Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
George
I’ve found the one place outside Cambridge where I’m a celebrity. Ever since my modelling campaign, I’ve been recognised on and off, even if people can’t quite place where they know me from. It happened a bit after the Boat Race, though not as much as I expected. But I’ve been at Henley for less than an hour and I’ve already been clocked four or five times. I’m in the stewards’ enclosure – an exclusive VIP area next to the river with marquees full of food and drink, and a bank of deckchairs to watch the races from. The dress code is strict – jacket and tie for men, skirt below the knee for women. And the drinks code is even stricter: Pimm’s, Pimm’s and more Pimm’s. I hadn’t even heard of Pimm’s before coming to England, but here you can’t escape it. It’s a liquor that’s mixed with lemonade, pieces of fruit and, bizarrely, cucumber. I’m not drinking any alcohol until after my race. Not everyone is being so restrained.
‘I can chug this stuff like water,’ says Jemima. ‘Faster, if anything. Pimm’s, Rick?’
‘Not right now,’ says Rick. ‘Just checking the wind speed.’
Rick Toledo, the US Olympic coach, is in his fifties, with slick grey hair and a leathery tan. Rick is known for being a master technician, but rather than focusing on his rowers, like most coaches, he’s obsessed with external influences such as river current and wind direction. Jemima introduced me to him about ten minutes ago, but he’s so engrossed in his portable anemometer that he’s barely acknowledged me.
‘Mild south-westerly breeze,’ says Rick. ‘Shoot.’
‘What does that mean?’ asks Jemima.
‘Slight advantage for Bucks.’
Jemima frowns and sips her Pimm’s.
‘That’s the left-hand side,’ I say.
‘What side are you rowing on?’
‘Right.’
Rick casts me a look. ‘No, Cambridge are on the left-hand side.’
So here’s the thing. I haven’t actually told Jemima that I’ve been dropped from the first boat. She’s been so excited about Henley that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And now I’ve left it too late. They’re going to discover one way or another in the next few minutes. I can’t bear to see the look on their faces.
‘You’d better hope the wind drops,’ says Rick.
‘George can cope with a bit of wind,’ says Jemima.
‘Yes,’ says Rick. ‘I remember you winning Head of the Charles. Gale force winds that year, if I remember correctly.’
‘Sounds right,’ I say. ‘Feels so long ago.’
‘You were the talk of the town. Every college wanted you.’
‘He went for the best,’ says Jemima, picking out a piece of strawberry from her glass with a cocktail stick and sucking on it.
‘Oxford might have something to say about that,’ says Rick. ‘This year at least.’
Damn. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to discuss the Boat Race.
‘That was unfortunate,’ I say. ‘We did our best.’
‘Not your fault,’ says Rick. ‘The flood tide favoured Middlesex more than usual this year. Not many people talking about that.’
He looks at his anemometer.
‘Wind has dropped. Perfect. You’d better go get ready.’
I freeze. ‘I, er, I’ve still got a bit of time.’
‘The race is at two thirty.’
‘There’s a race then, yes.’
‘So shouldn’t you be with your team?’
‘Well, not really.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just that .?.?. I’m actually rowing with the Cambridge second team today.’
Jemima almost spits out her drink. Rick’s expression curdles.
‘Wait, what?’
‘Yeah, did I not mention?’
‘No,’ says Rick, glaring at Jemima. ‘No one did.’
Presumably he’s wondering why he’s flown out from America to watch a guy who just lost the Boat Race and has now been dumped from the Cambridge first boat. It’s a good question. Jemima lunges for a jug of Pimm’s and pours herself another glass.
‘Rick, have I told you about George’s social media metrics? He’s really bringing rowing to a new audience. Aren’t you, George?’
She gives me a crazed look, halfway between panic and murderous rage.
‘Yes, you already mentioned,’ says Rick. ‘Twice.’
‘Great,’ says Jemima, ‘just checking.’
She chugs her glass of Pimm’s, swallowing whole pieces of cucumber.
‘George, can we get you to pose for some photos?’
Jemima shuffles me over in front of a branded backdrop and puts me into a designer blazer. Is this a punishment, or just a rapid strategic diversion? I want to apologise to her, but I don’t know what to say.
I pose for a photo with a cast member from Made in Chelsea , followed by some male models who claim to be combatting homophobia in sport by promoting their naked calendar. Most of the people I’m photographed with are representatives of brands or random marketing consultants in need of LinkedIn content. Everyone is very excited to get a picture with me, but none of them are remotely interested in what I’m doing at the regatta. Call me the Anna Kournikova of rowing.
‘Looking good, George.’
I turn and see that I’m being addressed by Eleanor. Always strange seeing her outside our supervisions. She’s standing next to Tristan and his mother and father, that politics dude who lost his job and still looks mad about it.
‘Hope you’re steering clear of the Pimm’s,’ says Eleanor.
‘Of course I am. So nice to see you here.’
‘I wasn’t going to miss Tristan’s big moment.’ She turns to Tristan and squeezes his hand.
‘Why don’t you treat yourself?’ Tristan says to me, gesturing at the bar. ‘The pressure’s off.’
I’ve done my best to avoid Tristan since the announcement of the new line-ups, but he’s managing to look even more smug than I feared.
‘Let’s have a drink afterwards,’ I say warmly. ‘Toast your success.’
‘That’s such a great attitude,’ says Eleanor.
‘Yes,’ adds Tristan’s dad. ‘Jolly well done for keeping going.’
His mother looks wistful. ‘One can be tempted to jump ship.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ I smile. ‘Tristan deserves this.’
Tristan forces a smile. He can’t cope with how nice I’m being. ‘Didn’t I just see Rick Toledo?’
I try to look casual. ‘I heard he was in town.’
‘Bit of a wasted opportunity for you.’
‘I’m sure he knows what I’m capable of.’
‘Yes, I think we’ve established your limits. Now watch and learn.’
I exit the stewards’ enclosure and wander through the regatta. It’s been a week since Deb broke the news to me and Lucas about our demotion, but it didn’t really hit me until today. It’s not that I mind rowing in the second boat. It’s an honour to be at Henley in any capacity. But obviously I’d prefer to be in the first boat. I’ve been telling everyone that Tristan deserves it, but I can’t forget how he winked at Ed and Ted after seat racing. What if I’d done a deal with them instead? Would I be sitting in his place? Lucas has taken the news extremely well, but maybe that’s no surprise. What does a rowing race matter when you’ve just pulled the man of your dreams?
I’m happy for him – at least, I am in theory. For some reason, I don’t feel as happy for him as I should. Throughout this process, I’ve longed for Lucas to succeed. But I think that’s because I’ve wanted to see him happy and confident and believing in himself. Since it’s me who’s helped him get there, it’s almost felt as if it’s me he’s been falling for. So it’s a little jarring to be reminded that this whole plan was designed for Lucas to get with someone else.
I hear the first team race announced and wander away from the crowds. The start of the course is far out of sight, but a radio commentary is being broadcast over a Tannoy. I can picture Tristan sitting at the front of the boat, enjoying the number of eyes on him. The starting pistol is fired, and the commentator begins to narrate the action. Everyone was anticipating an Oxford vs. Cambridge rematch, but it’s actually Leander, a star-studded private rowing club stacked with Boat Race alumni, who squeezed past Oxford in their semi-final. Since they beat the Boat Race winners, the smart money is now on Leander to win. But from the start, Cambridge is in the lead. Henley has some dumb rule where the race commentator is only allowed to state facts, like which crew is leading and the distance between them. Leander never get close to catching up with Cambridge. Never get within three-quarters of a boat length, according to old Mr Razzle Dazzle up in the commentary box. Soon, the boat comes into my sightline. I can’t see Tristan’s face from here, but Fran is screaming at him, forcing him to keep up the intensity right to the end. As the boat glides in front of me, Tristan collapses backwards, his chest heaving. It’s taken everything out of him, but he’s passed the test with flying colours. He’s turned Cambridge into winners.
I don’t have the strength to congratulate my teammates. This one stings. There’s not that long until my race, so I go off and change into my Lycra. As soon as I return to the public area, I attract looks. That’s the funny thing about Henley – on the one hand, you have the prim and proper dress code of the stewards’ enclosure, and on the other hand, there are people walking around like I am now, with everything on show.
Back when I was posing for those photos a moment ago, there was nothing I wanted less than to be gawped at. But right now, it feels like the only thing I have to offer. I help myself to a glass of Pimm’s. One glass can’t hurt. Before long, I get talking to Fenella, the mother of a boy at some boarding school who’s rowing in the junior final, and is suitably impressed when I tell her I rowed in the Boat Race. She doesn’t need to know I’m no longer in the first boat.
Fenella wastes no time in telling me she’s here without her husband. She doesn’t try to hide her regular glances at my crotch. I’m not in the mood for flirting, but maybe another glass of Pimm’s will help. I’m sure Fenella’s husband won’t mind. God knows what he’s off doing. Maybe I should go the whole hog with Fenella, given that she’s already more or less seen the whole hog with the way I’m dressed. If I’m quick, we can have a romp in a field, then I can get to the start line in time for—
‘George?’
I turn on my heel to see Lucas.
‘Oh, hey Lucas. This is Fenella.’
Fenella looks annoyed at the interruption. Lucas frowns at my glass of Pimm’s.
‘We need to go and get ready for our race.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Can you come now please?’
I make my excuses to Fenella, who treats herself to one last look at my crotch as I walk away. Lucas leads me across a field and stands underneath a large oak tree.
‘Have you been drinking?’
I take a defiant sip of my Pimm’s.
‘What’s going on, George? We have a race.’
‘It’s the second stream. No one cares.’
I slump down against the tree. Lucas takes the glass of Pimm’s from my hand and pours it onto the grass, then sits quietly next to me. I feel a sudden urge to rest my head on his shoulder. Instead, I turn away and pick at some grass.
‘Rick Toledo looked at me like I was garbage.’
‘Rick Toledo’s here? Damn.’ Lucas sees my reaction and looks guilty. ‘You’re still rowing for Cambridge. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You have Amir.’
Lucas looks surprised at this comment. Perhaps I am too.
‘George, what’s got into you? I’ve never seen you like this.’
This time, as I catch his gaze, I can’t help it. I collapse my head onto his shoulder.
‘I’m in my flop era.’
I feel Lucas tense at the unexpected physical contact, but he manages to give me an awkward little pat. ‘No you’re not.’
‘I am! Nothing’s going to plan this term.’
‘Yes it is. I’m going to help you pass your exams, and then we’re going to fight our way back into the first boat.’
I sit up and look at Lucas. ‘You could at least say it like you mean it.’
‘That’s just how I speak! I’m not great at pep talks.’ Lucas sighs in frustration. He’s trying, bless him. It’s me who won’t budge.
‘I just feel like I’ve let everyone down.’
‘Like who?’
‘Deb. My agent. Rick Toledo. My parents, if they even care.’
‘Well, do they?’
I shrug and look away.
‘George, you can’t live your life for other people’s benefit. Especially if some of those people are never going to be impressed. What do you want?’
His gaze feels so penetrating that I have to look away. What do I want? My mind is blank. Aside from resting my head back on Lucas’s shoulder and getting another one of those pats. I wouldn’t say no to that.
‘You don’t have to answer that right now,’ says Lucas. ‘But I’m gonna need you to remember what it’s like to really fight for something.’
I got nothing.
‘Come on, George, there must have been one time in high school. Did you never get dropped from the football team?’
I laugh at the idea.
‘Didn’t get cast in the school play? Didn’t make Prom King?’
I shake my head. Now that I think of it, everything did come easily to me back then. The only thing I ever had to fight for was my parents’ approval. Then it hits me.
‘My dad’s a big golfer. There’s this annual tournament at the country club where everyone takes a caddy. And every year, he’d take my brother. I was desperate for my dad to take me one year, but he said Chuck was bigger and stronger. There was no way for me to catch up to him. So one weekend, I put on my dad’s golf bag and wore it round all day. To the store, to dinner, everywhere. I wouldn’t take it off. And eventually my dad said I could be his caddy that year.’
Lucas clasps his hands on my shoulders, his eyes ablaze.
‘That is the George I need right now. Let’s go strap on that golf bag.’
It’s true that, ordinarily, no one would care about the second team race. But by some quirk of scheduling, it’s happening after the first team race, setting it up as the finale. In addition, Oxford and Cambridge have satisfied the crowds by making it through to the final. It might not be a true rerun of the Boat Race, but given people’s general fascination with that rivalry, plus mine and Lucas’s participation, the race is hotly anticipated.
Lucas and I get in the boat with the rest of our crew and row out to the start line. All races at Henley begin at Temple Island, which is exactly what it sounds like – an island in the middle of the river containing a Greek-style temple, whose white columns and domed roof glint in the sunlight. In front of the temple, several dozen VIP guests sit on wooden chairs, as if they’re the ruling emperors. They’re close enough for me to be able to see their Italian leather shoes and designer shades. Time to put on a show.
The race starter calls us to get set, and I slide into my starting position. As I do, I notice something wrong with my seat. It’s not sliding as smoothly as it should.
‘Hang on,’ I say to Lucas.
Lucas frowns and raises his hand.
‘Waiting on Cambridge,’ says the umpire.
‘What’s the problem?’ Lucas asks me.
‘I don’t know. I think I need to tighten the screw.’
‘Are you ready, Cambridge?’ says the umpire.
‘NO WE ARE NOT!’ I yell.
Lucas looks startled. I don’t know where that came from either. But Lucas has got me all fired up, and I don’t want to let him down now. These people can wait. I find the screw that’s loose and tighten it, then give Lucas a nod.
‘You sure?’
I burst into a smile. ‘I got this.’
Lucas lowers his hand, and the starter fires his pistol. I spring into action. I’m determined to win, but it’s not about beating Oxford.
I’m doing this for Lucas.
No one except him could have pulled me out of that hole I was in before the race. It’s crazy to think who he and I were to each other the last time we rowed in a race together. I know we were technically teammates, but it’s hard not to look back at the Boat Race and think that we were working against each other. Not anymore.
We’ve never felt like more of a team.
Each time I slide forward on my seat, my face is inches away from Lucas’s. As our eyes lock together, something electric passes between us. Sure, technically his commands are passing into my ears and my brain is converting them into instructions for my body – not to mention the seven teammates behind me, all pulling their weight.
But I swear that what it comes down to, more than anything, is that magical sense of mutual understanding each time our eyes meet. It’s almost what’s motivating me to keep going, knowing that whenever I complete a stroke, I get to slide forward and re-enter Lucas’s orbit.
I’m so locked in that I have no idea how close the Oxford boat is. Usually, I can get an idea based on Lucas’s facial expressions, but today he isn’t giving anything away.
He screams at me to take up the stroke rate.
Oxford must be in front.
With each pull on my oar, it gets harder. And each time, Lucas demands more.
I’m running out of steam, but we’re almost at the finish line.
‘I need more,’ Lucas says urgently.
‘I can’t,’ I gasp.
‘You can. Ten more.’
I’m filled with one last burst of adrenaline. Ten, nine, eight, seven .?.?. I’m at two when I realise we’ve crossed the finish line. I feel the roar of the crowd. Who won? I turn to check and do a double take. Oxford are still about ten seconds away from finishing. What the hell?! That’s an insane advantage on a course this short. We absolutely destroyed them.
I’m still in shock as we row into the bank and clamber onto shore. The spectators are losing their minds. Fran races up to me.
‘Fucking hell, did you see that time? You killed it.’
I glance up at the clock. We completed the course a whole five seconds faster than the Cambridge first boat. That’s even wilder than the length we beat Oxford by.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Fran. ‘We kind of stole your moment.’
Fran scoffs. ‘George, if I cared about having my moment, I’d be a gymnast, not a cox.’ She glances behind her to check no one’s listening. ‘All I can do is get the best out of my team, which I did. But we both know that on a good day, you’re better than Tristan.’
The rest of the Cambridge squad come down to the shore to help us in and congratulate us.
‘Top effort,’ says Tristan. ‘Very impressive.’
He looks sick. On the one hand, you can’t compare the results from the two races. Conditions are different. Context is everything. But no one is thinking about context.
‘Nice,’ says Deb.
That’s wild praise by her standards.
‘Did you ever doubt us?’ I ask, grinning.
Deb says nothing. She has to play this carefully. It’s not a great reflection on your judgement if your second team does better than your first. But maybe she can tell people she planned this all along, forcing me and Lucas to prove how good we are.
‘George!’ yells Jemima. ‘Bloody hell. I knew you could do it.’
I turn to see an extremely drunk Jemima trailed by Rick Toledo.
‘That was seriously impressive, man,’ says Rick. ‘Especially considering how the wind picked up at the end.’
‘It’s a team effort,’ I say diplomatically.
‘Yeah,’ says Rick, ‘but it all comes from the top. You were immense.’
Jemima beams at me. ‘That’s Olympic-level talent right there.’
I guess we’re not going to mention the fact that she sent me to the male model bargain bin under an hour ago. There’s only one person I want to celebrate this with. I look around and spot Lucas. As our eyes meet, it hits me what we just achieved. I was too overwhelmed at the finish line, but we really did something back there. I want to throw my arms around Lucas, but as I catch up with him, we’re accosted by a familiar face.
‘Amazing effort, boys,’ says Landon.
He’s had dental veneers since we last saw him, which almost look glow-in-the-dark.
‘No one cares about the second team,’ says Lucas.
‘Bollocks. You’ve got everyone talking.’
‘Happy to entertain them,’ I say.
‘You should never have been in that race,’ says Landon.
‘Maybe we deserved it.’
‘No way. Deb tried to embarrass you, but you didn’t let her.’
I’m not saying anything to that.
‘Listen, boys – you two are the dream team and you know it. If Deb can’t see that .?.?. maybe you belong somewhere else.’
Eventually, Lucas and I make it away from the crowds and back to the locker room. It feels good to be a winner again. Landon’s right. A time like that is hard to deny. A time like that makes us the de facto first boat.
I strip off and get in the shower opposite Lucas. I face the wall, but can’t resist glancing towards him. I meant what I told him about his butt. It looks great in a suit, but seeing it in the flesh is something else. I look down and realise I’m getting turned on. Goddamn it. I glance back to check that Lucas hasn’t noticed, but catch his eye instead.
He holds my gaze for a split second. What’s he thinking? Is there even a tiny part of him that would like it if I walked over there, pushed him up against the tiles, and kissed every part of him from top to bottom?
I jolt as someone enters the changing room. Lucas and I both flush red. I grab my towel and start getting changed. A couple of moments later, Lucas walks over and does likewise.
‘Landon has no shame,’ I say.
I’m having to hold my towel very carefully.
‘He’s pretty successful,’ says Lucas.
‘Really? His second team just lost, and his first team didn’t even make the final.’
Lucas is doing the towel dance too. Does that mean he was also turned on? I can’t remember the last time anyone in the rowing squad was this modest.
‘You’re not actually thinking about defecting, are you?’ I ask Lucas.
He hesitates before responding. ‘I just hope Deb appreciates us.’
‘She does,’ I say. ‘She will now.’
‘She better.’
We’ve both got as far as putting on our underwear. I feel like I’ve made it to the other side of a minefield.
‘Lucas, can we enjoy what we just did? We were incredible.’
Lucas smiles. ‘You see how far a little childhood trauma goes?’
I frown in confusion.
‘That story about your dad. Isn’t that what got you so fired up?’
I shake my head earnestly. ‘No, Lucas. You did.’
The next day, Rick Toledo emails me to repeat how impressed he was with my victory. He attaches his analysis of the wind conditions to prove his point. I forward it to Jemima, who forwards it to the CEO of the sports agency. By the end of the week, Jemima is having ‘conversations’ with major sponsors. But maximising my media profile is going to have to wait. Training is on hold while everyone focuses on exams.
The mood around college is tense. The library is open 24/7, and you can’t move without hearing someone boast about how late they stayed up revising, or how annoyed they are with themselves for dropping three marks on their latest practice essay.
Even a couple of weeks ago, this would have freaked me out. But since Henley, I’ve been feeling different. There’s nothing I can’t achieve if I put my mind to it, and that includes in the classroom. Lucas has drafted some model essays based on the questions he thinks are going to come up in our exams. He’s still planning to steal the actual questions when they’re printed out a week before the exams, but he says it’s a good idea to memorise his answers in the meantime.
However, as I sit down to revise, I find myself studying the topics more widely. Between Economics for Dummies , the lectures I’ve been attending and everything Lucas has helped me with, I’m really starting to master the subject. It’s amazing to realise how many concepts have gone over my head in the past three years because they’ve been needlessly over-complicated. Cambridge might want to think about that.
Or maybe it’s deliberate. Maybe the intellectualism that everything is dressed up in is a way of keeping certain people out. But Professor Mishri isn’t that type. She’s clearly slightly amazed to see me committing to some good old-fashioned revision, but she’s also delighted. She gives me as many extra supervisions as she can schedule. Lucas thinks this new approach can’t do any harm and lets me revise with him in between. We get into a routine where he comes over to mine every evening. I leave every session fizzing with new-found knowledge, and counting down the hours until the next one.
After all that effort, my first practice paper is a big disappointment. Professor Mishri is honest with me about what I got wrong, and the answer is a lot. The second practice paper is not much better. But Professor Mishri urges me not to lose hope, and I throw everything at the third one. I’m thrilled when she reveals that I scored forty. That’s a pass! This requires some explanation from Professor Mishri, since I still don’t understand the dumbass Cambridge marking system. Apparently, forty is the lowest mark you can get and still pass, translating to a third-class degree, whatever that is. I get the impression that for most Cambridge students, a third-class degree is basically failing, but I don’t care – I’ve passed. I’ve passed!
Well, obviously I haven’t passed yet, but I’ve shown that I’m capable of passing. Now that I’ve done it, what reason is there to think that I can’t do it again? There’s still several weeks left of revision. Lucas stealing the exam topics has meant I’ve only had to revise about a quarter of the syllabus. If I can scrape together a pass mark, why would I cheat? It’s never sat right with me – it just always felt like the only option.
But Lucas didn’t cheat his way to Amir. He did the hard work, took the risks, dug deep within himself, and now he’s got the real thing. I want that. I’ve wanted it ever since I was a freshman in high school and did my presentation on Hercule Poy Rot. I’ve wanted to prove to the world that I’m smart. I’ve wanted to prove it to myself.
I’m aware that everyone would tell me not to risk it. Jemima would be horrified. Deb would never say it in so many words, but I know she’d think I was crazy. And Lucas .?.?. he’s always been clear what he thinks of my chances. One practice paper won’t change that.
But didn’t he also tell me to figure out what I want? It’s this. I’m sure of it.
When Lucas comes over to mine the next evening for our revision session, he’s barely through the door before I brandish my practice paper at him.
‘What’s that?’ Lucas looks at the mark on the paper. ‘Oh my god, you hero!’
He gives me a high five, then looks at me solemnly.
‘George, I owe you an apology. I really underestimated you.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is Lucas we’re talking about.
‘Thanks, Lucas. That means a lot.’
Lucas blushes. ‘Well, you earned it. Imagine how well you’re going to do once we got hold of the questions.’
I give him a coy look. ‘What if we don’t?’
Lucas frowns. ‘Why wouldn’t we?’
I take a deep breath.
‘I don’t want to cheat. I want to sit my exams for real.’