Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Lucas
Out on the river, when you can feel the wind rush against your cheeks and the boat move through the water, rowing makes sense as a sport. But every weekday after lunch, the rowers have to come back from their lectures and complete a timed session on a rowing machine, known as an ergometer, or erg for short. There’s something oppressive about the sight of the whole team on ergs, putting in just as much effort as they do on the river, but going nowhere. I know I have it easy, but if anything it’s even more mind-numbing to stand and watch. There are times when rowers can’t motivate themselves and need me to shout at them like I do in the boat. But on days like today, when they aren’t exhausted from weeks of training, pushing out 2 km on an erg is second nature.
‘Tempted to join them?’ asks Fran, walking up behind me.
‘I don’t want to make them look bad.’
‘Yeah, no, same.’
We share a grin.
‘Why don’t you shout at Tristan a bit?’ I ask. ‘He loves it when women do that.’
Fran laughs, then her expression turns serious. ‘What about you?’
I frown, not catching her drift.
‘Are you OK with me being here?’
‘No, Fran, I think women should stay in the kitchen where they belong.’
‘Lucas—’
‘We talked about this.’
‘I know,’ says Fran. ‘But now that I’m actually here .?.?. is it weird?’
Of course I’m not thrilled that I’m suddenly facing competition for my place. But I’m glad it’s Fran. Genuinely. I’d much rather she bump me from the boat than someone I hate. I understand why she’s doing this. Her victory in the women’s Boat Race was virtually ignored by the media. She’s the only member of the women’s crew who has the opportunity to join the men and share the limelight. I can cope with a bit of awkwardness. It’s not like we’re being asked to jelly wrestle.
‘It’s fine,’ I say to Fran with the widest smile I can muster. ‘Honestly, I have bigger things to worry about.’
I’m not just saying that. Today’s the day of the garden party, and my first shift in the coffee shop since I saw Amir at the club. I’ve been dreading this moment, but as it’s got closer, something weird has happened – I’ve dreaded it less. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still dreading it. But I’m trying to take more of a George approach to what happened in the club. It was embarrassing, but mainly because of the way I reacted. I don’t think George was wrong that it was good for Amir to see me being interested in another boy. Especially someone as hot as George. When I look back on that night, I can’t quite believe it. I hit on one guy and kissed another. Sure, one of them was George and he was only doing it to make me feel better, but still, it happened. I put myself out there and shit happened. There’s a lesson there somewhere.
As I arrive at the coffee shop, I remember George’s advice. Mention the garden party. That’s it. Then the ice will have been broken, and Amir and I can pick it back up with a glass of wine among the rose beds. Or, if he reacts badly, I’ll know not to show up. And, you know, retire to my chamber to impale myself on a ceremonial sword. But all I have to do for now is this one simple task.
Except that as the clock ticks past 4 p.m. and then 4.30, Amir still hasn’t shown. It’s getting close to 5, the end of my shift and the start of the garden party, and I’m starting to give up hope. Amir’s not coming. He’s never coming in again.
Then, as I’m about to hang up my apron and lock up, the bell tinkles and there he is.
Shit. Shit shit shit. Don’t think about what happened in the club. Don’t think about how hot he looks. Just do it. Amir walks up to the counter.
‘What can I get you?’ I ask.
‘Cappuccino with oat milk please. Not too hot.’
‘Coming right up!’
Not coming right up. That was not in the script. I need to ask him now, before I say something genuinely insane.
‘Are you going to the garden party?’ I manage to splutter.
Amir looks astonished. It’s a mad thing for me to have asked. We’ve never even acknowledged that we go to the same college. But maybe it’s better to cut to the chase.
‘Actually, yeah,’ says Amir, ‘I was thinking of going.’
Fuck. He was thinking of going. Say something normal.
‘Me too.’
Amir smiles. ‘Nice. Wanna go together?’
What? WHAT?
‘Uh, yeah,’ I say. ‘That would be awesome. I’m almost done here.’
As I turn to make his coffee, it’s hard not to whoop and punch the air. What just happened? I’m going to the garden party with Amir! I stick the milk frother in the coffee by accident and it spurts everywhere. For god’s sake. I should have asked him after I made his drink. Now we have to make small talk. What would George advise? Instinct, react, look around you, book! He’s holding a book!
‘What are you reading?’ I ask Amir.
He holds up a copy of Giovanni’s Room .
I roll my eyes. ‘Not still in that bloody room, is he? Loser!’
Amir looks slightly startled. ‘Er, no. He just got arrested for murder.’
What’s wrong with me? I’m serious, I need a diagnosis. As I focus on making Amir something vaguely wet and caffeinated, I attempt to think of a less crazy response.
‘I’m so bad at reading novels during term time.’
‘Really?’ says Amir. ‘I find it easier to read in Cambridge than at home.’
Interesting. Is he referring to the flat his parents own in Mayfair, estimated value ￡2.2 million, or the family home in Sidi Bou Said, a charming coastal town in Tunisia?
‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
‘I’m from Tunisia. It’s too hot out there to think, let alone read.’
I hand Amir his coffee, and it’s a miracle I don’t ask him why he doesn’t try cooling down in that lovely swimming pool of his with the green tiles.
‘It sounds gorgeous.’
No it doesn’t! He doesn’t know you’ve seen it. Concentrate.
‘Yeah,’ says Amir, ‘it’s all right.’
He taps his card and smiles at me.
‘We should go.’
I’m unsteady on my feet. Five minutes ago, we’d never even had a proper conversation. Now he’s proposing a trip together? I smile at him in amazement.
‘Yeah! I’d love to go to Tunisia.’
I watch as Amir’s expression crumples into one of sympathy.
‘Oh. I meant go to the garden party.’
I turn bright red.
‘I know. Obviously. I didn’t think – kidding!’
I start frantically mopping with a cloth. I can feel Amir staring at me. That’s good – he’ll be a crucial police witness when I spontaneously combust.
‘Are you coming then?’ Amir asks.
‘Me? No.’
Amir looks surprised. ‘Oh right. I thought—’
‘Yeah, no, I forgot I have a doctor’s appointment, so I can’t – in fact, I have to close up here. You should probably—’
I step out from behind the counter and bundle Amir towards the door.
‘So great to talk finally. Enjoy the rest of the book. Fingers crossed for Giovanni! Everyone makes mistakes!’
I run to the nearest cliff and jump off it. If only. That would be infinitely preferable to replaying the conversation with Amir in my mind for the rest of the day. Each time, it only gets more mortifying. How could I have been so stupid? Why would Amir have been proposing a trip to Tunisia with someone he’d just met? And once I realised my mistake, why didn’t I style it out? I can’t possibly speak to Amir ever again. If he comes back to the coffee shop, I’ll quit on the spot, get a taxi to the airport and start a new life in Bulgaria.
I’d quite happily spend the rest of the week lying in bed and planning my own funeral. Sadly, every year, the winning Boat Race crew invites the losers to a formal dinner. This is supposedly done in a spirit of gentlemanly bonhomie, but really it’s an opportunity for the winners to gloat. That part is bad enough, but the fact that it’s a black-tie dinner makes me actively dread it. There’s nothing like these formal Oxbridge occasions to dredge up my insecurities. I might be able to dress the part, but I swear people can tell I don’t belong. Even before I open my mouth, I just don’t feel at ease in these spaces in the way they so clearly do. It’s something about the way they hold themselves with such confidence – not that I can put my finger on it, let alone mimic it. Following the catastrophe with Amir, I decide I’m in no mood to put myself through any more humiliation, and message the crew to say I can’t come to the dinner because I don’t own a tux. George isn’t having it. He tells me to meet him at the local suit hire shop.
‘You really don’t have to do this,’ I say to George.
‘I do,’ George says cheerily. ‘I don’t want you to miss out.’
He turns to the sales assistant, a girl around our age.
‘Do you have this a size smaller?’
‘Let me check.’
As the sales assistant walks off, I grimace.
‘She has to check. Can you imagine being so small that the shop assistants don’t even know if you belong in the adult section?’
‘Lucas, you’re the only one who cares about your height. You need to own it.’
‘Why? What’s the point? I’ve fucked it with Amir.’
I told George what happened as soon as I got here. Unsurprisingly, he’s refusing to see it as the disaster it so clearly was.
‘You didn’t fuck it.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
George nods and turns back to the suits.
‘George! Obviously I want to talk about it!’
‘Oh. Yeah. Right. Look, you made a mistake, but the main thing is, Amir asked if you wanted to go to the garden party together. That’s huge.’
‘It’s not huge. The garden party was yesterday.’
‘That doesn’t matter. It’s a really good sign. I honestly think you can salvage this.’
The sales assistant returns with my suit. George thanks her and gets me to put it on. I’m expecting him to leave me to change alone, but he just stands there in the door of the dressing room. We’ve seen each other naked before, but for some reason, taking off my trousers in front of him feels way more exposing.
Once I’ve got the suit on, George examines me carefully. He feels along both of my arms with his hands to check the fit, then crouches down and slides his hand up the inseam, right up to the danger area. I flush red and feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I’m not sure how helpful it is to have a dating coach who’s quite so beautiful as George.
‘Yes,’ says George. ‘Much better.’
I peer at my reflection doubtfully.
‘Seriously,’ says George, ‘you look so handsome.’
‘You sound like my mum.’
‘You look hot. Is that better?’
I blush and reappraise myself in the mirror.
‘I don’t see it.’
George nods. ‘I think I see the problem.’
‘I’m a short arse.’
‘I don’t mean physically!’
He looks at me earnestly. ‘You’ve learned how to break the ice, and that’s great. But you don’t see yourself as attractive. That’s probably why you panicked with Amir.’
That is way more insightful than I would have expected from George. But maybe I’m being judgemental. He is an expert at this.
‘OK, so we’re agreed,’ I say, ‘this is never going to work.’
‘No,’ laughs George, ‘we can totally fix this. Pick something you like about yourself.’
I look back at my reflection. ‘I have two working knees.’
‘Lucas, I need you to take this seriously.’
I smile at George. ‘Well done. You’re being very strict.’
‘Because I actually want this for you.’
I’ve never been able to handle sincerity. ‘What do I have to do again?’
‘Pick something you like about how you look.’
I stare at the mirror. I know I’m not ugly. I could even take handsome on a good day. But I just can’t see myself as hot.
‘Well?’ says George.
‘I got nothing. No tengo nada.’
‘Forget about your ex. I’ll say a few things about you that I think are attractive, and you tell me if you find any of them convincing.’
George stands back and examines me like I’m a painting.
‘Your hair is a great colour. It reminds me of maple trees back home.’
I feel self-conscious, and my hand shoots up to tidy my hair. George reaches out his hand to stop me. The moment he touches me, I tingle all over.
‘And it suits being messy,’ George declares, holding my gaze.
‘Your eyes are very striking,’ he continues. ‘That green against your skin, it really works. Your freckles are adorable.’
I can’t take this many compliments in a row, especially not with George so up close. Perhaps detecting my unease, he takes a step back and surveys me.
‘You have a great body. You can tell even when you’re in a suit. Especially when you’re in a suit. Your shoulders are naturally broad, but it’s all in proportion. Oh, and best of all, you have a seriously cute butt. I’ve always thought that.’
George looks at me innocently.
‘How was that?’
I’m not sure what I succeed in mumbling in response to George. That whole moment caught me off guard. Pretty sure he was just being nice. Thankfully, we’ve run out of time and need to go and meet our teammates. In spite of the storied rivalry between Oxford and Cambridge, the journey between the two towns is far from convenient. It requires taking a bus along several country roads, which tend to be clogged with traffic. George and I arrive at the boathouse to find the bus already waiting and half the team boarded. I get on and look around for a seat.
‘George!’ calls Johannes, waving his iPad at him. ‘I’ve downloaded the new season of Is It Cake? !’
‘Cool,’ says George. ‘I’m going to sit with Lucas.’
I follow George to the back of the bus. Johannes is not the only one staring. I realise this is probably the first time any of the crew have seen me and George spend time together voluntarily.
‘Jesus,’ says George as we take our seats. ‘You’d think they’d caught us fucking.’
I laugh a little too loudly and glance around to check that no one is in earshot.
‘You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?’
‘About what?’ asks George.
‘Our deal?’
‘Who would I tell?’
‘We’ve gotta be careful,’ I say furtively. ‘They’re already suspicious.’
‘Who cares? This will all be over soon.’
My demeanour darkens. George looks surprised.
‘Because we’ll both have everything we want.’
I let out a laugh. ‘I don’t get how you’re always so positive. What makes you think this is going to work out?’
‘I’ve visualised it.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Sometimes it is. Come on – what’s your ultimate fantasy of you and Amir?’
I roll my eyes, but George isn’t letting me off the hook.
‘I dunno. Hanging out in his flat in Mayfair, reading books and having sex.’
‘Great. Hold that image in your head.’
I try. I really do. But I can’t see myself in the flat in Mayfair. It’s like these black-tie university events. I just don’t belong there.
‘Hey,’ says George.
‘What?’
‘You’re not holding that image in your head.’
‘You don’t know what’s in my head.’
‘True, but based on your facial expression, I’m guessing it’s not your ultimate fantasy.’
I frown and try again. I suppose I can see myself in the flat in Mayfair if I really try, ruining its perfectly folded towels the moment I touch them. It’s the part where I’m lovingly entangled in Amir’s arms that I’m struggling with.
‘What’s the problem?’ asks George.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Why do you think I trapped you on a two-hour bus ride?’
I narrow my eyes at George. ‘You’ve changed.’
George grins. ‘I learned from the best.’
‘I could lock myself in the loo,’ I say drily.
‘Yes, Lucas, you could do that.’
I let out a long sigh.
‘Fine. It’s like you said earlier. I just don’t feel attractive.’
George looks encouraged by the confession. ‘And why do you think that is?’
‘Because why would someone like Amir be into someone like me?’
‘I told you, a lot of guys are into short men.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
I tell George about my upbringing. How my mum’s experiences at work made me aware from a young age that people will always look down on me because of my background. How it made me desperate for their approval, and simultaneously convinced that I’ll never be good enough for them. How it’s nothing to do with how much I have in my bank account, but a far more deep-rooted sense of inadequacy.
‘I get it,’ says George.
‘No you don’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you actually like yourself. You’re not trying to be something you’re not.’
‘Maybe not right now, but I know what it feels like.’ George pauses and goes somewhere else in his mind. ‘When I was at high school, I had the pick of the girls.’
‘There’s a common theme to these stories.’
George ignores me. ‘When I say I had the pick, I mean the pick. It was ridiculous.’
‘Feeling soooo good about myself right now.’
‘Please just listen,’ says George.
Something about his tone snaps me out of it. This is clearly not one of George’s typical high school anecdotes.
‘There were all these girls who were into me,’ says George. ‘But I had a crush on Carly Rosen. She was cute, but not in an obvious way. We took English class together.’
George smiles wistfully as he recalls her.
‘She was so smart. I wanted to impress her. So I’d ask her what she was reading, and she’d tell me. Little Women . Wuthering Heights . But you wouldn’t get it, she’d say. It’s not your thing.’
Even as he says it, I can see how much the memory pains him. I spent so much of my childhood cursing being a geek that it never occurred to me that anyone would actively long to join the club, let alone a jock like George.
‘I wanted so badly for it to be my thing,’ says George. ‘I wanted to be the guy who understood. So I begged Carly for a recommendation, and she told me to read Murder on the Orient Express . It took me more than a week, but I did it. I told Carly all my thoughts. And she was really encouraging. I felt so good about myself. Carly said I should pick that book for my class presentation, so I did. She helped me after school. And I felt like we were really bonding. I did my presentation, and I was so proud of myself. But as I started the presentation, everyone started laughing at me. I had no idea why. So I just kept going. And afterwards, the teacher told me that I was pronouncing Hercule Poirot’s name wrong. I was saying it like “Poy Rot”. Dozens of times. Hercule Poy Rot.’
I’m this close to laughing. That’s objectively funny. But one look at George’s wounded expression and my face floods with sympathy. I hope he knows I’m not on the side of his classmates. It hurts me to think how much that must have devastated him.
‘She knew all along,’ says George. ‘She knew and she never corrected me. She wanted the whole class to hear it. So yeah, I know what it’s like to try and be something you’re not. It can be really humiliating. And the worst part is, you don’t stop wanting it.’
The feast is being held at Christ Church College, one of the richest in Oxford. If I hadn’t known, it becomes obvious as the bus pulls up outside the college’s ludicrously grand entrance gate. It has several domed turrets, an octagonal clock tower, and a stone statue of Henry VIII, the college’s founder. It takes one look at it all to convince myself I’m going to be turned away at the door. At least I’m not the only one who’s nervous. As the team gets off the bus, we straighten each other’s bow ties and clear our throats. Whatever animosities have raged between us in recent days, nothing unites us more than our hatred of the old enemy.
‘Why do we put ourselves through this?’ groans Ed.
‘We’re actually in a better position than they are,’ claims Dakani.
Everyone frowns apart from Johannes, who is naturally inclined to feel that all is equal on balance.
‘What did they even win?’ Dakani continues. ‘The chance to lose next year.’
‘That’s exactly the kind of thing a loser would say,’ scoffs Tristan.
We enter the Porter’s Lodge and are directed towards Maynard’s Chamber, which sounds like something from a Victorian anatomy class, but turns out to be the reception room that’s hosting welcome drinks. It’s the typical room lined with gold-framed paintings of bearded old men that you find all over Oxford and Cambridge. But it’s empty.
We walk into the centre of the room, confused about where our hosts are. The moment we’re all inside, the room is plunged into darkness. What the fuck? It feels like we’re about to be attacked. Instead, there’s a low humming sound which I gradually realise is chanting.
‘What are they saying?’ George whispers.
I listen until I can make it out.
‘Fuck the Tabs.’
‘The who?’
‘Tabs. Cantab. Cantabrigia.’
Even though I can’t see him, I can feel George’s look of confusion.
‘They’re telling us to go fuck ourselves in Latin.’
It’s at times like this that I think I should have got over myself and gone to a more normal university. Who the hell invites people to a black-tie dinner then welcomes them with this pathetic excuse for intimidation? Posh twats, that’s who.
As the chant reaches its climax, the lights come on and there they are, the victorious Oxford team, dressed in their tuxedos and looking like pricks. They burst into a round of self-congratulatory laughter. By the look of things, their drinking started a while ago.
I’m already counting down the hours until we can get the bus home, but George spots a waiter with a drinks tray and hands me a flute of champagne.
‘Down this,’ he says. ‘It’s time to get flirting.’
I take a doubtful look at our hosts. ‘Do you really think this is a good place to pull? We’re in enemy territory.’
George flashes me a smile. ‘Enemies always secretly want to fuck.’
He scans the room. ‘Based on my intelligence, three of the Oxford crew are gay.’
‘Are you sure we want to base anything on your intelligence?’ I quip.
George shoots me a look.
‘That was mean,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ says George. ‘I just didn’t want to freak you out by not having a plan. So I texted one of the Oxford women’s crew I slept with last year, and she got me the intel.’
‘Wow, George. Not just a pretty face.’
George chuckles and pulls out his phone. ‘Option one is Daley. Canadian guy.’
‘I remember him. There he is.’ I gesture at a huge muscular guy who’s laughing with Tristan.
‘Apparently he has a massive dick and he’s very proud of it,’ says George.
‘But he laughs at Tristan’s jokes. Automatic no.’
‘Fine. Option two is Magnus.’ George points out an extremely tall Norwegian.
‘Magnus is gay?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Way too tall.’
‘Not your thing?’
‘He won’t be into me.’
‘You need to get over this! He’ll think you’re small and cute.’
I’m surprised that George seems so sure.
‘But we do have a third option,’ says George. ‘Felix.’
Felix is the Oxford cox. I haven’t thought about him in weeks, but in the lead-up to the Boat Race, I developed a minor obsession with him. Despite all my moaning, I’m not actually that short as far as men go. But Felix is tiny. He’s so small in comparison to the rest of the crew that the media developed an obsession with photographing him, catching him at the angles that most capture the difference. When his team threw him into the Thames at the end of the race, as is tradition, they flung him so far, they had to pull him back to shore with a life ring.
‘There he is,’ says George.
Felix is talking to Rotter and Sprout and looks bored out of his mind. He has this wicked glint in his eye, kind of like a yassified Chucky, but that’s more attractive than it sounds. I’ve heard he’s a bitch, but I’m sure he’s heard worse about me.
‘Yeah, fine, I can have a crack at Felix.’
‘Great,’ says George. ‘Make sure you sit next to him at dinner. And remember what we talked about earlier.’
‘Correct pronunciation of Poirot?’
George laughs and gives me a playful wink. ‘Cute butt.’
Dinner is being held in Christ Church’s Great Hall. It’s a cavernous room with stained-glass windows and vaulted ceilings thirty feet high. As we take our places at a long wooden table, I stand next to Felix. The tables are so wide that you can barely hear the person across from you, or even see them amid the gloom. But here, side by side, Felix and I have our own private candlelit dinner for the next hour or so. I’m about to take a seat on the bench when Felix taps me on the shoulder.
‘Not yet. Gotta stay standing.’ He gestures to the end of the room, where a man in a gown starts to sing in Latin.
How could I be so uncouth as to forget about Grace?
‘I can tell you haven’t been to one of these dinners before,’ Felix whispers.
Great. I’ve been found out already. But Felix smiles.
‘Don’t worry about it – I’ve got you.’
Oh my god. This is far worse than him being a bitch. He’s actually nice. Suddenly I’m feeling the pressure. As soon as Grace concludes, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I look at my reflection and try to remember what George said earlier. The stuff about my eyes and hair was all a bit obvious. And you’re never convincing me that freckles are anything other than over-productive melanin cells. But that comment about my butt .?.?. that was convincing.
Do I really have a cute butt?
I stand on my tiptoes and examine it in the mirror. That is a cute butt. Why have I never noticed? I hear a wolf whistle and turn to see that Daley from the Oxford team has caught me in the act.
I turn bright red. ‘I was just—’
‘Hey, don’t let me stop you.’
Daley smiles, then stands about a foot from the urinal and whips out—Jesus Christ! You could feed a family of four with that thing.
‘What do you make of Oxford?’ Daley asks, glancing downwards.
I hold his gaze. ‘Nothing special.’
I turn and walk out. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather be wined and dined than flashed at the urinal. Still, there’s no denying what just happened. A man hit on me. Because I have a cute butt. Even though I wasn’t up for it, that was hot.
As I get back to the dining hall, my mood has transformed. I grab another glass of champagne and take a seat next to Felix. He looks kind of cute in the candlelight. That suit’s a great fit. I remember being in the hire shop with George, and have an idea for how to play this.
‘That suit looks great on you,’ I say coyly.
‘Thanks,’ says Felix.
‘Where’s it from?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Let me check.’
I signal for Felix to swivel so I can read the label on his collar. As I lean in close, I see the hairs go up on the back of his neck. Oh my god. It worked.
‘Well?’ says Felix, turning to face me. There’s a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago.
‘John Lewis. Wool and polyester blend.’
‘Fascinating.’
We both laugh. I sip my champagne.
‘So are you guys as boring as we are in your free time?’ I ask.
Felix looks confused.
‘My friend Fran was telling me that half of the girls team have slept with each other. But nothing that exciting has ever happened with the men.’
Felix raises an eyebrow. ‘The night is young.’
I feel our feet touch beneath the table. Holy shit.
‘But to answer your question,’ says Felix, ‘Daley is kind of the village bicycle round here. So yeah – me and Magnus have both had a ride.’
‘Wow.’
‘That’s not the word I’d use. Daley will hit on anyone.’
I’m not going to take that personally. It was all down to my cute butt. Felix glances down the table and sees Daley talking to George, who is making an effort to be friendly but not too friendly.
‘Case in point,’ says Felix.
‘Ha,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that’s George’s thing.’
‘Oh well,’ says Felix. ‘They can bond over being thick as shit.’
I visibly bristle.
‘Oh come on,’ says Felix. ‘I saw your quotes in the Telegraph .’
‘I was in a pretty bad mood that day.’
‘But did you lie? I mean look at him. You can feel the stupidity from here.’
I’m getting annoyed now. Who does this twerp think he is?
‘George is actually smart. In his own way.’
‘Sure.’
I’m starting to understand why Felix’s teammates threw him into the river with such gusto.
‘You can be honest with me,’ says Felix.
My irritation has completely passed him by. It would be so easy for me to just agree with him and head off back to his room together. But that’s no longer what I want. Not even slightly.
‘You want me to be honest? Fine. You’re being a douche.’
After dinner, the Oxford boat club president formally invites the Cambridge team for drinks in the Junior Common Room, yet another wood-panelled reception room, this one boasting an enormous portrait of a peacock, for some reason. Our hosts have laid on a selection of cheese and port from the college cellars, as if we’re a load of middle-aged bankers. George comes rushing up to me.
‘How did it go with Felix?’
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
‘Good news, good news!’
Why did I even ask?
‘I saw myself as attractive,’ I say. ‘Genuinely. My butt has been causing havoc.’
‘That’s amazing!’ says George. ‘What’s the bad news?’
‘Felix is a cunt.’
George laughs, then glances behind me.
I spin around and standing there is Landon Hughes, the Oxford rowing coach. Landon Hughes is an Australian Olympic silver medallist and a gold star media whore. He once somehow wangled his way onto a diving reality TV show where he always seemed disappointed at having to execute a dive, much preferring the part where he got to strut around on the board in his Speedos. From the look of things, he spent too much time on Bondi Beach in his twenties, and has been making up for it ever since with Botox and fillers.
‘Felix means well,’ says Landon diplomatically. ‘Did you guys have a good dinner?’
‘It was entertaining,’ I say. ‘You?’
‘I was getting to know one of your teammates. Tristram, is it?’
‘Tristan. Don’t get it wrong to his face, he might slap you.’
Landon chuckles and looks around.
‘Sad not to see Deb here this evening.’
‘She’s busy. Her words, not mine.’
‘Her loss, more like,’ says Landon. ‘It’s such a shame you guys come all the way here and barely get to see our beautiful town. Can I offer you a tour?’
I don’t trust this guy. Not for a second. ‘We’re good.’
‘We’d love to do it another time,’ says George.
‘There won’t be another time,’ says Landon. ‘Come on, it won’t take long.’
This man is definitely up to something. But I’m intrigued to find out what. Landon leads us away from the drinks, across a courtyard and down through a gate to a poorly lit meadow.
‘Is this where you take your rivals to murder them?’ I quip.
‘Ha!’ says Landon. ‘No. The opposite.’
I look at George in alarm. Does Landon want a threesome? Has my cute butt claimed another victim?
‘I don’t get it,’ George says matter-of-factly.
‘I don’t see you guys as rivals,’ says Landon. ‘Far from it.’
We cross the meadow and arrive at a brand-new sports centre. It’s closed, but Landon scans a key card and shows me and George in. As he turns on the lights in the gym, twelve state-of-the-art ergometers gleam back at us. George’s eyes light up.
‘Are those Hydrow Pros?’
‘Custom made,’ Landon says proudly.
‘No way!’ says George. ‘Can I try one out?’
‘Be my guest.’
George strips off his jacket and jumps onto the erg. He puts it on the hardest setting and starts pulling away. Landon turns to me and smiles.
‘Someone’s happy.’
‘Like a pig in shit.’
Landon laughs. ‘Organic manure.’
I watch George in action. I’ve never seen someone this excited about an ergometer, exclaiming about how smoothly it runs and pulling like he’s in the final straight of the Boat Race. It’s actually quite sweet how happy this makes him, when here I am, distrusting everything Landon says. I do wish I could live in George’s head sometimes.
‘This is just the start of it,’ says Landon. ‘Downstairs, we have massage rooms, ice baths, cryotherapy booths. You guys use cryotherapy?’
‘Isn’t that what Walt Disney used to freeze his corpse?’
Landon laughs again.
‘You’re funny. Look, mock me all you want, but Deb is using training methods she learned in the eighties. We treat our rowers like Olympic athletes here.’
George crosses back over, sweating and pumped with adrenaline. Landon places a hand on his arm.
‘You like that, big guy?’
‘It was incredible!’
I fold my arms at Landon. ‘Why are you showing us this?’
Landon smiles coolly. ‘I think you should come and row for Oxford.’
I burst out laughing.
‘Why not?’ asks Landon. ‘I’ve heard rumours you’re both being dropped from the first boat.’
George looks panicked, but I scoff.
‘Did Tristan tell you that? He’s dreaming.’
‘He mentioned something about having to pass your exams, George.’
‘I’m working on it,’ George says proudly. ‘I was reading all about fiscal deficit bias just this morning.’
I look at George in surprise, but Landon isn’t interested.
‘But if you fail, you’ll be out, and Lucas, you’ll be stuck opposite Tristan. That’s if you aren’t bumped by Fran Macdonald.’
I narrow my eyes at Landon. ‘And why would you want such a pair of proven losers?’
Landon gives us yet another flash of his Cheshire Cat smile. ‘Because I didn’t fall for Tristan’s bullshit. I can see you guys have talent. I’m just not sure it’s being appreciated.’
I share a look with George.
‘Am I wrong?’ asks Landon. ‘Or has Deb given you her vote of confidence?’
Neither George nor I answer.
‘Listen,’ says Landon. ‘I’m about to take Oxford to the next level. I’ve been having some very exciting discussions with broadcasters. We’re going to do for rowing what Drive to Survive did for Formula 1.’
Landon hands us his business card.
‘Just think about it, OK? Imagine what a moment it would be if you both defected.’
‘Has it happened before?’ I can’t help asking.
‘Only three times in two hundred years. But the last guy to do it lost at Cambridge then won at Oxford. You know what to do.’