Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Lucas
It’s midnight in Cambridge. I’m walking up a spiral staircase. I arrive at the top to find a locked wooden door. I step through it and emerge onto a stone balcony. I’m high up in one of the colleges, looking out across the skyline. It’s a balmy summer night, but up this high, there’s a cooling breeze. Then I realise I’m not alone. Someone’s leaning over the edge of the balcony, gazing at the view. I approach him quietly, then stop as Amir turns and sees me. We hold each other’s gaze.
‘I can’t believe I found you here,’ I say.
Amir looks at me, his hair blowing gently in the breeze. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
My heart leaps. ‘I wasn’t sure you even knew who I was.’
‘Are you kidding?’ says Amir. ‘I’ve had my eye on you all year.’
Amir steps forward and kisses me. His lips are warm and soft. I reach up to unbutton his shirt and it magically slips off his shoulders and onto the floor. His body is exactly how I imagined it, toned and smooth, his olive skin marked only by a wispy black treasure trail leading down towards an unmistakable bulge in his trousers. I drop to my knees and place my hands on his waistband. The cut of his hip muscles is right in my sight line. I pull down his trousers, feeling what’s inside them strain against the material. Then I hear a sound in the distance, sharp and clear, ringing repeatedly.
‘What’s that noise?’ I ask in annoyance.
Amir shrugs. ‘Probably a church bell.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Sounds more like .?.?. an alarm clock.’
I open my eyes. Damn. Should have known that was too good to be true. Deb has given us the week off training, but I forgot to turn off my alarm. It’s 5.30 a.m. On any other day, I’d be blundering out of bed and striding through the darkness to catch a train to Ely and out onto the river for ninety punishing minutes. But today I have the morning to myself and I’m already wide awake. My thoughts return to Amir. You know when you have a crush so debilitating you feel physically weak? That’s Amir. It’s bad enough seeing him in person, but lately he’s started haunting my dreams. Today was as far as we’ve ever got. Not even my subconscious will let me seal the deal.
In the absence of Amir, I pull up his Instagram profile. I get that it’s curated, but no one could deny that Amir is living the quintessential Cambridge experience. Evensong at King’s Chapel. Punting down the River Cam on a gorgeous summer day. Champagne picnics in the Grantchester Meadows. Black tie summer balls. Parties at his palatial home in Tunisia or at his friends’ who live in actual castles. Total Brideshead Revisited vibes, except that I once said that at a party and someone snootily reminded me that it was set in Oxford. All Amir’s photos are carefully cropped or shot in sharp focus so that you can’t quite tell who he was there with, and can imagine yourself there instead. There’s only one photo where he’s in the frame himself: the one responsible for tonight’s dream. I’m not sure where it was taken – possibly the St John’s College clock tower. Who took the photo? How did they get up there? Amir’s back is turned, so all you can see is his smooth tanned neck and immaculately cut hair. I always thought there was something incredibly alluring about this being the only photo he’s posted of himself. Imagine being that hot and not feeling the need to announce it to the world. But after my dream, the freeze-frame is almost an insult. Much better to close my eyes and picture myself back on the balcony with him.
Now where did we leave off? Ah yes. Just like that, I feel a stirring between my legs and slide a hand down my pants. Might as well make the most of being up this early.
A few hours later, I’ve showered and dressed and I’m scurrying over the Bridge of Sighs. It’s a covered stone bridge with grated windows and ornate carvings – the jewel in the crown of my college, St John’s, and never not being photographed by tourists. St John’s College is a picturesque collection of grand sandstone buildings covered in ivy and courtyards with clocks that chime on the hour, situated in the centre of Cambridge, right next to our biggest rival, Trinity. Trust George and I to end up at rival colleges. As I leave the grounds of St John’s, I look over the river towards Trinity and wonder what George is doing right now. Maybe he’s already found someone else to tutor him. I hope they’re charging a lot. It’s occurred to me that I could have just swallowed my pride and taken him up on his offer. It’s not like I couldn’t use the money.
The next college I pass is Trinity Hall, where my mum works as a cleaner. Or a ‘bedder’, as they’re called here, since Cambridge students are so pampered that we literally get our beds made for us. It’s kind of awkward having my mum work at the same university I attend, even if I don’t visit her nearly as much as I should. My dad used to work there too, in the kitchens, but he followed a woman to Newcastle soon after my sister was born, so we don’t talk about him. I didn’t think much about my mum’s job until I got older. Then I listened as she came home with the most awful stories. Students who talked down to her, or expected her to clean up the full range of bodily excretions without a word of thanks. I couldn’t bear the idea that these people thought they were better than her. So around the age of fifteen, I came up with a plan: I was going to get into Cambridge and prove I was as good as any of them.
I already did well at school, so it wasn’t a pipe dream. Cambridge has always been heavily weighted in favour of private school students, but these days they admit plenty of people like me. Once I got my place, I could have happily found myself a nice group of down-to-earth friends with similarly modest backgrounds. But no, that would have been far too sensible. Instead, I was determined to get the stamp of approval from the privileged set. From my first day here, I tried to befriend anyone who looked like they might have grown up on the Saltburn estate, but surprise, surprise, none of them had any interest in being friends with a weird little guy whose mum was a cleaner. Not that I ever mentioned that upfront, but toffs are so good at sniffing each other out and excluding everyone else that I was doomed before I started. I failed so categorically to become part of that world that I convinced myself I was over it. That was until I met Amir.
I reach the other side of town and arrive at the coffee shop where I work a shift twice a week. There’s a rule banning Cambridge students from having jobs during term time, but I’m not sure how strictly it’s enforced, and I’ve got away with it so far. The coffee shop is a cute little place with a mint green facade and hanging plant pots, owned by a retired gay man who spends most of his time in Yorkshire. A few weeks into the job, I was on the verge of quitting when Amir walked in. I recognised him instantly – he’s also at St John’s College, but at that point we’d never spoken, mainly because I’d never dare approach someone that beautiful. In the coffee shop, however, I had no choice but to look him in the eye and talk to him as I served him.
From that moment on, I was besotted.
I feared it was a one-off, but he came in the following week, and I realised it was a regular habit. He always comes in on a Wednesday afternoon, but there’s no logic to whether he comes towards the start or the end of my shift, which keeps me on edge throughout. There’s no such mystery about his order: a cappuccino with oat milk, not too hot. And no matter the time, whatever the weather, the script is always the same.
Just after 3 p.m., I hear the bell tinkle and there he is. Oh god. How does he get hotter every time? He’s wearing an oversized knitted jumper and clutching a book like he so often is. One time he brought in a copy of Maurice by E. M. Forster and I immediately went to the library and read it in a day. It’s the story of a young man who discovers his sexuality at Cambridge, before ultimately falling for Alec, a working-class groundsman. Obviously, I convinced myself that Amir is Maurice and I’m his Alec.
Today Amir is holding a poetry collection whose title I can’t make out. I look up and attempt a casual smile.
‘What can I get you?’
Why do I always say that? Does he think I’m rude or dumb because I haven’t memorised his order by now? Somehow, I feel like admitting that would reveal something I’m trying to keep hidden.
‘Cappuccino with oat milk please. Not too hot.’
I nod as if it rings a bell, but only vaguely. ‘No problem.’
Over the weeks, I’ve tried out all sorts of responses, from ‘Sure’ (too non-committal) to ‘You got it!’ (completely demented). But what if he’s noticed I’ve settled on ‘No problem’? Should I have thrown in an ‘On its way’ to mix it up? No, don’t be silly – that would require weeks of rehearsal. I need to concentrate on getting the milk temperature right. I would die if I ever overheated it even slightly, but it also mustn’t be too cold. And yes, I’ve conducted experiments on my days off.
Whilst I flirt with the boundaries of clinical insanity, Amir stands there patiently. What’s he thinking? I’d pay good money to know, although I am only being paid ￡10 an hour. Now would be the perfect time to ask if he enjoyed the Boat Race. Surely he knows I’m in the team? Surely he recognises me? Tell me he recognises me. It’s the perfect icebreaker, but it’s also a minefield. What if he watched the race and thinks it’s all my fault? What if he saw me with my family at the boathouse and decided I’m not the right sort? What if he read the Telegraph piece and thinks that was very undignified of me? How will I know if I don’t ask?
I don’t even have to mention the Boat Race. I could talk about the weather, exams, anything. But I can’t. The words don’t come out. Or they do, but not the ones I’m looking for.
‘Cash or card?’
Amir looks me in the eye. ‘Card.’
Shock twist – just kidding. Amir taps his card and I hand over his coffee. It’s occurred to me that I could purposefully spill it, like some romcom meet cute. As if I’d risk scalding my precious Amir. Instead, we exchange that weird puckering of the dimples that passes for politeness in these situations, then he’s gone for another week.
I wouldn’t say Amir is why I took up rowing. But the two things are not unconnected. Being part of the university rowing team grants me some kudos in certain circles which, short of having gone to certain boarding schools or having a parent with a Wikipedia page, is the best someone like me can hope for. When I got approached by a rower at the freshers’ fair, I thought they were joking until I realised they were thinking of me as a cox. Until that moment, I’d never imagined that the world of Varsity matches and sports kit with matching crests might be somewhere I was welcome. It took one trial session on the river to realise I’d found my true calling: screaming at jocks.
It’s weird to think of those guys as my friends. What other group of friends are so explicitly in competition with each other? What other group of friends can you get kicked out of at any moment? On the other hand, it does give me a ready-made social calendar. Tonight, the men’s crew are throwing a party in honour of the women’s team’s victory in the Boat Race. None of us are in the mood for a party, but it wouldn’t be a good look for any of us to skip it, not when we get ninety-nine per cent of the world’s attention.
As evening falls, I drag myself over to The Granta pub. It’s a favourite of the rowers on account of its location, perched on the edge of a pond halfway down the River Cam with an open-sided pavilion which juts out over the water. Tonight, we’re confined to a private upstairs room. I arrive to find it already heaving. There isn’t a dress code, but plenty of people have chosen to wear their rowing blazers, the weirdos. There’s a keg of beer, a vast plastic bucket filled with a cloudy white cocktail that has been optimistically labelled ‘Tropical Punch’, and several jugs of jelly whose purpose I’m not sure I want to know. The stereo system is pumping out a tropical house cover of ‘Wonderwall’. Keep it classy, guys.
The atmosphere is as odd as it always is on these occasions. Male rowers are the type of men who will happily lick each other’s balls for a laugh – I’m scarred for life by that memory – then get weirdly reserved around women. Sasha, the women’s stroke, is valiantly trying to make conversation with Ed and Ted. She’s paired a men’s rowing tie with a bikini top and is jutting her hips from side to side as she talks to them. But no matter how hard she tries, Ed and Ted are desperate to retreat to their natural position on the sidelines, like two lazy dads at a family barbecue. Rotter and Sprout appear to be having a little more success, but only because they’ve found a pair of girls who share their obsession with weight training. They’re set to spend the night getting paralytically drunk together while never once deviating from their preferred topics of protein supplements and resistance training. Dakani and Johannes are talking to each other, or rather Dakani is listing his day’s achievements while Johannes nods along politely. I’ve always felt there’s some kind of sexual tension between those two. Something about Dakani’s dynamism and Johannes’s compliance makes it all too easy for me to imagine what they got up to when they shared a room on the last training camp. But in truth, it’s not like Dakani has the time for it.
‘Punch?’ asks Tristan.
I look behind me just in time to see Tristan hand me a paper cup and slap my back hard. Nobody warned me when I joined the boat club how regularly I could expect to be treated to the traditional greeting of the 200 lb neanderthal. I take a swig of punch. Wow, that’s disgusting – get me another one immediately.
‘You been here long, old chap?’ Tristan asks.
Old chap? I hate it here.
‘Just got here.’
Tristan surveys the room. ‘I thought no one would be up for a party, but people are going for it.’
‘Yeah, well, the girls deserve it.’
‘Totally,’ Tristan says stiffly. ‘Massive respect to these girls.’
Massive respect is a stretch when it comes to Tristan and female rowers. From the way he talks about them when he’s had a few more drinks, you get the impression he thinks they should limit themselves to artistic gymnastics and a light spot of badminton.
‘You know we really shouldn’t be seen together like this,’ I say to Tristan.
‘Why?’
‘Because everyone thinks me and you are plotting.’
Tristan looks at me sharply. There was an email from Johannes earlier in the day imploring that no one discuss recent events at tonight’s party. Several people replied concurring, but Tristan and I weren’t among them.
‘People can think what they want,’ says Tristan, finishing his drink with a scowl. ‘We both know I should have been in that stroke seat. We both know we would have won the race if I had been. It’s a new season. It’s damn near a whole year till the next Boat Race. And if George wants to keep his place, he can fight me for it.’
I think I’m getting the old chap treatment because Tristan senses a potential alliance. There are plenty of reasons why it would make sense. It would mean I didn’t have to sit in the boat opposite George, plus Tristan’s parents have properties everywhere from the Cotswolds to Biarritz. Unfortunately, he’s just too much of an arsehole. Nice to know I do have some standards.
I ditch Tristan and get chatting to Fran Macdonald, the women’s cox and team captain. She’s a sparky, red-haired Scottish girl who I clicked with the day I met her. It was Fran who made me fall in love with coxing, showing me how demanding and strategic it could be, like you’re single-handedly in charge of a steam engine. Much as Fran takes her rowing seriously, she’s always up for a laugh. As we start funnelling down cups of punch, I tell her my theory about Johannes and Dakani.
‘I don’t see it,’ says Fran. ‘I get straight vibes.’
‘Yeah, no, they’re definitely both straight. But that doesn’t rule out a little fun in the bunks on rowing camp.’
‘Speaking from experience?’ Fran asks with a grin.
‘I wish.’
‘Careful what you wish for. The girls squad is a nightmare – we’ve always got at least two current couples and one set of exes.’
‘Maybe that’s the secret to your success.’
Fran laughs. ‘Sounds like you guys need to get fucking.’
‘Please, Fran, look at the material. It’s not happening.’
I notice people peering towards the door and chattering excitedly. There’s only one person who could cause that reaction. I do my best to ignore it, but eventually I glance over and see George stride into the room. He’s gone for a wet look with his side parting, making him look like a member of the Rat Pack who causes teenage girls to be hospitalised for hysteria. He’s wearing his blazer, but without a shirt. His shaved pecs glint out from underneath, displaying as much cleavage as any woman at the party.
I turn to Fran with a smirk. ‘Lock up your women.’
Fran laughs. ‘Too late.’
Unlike most of the crew, George doesn’t struggle to fraternise with the women’s team. He’s slept with at least two of them that I’m aware of, which is impressive given how many of them are gay.
‘Whose turn do you think it is tonight?’ I ask Fran.
She smiles mischievously. ‘Mine.’
Fran is as queer as they come, so I’m not sure what she’s implying until she stands on a chair and calls the room to a halt.
‘Thanks for coming tonight. Especially the men. You guys have had two hundred years of systemic bias, but we get a beer keg and a room above a pub, so I guess it all balances out.’
Everyone laughs. Tristan grits his teeth. Fran smiles at George.
‘I want to thank George in particular for making tonight possible.’
George gives her a thumbs up.
‘I’m not talking about organising the party,’ says Fran. ‘If you hadn’t fucked two of our crew, they never would have known how to finish that fast.’
The whole room gasps.
‘Seriously, it’s a good job half of us are lesbians,’ says Fran. ‘Really stopped that chlamydia outbreak in its tracks.’
Oh my god, she’s roasting him. This is delicious. Except that George is laughing along good-naturedly and doesn’t seem remotely offended. What’s wrong with him?
‘But listen,’ says Fran, ‘I do understand that you boys’ reputation is in the gutter right now. So we wanted to give you a chance to recover your pride.’
She beckons off to the side. Two of her teammates step into the middle of the room with an outstretched rope. Everyone whoops in excitement as they realise what Fran is proposing – a limbo contest.
‘You gonna win this for us?’ asks Tristan, slapping me on the back even harder than the first time. ‘You could walk straight under there.’
Hilarious.
The tournament gets underway with Fran as MC. Despite Tristan’s claims, I’m probably the least flexible person in the room, and I’m sitting this one out. As men and women take turns, I see the ingenuity of the ladies’ challenge. Most of the men who enter, with their larger frames and bulky legs, promptly fall like flies. The women generally find it much easier to slip under. But Fran hasn’t reckoned on the physical dexterity and sheer determination of one man in particular. George sails under the rope with ease every time. To say he hasn’t let his roasting get to him is an understatement. Pretty soon, he’s made the Top 5 with four other women, then the Top 3. It’s remarkable how easily George can bend back on his legs and shuffle under. As another girl stumbles and falls in the bronze medal position, it’s down to the final two.
Up against George is Katya, a Ukrainian girl who lives in the next-door courtyard to me and is one of the rowing club’s newest recruits. She’s enjoying the attention as much as George, hyping up the crowd like a WWF wrestler each time she succeeds. The rope is lowered another inch, and George assesses it, then unbuttons his blazer and takes it off. The crowd whoops. George leans backwards. Now that he’s shirtless, it’s impossible not to stare at his muscles. His body is so perfectly sculpted that it almost looks fake. He makes it under the rope, and walks straight up to Katya until their faces are only inches apart. Katya doesn’t flinch. They start to circle each other slowly. Their eyes are locked, the chemistry between them is electric, and the rest of us are rapt. I feel like we’re watching a mating ritual on a David Attenborough documentary.
Katya takes a sip of punch and stretches her arms, preparing to match George’s marker. The crowd crescendoes into a cheer as Katya lowers herself down. But the drink must have unsteadied her, as she has barely begun to shift beneath the rope before she stumbles and falls on her back. Everyone oohs, then applauds her. George reaches out a hand and pulls Katya to her feet. Someone rushes forward and places an inflatable crown on George’s head. George grins gamely, but that’s not the prize he cares about. He casts his eyes towards Katya.
I struggle to walk home in a straight line. I must have drunk about ten cups of punch in the end. At least the streets are quiet. The road back to St John’s, which is usually filled with tourists, has the uncanny air of a film set, but I’m in no mood to appreciate it. I can’t stop thinking about George’s performance in the limbo. Not winning the contest, but seducing Katya like that, in front of everyone. They left the party together about an hour ago. How did he do it? Right after getting roasted in front of that whole room. If that had happened to me, it would have taken me months to recover. But George shrugged it off and got laid twenty minutes later. If he had a weekly coffee appointment with Amir, they’d be married by now.
It’s only as I arrive back at college that I realise how devastated I am for letting that opportunity slip past me this afternoon at the coffee shop. Why couldn’t I bring myself to start up a conversation? This week would have been the perfect time to do it. Next week it will be weird to say I saw him at the Boat Race. Creepy, even. But what if it’s not too late? Dutch courage and all that. It’s not that late. Amir seems like the kind of guy who’ll be up at 1 a.m.
Colleges are patrolled day and night by porters – a cross between a butler and a security guard who monitor who’s coming in and out, deliver post to the professors, and shout at any students who walk on the lawn. The porters all know my face by now, but I feel like I’m committing a crime as I enter college through the Porter’s Lodge and head straight past the turning to my room. I arrive at the courtyard where Amir lives and pad around the perimeter. Each staircase has a plaque with a list of names of the students who are resident, so it’s really not that weird that I know Amir lives on the staircase in the far corner. As I stride towards it, I trip on a cobblestone and almost land flat on my face.
‘Jesus, are you all right, dude?’
That voice is unpleasantly familiar. I glance up to see George looking at me in concern and offering his hand. Reluctantly, I let him pull me to my feet.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask hotly.
‘Leaving,’ says George. ‘Katya’s great, but the beds are tiny. For me at least.’
He smiles, but I ignore him and turn away from him towards Amir’s staircase. I can feel George watching me. My feet stay rooted to the spot.
‘Are you lost or something?’ asks George.
I don’t know why I’m not more defensive. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the tiredness, or the overwhelming sense of defeat.
‘There’s this guy I like, Amir. I was gonna go and, I dunno, knock on his door.’
George stares at me.
‘Does he know you’re coming?’
‘No.’
‘Are you insane?’
I’m not answering that one. George shakes his head in disbelief.
‘This is a guy you want to get with?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can’t just knock on his door in the middle of the night. That’s not hot.’
‘What should I do then? Since you’re clearly the expert.’
George bristles at my attitude. ‘That depends on a lot of things. And honestly, it’s late.’
He turns to leave. I feel cheated. It’s as if he has the answers but is refusing to share them. You can hardly blame him, given the way I reacted to his request the other day. Then I have a brainwave.
‘Wait—’
George glances back at me.
‘What if we made a deal?’ I ask tentatively.
George frowns in confusion.
‘I’ll do what you asked. I’ll help you pass your exams.’
George’s eyes light up. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. But only if . . .’ I glance around, embarrassed. ‘If you teach me how to get laid.’
George looks amazed. ‘That’s all I have to do?’
‘No one said it’s gonna be easy. But yeah. That’s all.’
Wait. Do I really want to do this? With George, of all people? Then I think of Amir. If there’s even a chance that George can help me seduce him, I can suffer through anything. I hold out my hand decisively.
‘Deal?’
George doesn’t hesitate.
‘Deal.’