Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Lucas
‘I’m telling you guys, it’s based on science.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I’m serious. There’s a physical benefit to holding it in.’
‘Wait, is he talking about holding in your pee?’
‘No no no,’ Johannes laughs. ‘Tell them, Lucas.’
I turn to my captive audience.
‘I’m reading this article which says .?.?. you shouldn’t ejaculate before a race.’
The whole team bursts into hysterics. Standards are low with this crowd. We’re on the coach to London and we’ve been stuck in traffic for almost an hour. Somehow, we’ve made it through the winter and there are only five days until the Boat Race. We’re travelling down today to give us plenty of time to get used to the river and, more importantly, the media frenzy. Most of the squad have become hyperactive in the face of their nerves. Given that I’m more nervous than anyone, I’m happy to entertain them.
‘That’s not even the best part,’ I say, reading from the article. ‘For optimum results, you have to hold it in for several days, then just beforehand, get as close as possible.’
‘You mean edging?’ Rotter exclaims.
‘Basically, yes.’
‘Like when? On the start line?’
Everyone is beside themselves with laughter.
‘Gents!’ barks Tristan. ‘That’s enough.’
He marches down the gangway like a sergeant major.
‘Come on then,’ says Tristan. ‘What’s the joke?’
Our smiles are wiped from our faces.
‘Spit it out, Rotter.’
‘It’s nothing. Lucas read an article which said we shouldn’t wank before the race.’
Everyone sniggers.
Tristan shoots me a glare. ‘Is that true?’
‘That’s what it said.’
‘Let me see.’ Tristan snatches my phone and skims the article before handing it back to me. ‘Right. This seems legit. Share it on the group chat.’
I stare at him in disbelief. ‘I was joking!’
‘Well, I’m not. I’m the fucking president.’
Tristan’s reign as boat club president hasn’t been as bad as we were expecting. It’s been worse. Reign of terror might be pushing it, but not by much.
‘I want everyone to participate,’ says Tristan. ‘I’ll be checking.’
‘How?’ says Rotter.
I turn to him drily. ‘Do not question the wank police.’
‘LUCAS!’ screams Tristan. ‘I am deadly serious. We must do everything in our power to win on Sunday. Including this.’
Our base for the week is a large rented house in Putney, a leafy neighbourhood on the south bank of the Thames full of semi-detached houses and riverside pubs, and the starting point of the four mile Boat Race course. The idea of staying in a house is to create as homely an atmosphere as possible, but the team isn’t accustomed to living in such close quarters, and I’m worried I won’t last five days without being driven to murder at least one of them.
And by one of them, I mean Tristan.
Deb doesn’t want us to exert ourselves too much, which means we only do a short training session each morning on the Thames. There are a couple of evening events, including an alumni dinner with the usual suspects in their regulation blazers, but most of the time, we’re either watching some dumb action movie or arguing about which dumb action movie to watch next. The second team are staying in the house next door. I visit as much as possible to hang out with Fran. I feel a bit bad about this. Fran only joined the men’s team for one reason, and it wasn’t to cox the second boat. It’s not like I even beat her fairly. But Fran hasn’t let it get to her.
Today we’re sitting in our regular spot on her porch, chatting aimlessly.
‘Do you think he’s going to drag Eleanor into it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The night before the race. Do you think Tristan will ask her to edge him?’
Fran looks at me irritably. ‘I don’t know, Lucas.’
I pull back in surprise. What did I do?
‘I’m sorry,’ says Fran, ‘but you’ve been coming round here every day complaining about how your teammates are taking this all too seriously. I’d love to have that problem.’
I’m so unaccustomed to being called out like this that I can only listen in shock.
‘Deb never even gave me a chance,’ says Fran. ‘Don’t ask me why, but you know she didn’t. I really don’t hold it against you for beating me to it. But please don’t make me feel bad for caring.’
Two nights before the race, we’re given the evening off. I go to meet Amir and his parents at a bar in Mayfair. I should never have let it come to this. Things haven’t been great between me and Amir for a while now – at least, not at my end. Amir seems as happy as ever, which makes me feel worse that I’m not.
On paper, he’s everything I could ever want, but there’s something missing. It’s hard to put my finger on what. I’ve long been aware of our differences, but I’ve never thought that was an issue in itself. Some couples complement each other perfectly. I see them at restaurants or at parties, chatting for hours and laughing themselves silly. I’m not even sure Amir thinks of me as funny.
A few times recently, I’ve been close to saying something. But I’ve been so busy with Boat Race preparations that somehow the plan to meet Amir’s parents got put in place before I could say no to it. Since they stay at the Mayfair flat when they’re in the UK, and the plan is for me to move in once I finish my master’s, Amir wants us all to meet before we become occasional flatmates. As I get out at the tube stop, Amir is waiting where we agreed.
‘Do you not have a jacket?’ he says, brushing some fluff off my shirt.
‘Why, are your parents going to be offended?’
‘No – I just don’t want you to get cold.’
Amir leads me to the bar where his parents are waiting. It’s oozing wealth from every corner, a gleaming mahogany bar and miniature brass lamps that look like they’re polished daily. The ma?tre d’ takes Amir’s coat then shows us to our table. The clientele is mostly either businessmen or couples on dates, scrubbed to the nines, enormous smartphones resting on the table in case of a lull in conversation.
Amir’s parents stand as we reach them. His mum’s hair is freshly coiffed, her perfume fruity and overpowering. His dad is wearing a three-piece suit. He steps forward and shakes my hand.
‘Lucas, we are so glad to meet you.’
‘You too!’
His mum goes for a hug, but instead of feeling comforted, I’m overwhelmed. We take our seats, and a waiter appears to take our order.
‘I’m not drinking,’ I say. ‘Tap water’s fine.’
Amir laughs affectionately. ‘We’ll get a bottle of mineral water for the table.’
We stumble through the kind of small talk I was prepared for. Amir took pains to assure me his parents have no issue with his sexuality. His mother’s own mother was a cleaner, so apparently they’re fine with that too. I have to admit that I don’t detect anything other than warmth.
‘We’re very happy about Amir’s job at Christie’s,’ says his dad. ‘You know he was involved in the sale of a painting to our friend?’
‘I heard.’
‘Do you know what you’ll do after graduating?’
‘He’s going to move in with me,’ says Amir.
‘Yes, but for work.’
‘I’ve got a couple of interviews lined up,’ I say. ‘One at McKinsey.’
Amir’s dad looks concerned. ‘There’s a lot of downsizing going on in that sector. If you want, I can put you in touch with my friend at Apple. They’re hiring economists.’
I know he’s trying to help, but I can’t bear the idea of being in debt to Amir’s parents.
‘That’s so kind of you,’ I say. ‘I’m going to focus on job applications as soon as the race is over.’
Amir’s parents clasp their hands together in excitement.
‘We can’t wait!’ says his dad. ‘We’re just disappointed Wilbur didn’t make the team.’
‘Wilbur came out to Tunisia when the boys were teenagers,’ says Amir’s mum. ‘He’s such a nice boy. We were hoping Amir would take up rowing.’
‘Mama.’
‘It’s OK, Habibi,’ she says, clasping my hands in hers. ‘We have Lucas now.’
The words hit me in the gut. Amir’s mum beams at me, but I can’t smile back. She glances at her husband. ‘Can I tell them?’
Amir’s father nods. Amir and I share a puzzled look.
‘Boys,’ says Amir’s mum, ‘we don’t want to get in your hair once Lucas moves in. We’ve decided to buy you your own flat.’
Amir gasps in delight. ‘That’s so kind of you. Where?’
‘Wherever you want,’ says Amir’s dad.
Amir turns to me and sees that I’m frozen in shock. ‘How amazing is that?’
‘Uh, yeah,’ I manage to stutter.
Amir frowns and gives me an urgent look. I know I’m meant to be expressing my gratitude. But I can’t get the words out. Amir’s parents have clocked my reaction and both look slightly stricken.
‘Anyway,’ says Amir’s dad, ‘we just wanted to let you know. Tell us, Lucas – where should we stand on Sunday to get the best view?’
I manage to stumble through the rest of the drink, but we’re all relieved for it to end. After we’ve said our goodbyes to his parents, Amir walks me to the tube station in silence. Neither of us wants to initiate the conversation, but once the station comes into view, we stop in the middle of the street and Amir turns to me.
‘My parents just offered to buy us a house and you didn’t even thank them.’
‘I did! I thanked them right before we left.’
‘Yeah. About half an hour too late.’
‘I was in shock. Buying a house together is a huge step. Whoever’s paying.’
‘Not for them. My parents have tons of investment properties.’
‘That’s not why they’re doing this.’
Amir chews his lip and doesn’t respond.
‘We’ve been together less than a year, Amir.’
‘So? We’re committed, aren’t we?’
‘We’ve never even said I love you.’
Amir flinches at the words. ‘Maybe we should have this discussion after the race.’
‘No, Amir. I’ve been putting it off for way too long.’
I’ve rehearsed it a dozen times in my head, but now that it’s here, I don’t know where to start. Just be honest with him. No sugar-coating.
‘We don’t make each other happy,’ I say quietly.
Amir looks astonished at the notion. ‘I make you packed lunches. Tuna sandwiches. I hate tuna!’
I feel a jolt of injustice on his behalf. I’d assumed he felt somewhat similarly to me, but maybe tuna sandwiches is what happiness is to him. I hold his gaze, even though it pains me to do so.
‘I’m grateful for everything. But it’s not me.’
Amir is hit with a flash of indignation. ‘What am I meant to say to my parents?’
‘Honestly, if that’s your biggest worry right now, it kind of proves my point.’
Amir wants to object, but he can’t. Maybe I’m poking at things he had no interest in examining closely. Or maybe none of this is a surprise to him, but he’d made his peace with it. As I turn to leave, he looks panic-stricken.
‘Lucas, if you walk away from me .?.?.’
What? No more tuna sandwiches? Then there’s our very own flat and the job at Apple. There’s a whole life laid out for me.
I look at Amir and think of how desperately I longed for all this a year ago. But who even was that Lucas? That Lucas didn’t have a clue what he wanted.
That’s something I’ve learned the hard way. Amir hasn’t been a bad boyfriend. But he doesn’t make me laugh. He doesn’t make my heart race. He doesn’t push me out of my comfort zone. Lord knows where I’m ever going to find someone who does all that, but that’s no reason to hang around in a situation that I know isn’t right.
I give Amir one last, lingering look, trying to communicate all the things I can’t bring myself to say. Then I turn and walk away.
Miraculously, I sleep through the night. When I wake up, my first thought isn’t sadness. It’s relief. I’m sure it will hit me after the race. Or maybe I’ve done my grieving already. In any case, as I head downstairs for breakfast, there’s more than enough to distract me. All the rowers are piling on the carbs, plus gallons of water. Today is the weigh-in, a tradition almost as anticipated as the race itself, mainly because it’s the first time the Oxford and Cambridge crews come face to face. This year, anticipation is at fever pitch. Oxford have been behind closed doors all year because of this stupid documentary series. It’s given them an air of mystique, but I can’t imagine they’ve got anything up their sleeve except Landon’s usual bullshit.
The actual weight of the crew doesn’t matter when it comes to the rules, but the goal is to establish yourself as the heavier team, and by extension, the most powerful. Taking on water is a tactic well known by both sides, but there’s still a psychological advantage to winning the contest, so everyone drinks until they’re ready to burst. Afterwards, we file into a minibus and drive the short distance across the Thames to Fulham, a neighbourhood more or less identical to Putney except for the fact that it sits on the more prestigious north side of the river, so its residents feel appropriately superior.
The Hurlingham Club is one of the most ostentatiously exclusive sporting venues in London. Electronic gates glide open to reveal a perfectly manicured lawn where elderly members play bowls in front of a white Georgian clubhouse fronted by Doric columns. As the minibus drives up, none of us say anything, silenced by the sight of TV crews with their vans parked next to the clubhouse. We know we’re going to be the bad guys of the Oxford series, but they’ve struck a deal with the regular broadcaster of the Boat Race, so we’re going to be featured whether we like it or not.
‘Shit, Deb,’ says Johannes, ‘I’m desperate to pee. What do I do?’
Deb looks at him. ‘Wait.’
‘What if I can’t wait?’
‘Pray.’
Cambridge are being weighed first, so we make our way to the media room. According to tradition, you weigh the lightest crew member first, building up to your strongest titans. There’s a minimum weight for coxes, otherwise men’s boats would be exclusively coxed by women. But it’s still seen as an advantage to have a light cox, rather than carrying what could be construed as dead weight. I’m never going to be as light as Felix, but I’ve been fasting since last night to avoid any unkind comments in the media. I step onto the scales – 59 kg. Not the lightest, but enough to avoid becoming a talking point. I step off in relief and allow each rower to take their turn. Tristan has been bulking up for months and tips the scales at 89 kg, befitting his status as stroke.
The media look impressed, and I’m feeling increasingly confident. Maybe this really is our year.
‘Lucas?’ says a familiar voice.
I turn and see Helen Wheeler from the Daily Telegraph .
‘Can I ask a few questions?’
‘No.’
‘ Lucas ,’ says Deb.
I look back at Helen Wheeler and sigh. Deb’s right. Even refusing to comment could be spun into a story.
‘Helen,’ I say insincerely. ‘Hit me.’
Helen Wheeler beams and presses record on her Dictaphone. ‘So, here we are .?.?. back where it all went so wrong.’
I hold Helen’s gaze and wait for the question.
‘Are you worried about history repeating itself?’
‘No.’
‘What’s different this time?’
‘Everything. Different attitude. Different team.’
‘So you still blame George Holst for last year?’
‘I didn’t say anything about George. Only half this year’s boat were in the team last year.’
‘That includes Tristan Barnes. Does this year’s line-up suggest things might have been different last year with him as stroke?’
‘Helen, you are the only person who’s still obsessed with last year. We moved on a long time ago.’
The media round continues along these lines for another twenty minutes. Once I lock into the talking points Deb has drilled into us, it’s easy. Just as we’re wrapping up, a hush falls over the room.
That can only mean one thing – Oxford are here.
I take a deep breath. I’m not looking forward to seeing Felix, but I can stare him out, no problem. At least staring is all that’s expected of me. My teammates are puffing themselves up and trying to look as big and scary as possible. As the first Oxford rower walks into the room, a journalist chuckles. He’s wearing a hoodie emblazoned with the letters F.T.T. Everyone who was at the formal dinner knows immediately that it stands for Fuck The Tabs.
‘Fucking idiots,’ says Tristan.
Deb hisses at him. She doesn’t want us to lower ourselves to their level, and flatly vetoed Tristan’s suggestions of doing something similar. That doesn’t change the fact that standing here and sucking up a display like this is humiliating. I watch as the team walks in, each rower more bulked up than the last. Then I freeze.
A guy near the back has exactly the same hair as George.
I laugh. Imagine. I can’t see any more than his hair, since his teammates are blocking the view, but then I see a shoulder, and can’t help noticing it’s just like George’s too. I must really be nervous for my mind to be sending me there. I wait to get a proper look at this imposter. As the guy makes it into the room, I turn pale. That’s uncanny. They look identical. Wait, surely it can’t be? Yes. Fuck. It is George.
‘What the hell?’ says Tristan.
I stare at George. How is this real? How is George standing right there in front of me? George, on the Oxford team. Is this a joke? But George looks deadly serious. His eyes are lowered, his expression blank.
‘Fucking traitor,’ screams Tristan. ‘Are you actually fucking kidding me?’
The media has cottoned on to what’s happened, and are now taking photos, tweeting breathlessly and racing up to Landon for comment. I’ve never seen anyone look so smug. Helen Wheeler is delirious with excitement. But the president of the Hurlingham Club, a punctilious man in a cream suit, is beside himself.
‘Gentlemen,’ he protests, ‘can we please have our first Oxford crew member up for weighing.’
Somehow, Felix makes it over to the scales. Our crew regroup on the other side of the room. Though I’m holding it together, I’m in pieces. Now George’s silence and Oxford’s secrecy makes sense. Still, I can’t believe that George has gone and done it. All those times I suggested defecting, I was never serious. I don’t care that he’s rowing for Oxford. I care that he hid this from me. He’s been in England this whole time and he never said anything. I want to march up to him and demand an explanation. His expression has remained implacable, his eyes fixed on some imaginary spot as if he wants to pretend he’s not in the room.
‘I cannot fucking believe this,’ splutters Tristan. ‘You do NOT switch from Oxford to Cambridge. You do not row for the enemy!’
‘Tristan,’ says Deb, shooting her eyes at the TV cameras.
They’re filming us from all angles. I don’t know why I expected any less from Landon. He’s creaming himself over Tristan’s reaction. Johannes pulls Tristan away from the cameras and tries to calm him down. The Oxford crew continue weighing one by one. They’re loving every minute of this.
George is the last one to go up. Why won’t he look at me? I need him to look at me, just once. I need to know what he’s thinking. But as George steps down off the scales, he avoids my gaze studiously. The president of the Hurlingham Club declares Oxford the heavier crew. They burst into furious cheers.
On the minibus back to Putney, the mood is bleak. It’s not just the fact that Oxford won the weigh-in. George being on their team is a body blow. Partly, it’s how good he is at rowing. When he’s on his game, there’s no one better. But mostly, it’s psychological. They’ve been plotting and planning and caught us off guard. The script has literally been written, backed by a multimillion-dollar production crew. How are we going to write a different ending? When we arrive back at the house, I’m ready to plod upstairs, but Tristan gathers us in the living room. There’s an anger in his eyes that chills me.
‘Two hundred years,’ he declares. ‘That’s nearly four thousand men who’ve rowed in the Boat Race. Way more if you count all the different categories. How many have switched sides? Four. George just entered the history books, and not in a good way.’
Everyone jeers in disgust. I don’t think anyone cares quite as much as Tristan, but he’s giving them an outlet for their frustrations.
‘This goes beyond the Boat Race. Oxford and Cambridge have been rivals for almost a thousand years. We respect each other immensely. But you’re either one or the other.’
Jesus. I’m not sure what’s scarier – if he actually believes this stuff, or he’s hyping himself up because that’s how much he wants to win.
‘So fuck George. Fuck him. Picture him winning. Think how bad you’ll feel.’
I picture Oxford on that podium. George being showered with champagne. What do I feel? Nothing. No, that’s not quite true. I’m curious to know how George will feel in that scenario. Is that what he wants more than anything? Will it all have been worth it?
‘We are not going to let that happen,’ says Tristan. ‘I refuse. We’ve got a plan and we’re going to stick to it. Those losers won’t know what’s hit them.’
I can’t wait to get away from that raging ball of testosterone and shut myself in my room. Not long after I do, I hear Tristan barking orders at someone in the corridor and I’m reminded of what he meant about sticking to our plan. The wank police. You couldn’t make it up. I can’t say I’m feeling particularly horny, but I suppose it’s one way to pass the time. Amir and I had joked about how he was going to come over and edge me, but I don’t think either of us meant it seriously. That’s another thing that was far from ideal about our relationship. Even after all that advice from George, our sex life never really took off.
Maybe that’s inevitable when we only saw each other at weekends, but we did it on Sunday mornings, almost without fail, and I could tell you more or less the exact choreography of how it proceeded from start to finish. It doesn’t give me a wealth of material to draw on for this exercise. I know where my mind is going before I start. The same place it goes all the time, sometimes even while I was having sex with Amir.
The time I was in Dr Castillo’s cupboard with George.
Sure, there were other moments. The showers after Henley. The kiss on the Ferris wheel. Looking back, the attraction was there from the start. It was probably why I took against George so strongly. Much better to find him annoying than admit I found him hot. Even the kiss in the club, so awkward and confusing at the time, now feels like it was sparked by an attraction we didn’t understand and had even less control over. But nothing compares to that time in the cupboard. When you’ve pressed your boners up against each other like that, can you really say you haven’t had sex? Of course we haven’t. That’s why it was so hot. So hot that I really can’t think about it for very long or I’ll fail this exercise.
But where does that leave me? The same place I’ve been stuck at with George since last summer. What might have been. Why wouldn’t he look me in the eye earlier? What’s he going to do when we line up tomorrow at the start of the race? Will he look at me then? Or row the whole race without glancing my way? Then what?
He might be OK with that, but I’m not. I can’t have him so close and still have everything so unresolved. I can’t row against him tomorrow until he’s looked me in the eye and explained himself. I get out my phone and send him a text:
Hey, can we talk?