencal is the newest French restaurant on Saint Giles’.
On the outside, it is understated, its facade clean and simple, the words “Le Provencal” hanging on a swinging sign above the door in a straightforward black font.
But its doors are open, patrons crowded outside, chatting with one another while waiting and hoping for a table.
Mebel scans the crowd; there are at least thirty people out here, all of them dressed in tasteful dinner attire.
Despite herself, she is impressed by Bruce for being able to secure a reservation here.
“Come on,” Bruce says to the group. “I’ll let the hostess know we’re all here.” He jogs up the stone steps into the restaurant, and the rest of them follow.
Mebel catches a few stares as she slips through the crowd and hugs her jacket tightly around herself, feeling self-conscious.
It’s an older crowd than undergrads, thank god, but they are still massively younger than her, and she is really beginning to question the wisdom of her shoes.
They are so coquettish, clearly meant for a woman below thirty, maybe forty at a push.
“Come on, Mebs!” Gemma calls out, and Mebel hurries toward her, feeling grateful that Gemma has thought to wait for her.
Inside, the restaurant is gorgeous. The walls are painted a soft dusty blue and are lined with wainscotting, with black-and-white pictures of iconic French stars hung here and there.
The lighting is warm and comfortable, and soft piano music plays in the background.
Everyone in here, from the guests to the servers, looks like they have just stepped out of a movie set.
Mebel spots black Prada dresses and red-soled Louboutins.
The men are wearing Pateks and the women are adorned with Franck Muller.
Well, well, she thinks. Toto, we are not in Cowley anymore.
She turns around to see that Bruce is in an animated conversation at the reception desk, with Bella and Adam looking confused and worried next to him. Sharing a look with Gemma, Mebel goes up to Bruce.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
Bruce holds up a hand in front of Mebel’s face and continues berating the hostess. “—last Tuesday. I spoke to—well, my assistant spoke to—well, I don’t know who exactly she spoke to, but there’s got to be a reservation, it’s under Bruce MacLeod.”
The hostess, a red-haired woman who looks somewhere in her late twenties, gives Bruce an apologetic half smile and says, “I’m really sorry, Mr. MacLeod, but I don’t see a reservation under that name here.”
“But that’s impossible. Look, I’m calling my assistant right now, and she’ll sort this out.”
“All right.” She waits with hands folded patiently, and when Mebel catches her eye, she gives Mebel a tight-lipped smile and says, “Yes, madam, do you have a reservation with us tonight? It’s reservation only, I’m afraid. We are fully booked.”
“I’m with him,” Mebel says.
“Oh, right. Of course.” If the hostess thinks it strange that Mebel is with this group of youths, she doesn’t show it. She merely goes back to watching Bruce with her long-suffering smile.
“Ceci,” Bruce says, “didn’t you say you made the booking at Le Provencal?
They can’t locate my—what? Ceci, what the fuck?
Well, why didn’t you tell me? Ceci—” There is a pause.
Bruce glances at them with a furtive gaze and then lowers the phone with an expression that clearly says: Shit, now what do I say to preserve the last of my dignity?
Clearing his throat, he turns to the hostess and says, “Ah, it turns out there was a miscommunication and my sister—my assistant—didn’t actually make the booking? ”
“On a scale of one to ten, how surprised are you to find out that his ‘assistant’ is his little sister?” Gemma whispers to Mebel.
Mebel laughs. “Is very enterprising of his little sister.” She taps Bruce on the shoulder. “We shall go somewhere else?”
“No,” Bruce snaps. “I will get us a table here.”
“I am telling you, sir, there is no table here tonight,” the hostess says. She is no longer wearing the put-upon smile. Now she’s full-on frowning.
“Come on, Brucey,” Bella says. “Let’s just go somewhere else.”
Bruce looks like he’s torn between throwing a hissy fit and throwing a tantrum. “No, I—”
Mebel sighs, mentally tuning Bruce out. His behavior is nothing new to her.
As a member of numerous private clubs—including a country club, a yacht club, and a business club—Mebel has seen more than her fair share of privileged grown men losing their shit because something didn’t go their way.
Henk has been guilty of many such an occasion himself, and the more these occasions occur, the faster Mebel has had to learn to shut down her senses and spare herself the mortification of watching these meltdowns.
How tiresome to come all the way to Oxford, England, only to find that the problem is a universal one.
“Well,” she says to the group in general, ignoring Bruce’s tirade, “I think I get going now.” If there’s one thing Mebel is good at doing, it’s making a timely exit. She turns to leave, and promptly bumps into a solid chest. “Whoops, excuse me.”
“That’s quite all right,” a man’s rich, velvety voice says. It is a voice that Mebel recognizes at once.
“Alain!” His name is out of her mouth before she even fully registers his presence. Delight courses through her body at the familiar sight of him, and before thinking twice, Mebel envelops him in a tight hug.
“Mebel,” Alain says, kissing both her cheeks.
“How come you are here?” she cries.
“Well, it is customary when one opens a restaurant to be present on the opening weekend,” Alain says, his eyes dancing with amusement as he gazes down at her.