Chapter 23
Lesson 22: Men can be just as territorial as dogs, but a damn sight harder to train.
Reading List: Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome (not read, but really want to)
Bridget Jones Tally:
scones—not enough
men—too many
I slept beautifully that night after my evening in the clouds. It was one of the best nights I’d had in years.
The next morning when I came down to breakfast, Robbie was on the phone. I could just make out the end of the conversation
while I poured myself some orange juice.
“Alright, gorgeous. You look after yourself. Love you.”
“Oh, is that Isla?” Helena called from next to me, where she was steeping her tea. “Send her my love, won’t you, dear? Oh!
Tell her that Poppy set aside a pair of kitten heels that we thought she’d like. We can post them up.”
My stomach curdled. Was I the only one on the planet who hadn’t known about Robbie’s girlfriend?
I was sitting down with my cereal when Robbie made his way over to me. His face had a serious slant to it.
“Alice. I’m glad you’re up. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” He sat down and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry if last night... well, I realize that I was... too familiar. It’s all my fault. I got a bit swept away. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
I was caught off guard. I took a sip of juice and thought for a moment.
This was the guilt then. I didn’t like the taste of it. I took a bite of cold toast to collect myself. What could I possibly
say to that?
“It’s fine. It’s not your fault. In fact, you know whose fault it is? Helena’s! With all her bottles of free champagne, and
slinky dresses... she owes us both an apology, don’t you think?” He gave me a small, grateful smile.
“You’re right. How dare she spoil us rotten? It was definitely all her fault.”
My voice, when it came out, was a little too soft around the edges. “You really didn’t make me uncomfortable. Nothing to apologize
for.” I cleared it from my throat. Then I stuck my hand out and added a boisterous “Enemies?”
“Enemies,” he confirmed with a smile, and shook my hand firmly. And just like that, we were back on solid ground.
As we sped off in the direction of Oxford, Helena came over to sit by me.
“So I just got off the phone with my son, and he’s made a little time for us so that he can show us around Oxford.”
“Really? That’s exciting. I didn’t know you had a son in Oxford, Helena.”
“I do. My youngest, Tristan.”
“Is he studying there?”
It would be interesting to meet one of Helena’s children. Someone from her world outside of the tour. We were getting to know all about one another’s lives, but the more closely I bonded with the ladies, the more difficult it became to imagine them having any life, or existing at all, outside of this tour. The sensation made me passionately curious to catch a glimpse, however small, of the relics of this other parallel universe.
“He’s a physicist. A fellow in medical physics, actually.”
“Wow! That sounds impressive.”
“He’s always been very studious. Always has his head in some book or other. My other two boys were more athletic, but Tristan
was the bookish one. It made him shy around other people, especially girls.”
Oh, God. Oh God no. Please don’t do this, Helena. Don’t say it.
“As a matter of fact,” she went on, “you two would have a lot to talk about. He’s just accepted a position at Harvard and
will be moving in autumn, so you can tell him all about Boston. Give him the inside scoop!” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Oh,” I floundered. “I haven’t been home in such a long time for anything other than seeing my parents. I’m sure a quick search
online would be much better for the inside scoop.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you’re a font of knowledge. Maybe you can even meet him there and show him around a bit one weekend. You
know, to help him get acquainted. I think you two would really hit it off.”
And there it is.
“Oh, you know, Helena. He sounds great, but...”
“Just keep it in the back of your mind.” She flapped a hand to ward off any contrary notions buzzing around. “That’s all I’m
asking. You may be perfect for each other. He needs a strong woman to pull him out of his shell a bit.”
Well, crap. An unathletic, socially inept man who is afraid of women. And she thinks he’ll be perfect for me.
I’d been set up by beautiful mothers before, when I still lived with my parents. It had never once gone well. Genes did not always get passed down favorably. And they all had mommy issues, each and every one. I wouldn’t fall for it again. I could imagine him with grisly clarity: doughy, bad skin, and thick saliva that crisscrossed his mouth when he spoke. He would smell of soup and loneliness.
And what kind of a name is Tristan , anyway? The name of a pale milksop with an Oedipus complex, that’s what kind of a name it was. Embarrassingly theatrical.
“This is my boyfriend, Tristan,” I would say at a cocktail party, and people would immediately disperse like soap on oil to
defriend me from their Facebook accounts.
Besides, I was emphatically not there to date. Do you hear that, Universe? Stop flinging men at me!
We entered the city from the south, crossing the river, and Oxford began to unfold and show her secrets to us as we parked
and began on foot through the narrow, cobbled city streets. Each step cast a spell on me.
How to describe Oxford? Is it possible, when a place so closely resembles your dreams, to put it into words? It’s called the
City of Dreaming Spires, and these spires I have dreamed of since I was a child.
The University of Oxford has thirty-nine colleges, like the Hogwarts houses, and each has its own charming character: Many
were Gothic piles, generous of adornment and splendor, while others were all stately Georgian simplicity dabbled sparingly
with just a touch of flourish, while yet others looked like old rough castles hewn from stone and heaped upon the old town
walls, ready to defend against invaders. They were magnificent, and I understood why Oxford’s students had labored so ardently
to deserve them.
We wove through carved gray stone and leaded windows until the beating heart of Oxford opened up in front of us—where ancient, hulking libraries called our names in a papery whisper, and strange and curious heads peered down from lofty pillars, watching our ev ery step with bulging eyes. The sun shone. Students cycled past, scarves flapping behind them.
“Oh, there’s Tristan!” Helena waved.
I looked over, and there he was. Just as I had imagined. He was leaning back against the rails, though “slumping in a bulbous
bundle” would be more accurate. He was everything I had dreaded, but with long oily coils of curling hair thrown in for good
measure. I locked eyes with his waxen, sweaty face against my will, the way a person might find it impossible to look away
from a horror scene. He caught me staring and smoothed a hand over his hair. When I didn’t— couldn’t —look away, he bit his lip in a salacious entreaty that he clearly expected to be met with equal rapture.
Hellfire! She’s told him. She’s told him that we were made for each other, and now he’s salivating over the prospect of undressing
me with his sweaty little hands . I could practically smell his hot, yellow vinegar breath from thirty paces away.
Helena dashed toward him, much in the way a panther might if it were in a mild hurry, but as she moved forward she grabbed
hold of a random bystander and appeared to be squeezing him with her body. Was she being attacked while her son stood aside
and looked unflinchingly at my body with a nauseating appetite? I was confused.
Helena grasped the stranger’s hand, and they sauntered over to us— two panthers in a casual ballet. That’s when I snapped the fuck out of it, and my jaw swung open with a squeak.
Tristan, obviously , was tall and beautifully proportioned, with a lean, sinewy body that was both graceful and masculine. He was dressed like
something out of a catalog, yet somehow it appeared to be effortless. His mother probably picked it out. I didn’t care.
That face! He had haunting gray eyes and chestnut hair. Some of it dangled over his eyes, and he had to brush it away in the most unwitting display of sensuality I’d seen since Poldark in a tricorn hat. Glasses lent character to what would otherwise have been saccharine perfection, and a three-day-old dusting of stubble gave the impression that he had been far too busy to remember to shave. What had he been too busy doing? Curing cancer? Seducing women? Writing tumultuous poetry? The mind boggled.
He smiled, and the sun shone more brightly and the birds began to sing. And they were singing Barry White.
“Wow. What’s going on here then? It looks like you’ve caught someone’s eye.” A Scottish voice, much closer than expected,
broke me from my stupor.
“What? Huh?” I blushed hotly, my face burning. Great . Now I look like a blotchy tomato. So much for a sexy first impression. “Oh? Do you think so?”
“Be careful, Alice Cooper. He looks like a lady-killer.”
Well, that’s fair.
I followed his gaze, and my smile dropped. Robbie was referring to the pimpled lecher who had clearly mistaken my momentary
attention for irrepressible lust. He caught me looking at him again and licked his lips... for my benefit. Robbie barked
with laughter.
“Oh, shut up.”
He laughed all the more heartily. “Don’t let’s be coy. Should I wave him over?”
“If you do not step away from me this instant, I will peel your face away with my fingernails.”
He raised his hands in surrender and backed away slowly, pleased with himself.
Helena and her son joined us, with Helena making thoughtful introductions.
“And this is the lovely Alice, who is over from DC, where she takes the nonprofit sector by storm.”
“Hi, Alice. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Tristan.” Oh, that gorgeous English accent. Now I knew what kind of name Tristan was—the name of a mythical warrior king, the name of a Greek god carefully wrapped in English tweed.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” Quick! Say something charming! “I hope you’ve come prepared to tell us all of your mother’s most embarrassing stories—we’re starting to believe she’s flawless.”
He was even better close up. He was Prince William with hair, he was Michael Fassbender naked, he was Jude Law before the
nanny incident.
He smiled. I nearly fell over.
“My mother said you were funny.” We shook hands. I changed from tomato red to maroon. Blushing any further could be a medical
emergency. “Well, I’m very happy you’re all here, and that you’ve been looking after my mother so well. I begged her to let
me show you around today, and she finally relented, luckily for me.” I heard the ladies giggle and mumble among themselves.
I wasn’t the only one whom Tristan was winning over. “That is, if it doesn’t spoil your itinerary too much, of course, Robbie.”
“Oh, I think the ladies would be thrilled to get the insiders’ tour. Thank you, we’re looking forward to it.” Robbie matched
his friendly tone, but there was a nearly imperceptible something in his voice that caught my attention. I suppose he hated
to give up the limelight even for one afternoon.
“Wonderful. It’s all settled then. I was thinking we’d start here, nip into the Sheldonian Theatre, then I’ll sneak us into
the Radcliffe Camera—I hear you’re all rather fond of books—and then go round to some of my favorite colleges. Does that sound
like it’ll do?”
The ladies were jubilant. Flossie began to clap. Percy ran in a circle around Tristan, yapping with excitement.
“Well then, first things first: tea and scones. We have a busy day ahead.”
Vaults & Garden was a gorgeous café right in Radcliffe Square that had once been part of the cathedral, and inside it was bright and charming with vaulted ceilings and tall Gothic windows. The smell of delectable cakes and teas curled out into the square and lured hapless students in by the nose, leaving their research, no doubt, for another time.
Tristan was in line behind me as I perused the options.
“How can I pick just one thing? Any recommendations?”
He looked down at his tray, smiled sweetly, and pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“Well, I happen to think that they have the best cream tea in Oxford, if you fancy it.” His voice was soft, and it melted
over me.
Cream tea? Well, that sounds stupid. Is it just creamy tea? I want a pastry. “It’s a major decision,” I teased. “Are you sure that I can trust you?”
“I think so. How about this—if you’re not convinced, then I’ll have your cream tea and buy you an assortment of other things
to make up for it.”
“You know what, Tristan, I think we’re going to get along just fine.” He laughed, but didn’t respond.
I ordered a cream tea as instructed. They offered me my choice of scones, still warm from the oven— yay! —and fresh local jam. I chose raspberry. It was served with a pot of delicious tea and, to my sheer delight, a ramekin containing
a mountainous dollop of thick clotted cream for the scone.
Watching Tristan for direction, I split my scone and piled it high with jam and cream and bit down into heaven. I closed my
eyes and inhaled deeply as I chewed that first bite. It was warm and cakey, buttery, so creamy, and just the right amount
of sweet. It melded perfectly with the tea. I did a quick calculation of how many scones with cream I could conceivably cram
down before we had to leave Oxford.
I smiled at Tristan. “You’re off the hook.”
The history of the place had a palpable, physical presence. As Tristan strode us through the cobbled streets, he intrigued us with stories from some of history’s greatest thinkers, Oxonian traditions, brutal tales about the conflict between “towns” and “gowns,” and hilarious and absurd student pranks on rival colleges going back for hundreds of years.
Tristan had been there since undergrad and was now a fellow at Brasenose College, and it would appear he made it his business
to absorb every fascinating fact he had ever heard about Oxford. He spoke softly, but we hung on his every word.
At Christ Church College, we saw the Hogwarts dining hall—though we were told that the food served was so bad that it was
sinister—and Tristan had even made arrangements to bring us to a restricted library high in the college where we were the
only people save one librarian. Ancient leather-bound volumes were protected by a cage of actual laser beams, and there was
a small collection of treasures like a Bible that had belonged to Queen Elizabeth I, Cardinal Wolsey’s felt hat, and a jeweled
box with an eerily humanesque mandrake inside.
Robbie, for his part, played the good sport. Somehow, impossibly, I got the feeling he didn’t much like Tristan. Despite this,
he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from asking Tristan lots of interesting historical questions throughout the day,
and this made for a fascinating back-and-forth for us ladies to watch. I enjoyed having Robbie on the tourist side, because
his mind worked in beautiful ways when it came to history, and his questions pulled at threads I never would have thought
to feel for. I did also enjoy the fact that he had to take a back seat while some other man took control of his tour. It clearly
rankled him, which filled me with joy.
When finally, late afternoon, we turned into the vine-covered doorway of our charming bed-and-breakfast, Tristan caught my
attention.
“Hi, Alice,” he said sweetly. “I had reservations to bring my mom to formal dinner tonight at my college, but she said she was too tired to make it. She, um, suggested you might be interested. Maybe you would like to come? You don’t have to answer right away, but—”
“Yes! That sounds amazing.”
He smiled and looked away.
“Great. That’s great. I’ll come by and scoop you up here at seven, if that’s alright. Drinks and canapés start at half seven.
Does that suit?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Lovely.” We stood there for a moment, staring at each other, both pleased with the exchange but not quite sure what to say.
“Right then.” He adjusted his glasses. “See you at seven then. Good.”
“Oh, Tristan!” I stopped him just as something terrible occurred to me. “What does one wear to a formal dinner at Brasenose
College?”
“Ahh. Yes, right. I almost forgot. My mother said she had something for you, actually. Formal dinner tends to be... well,
a little bit formal, but you’ll... I’m sure you’ll fit right in no matter what you wear, so wear whatever you like. I’ll
see if I can borrow a subfusc from a friend. I have spares, but I think they may be a tad long for you. Don’t worry—leave
it to me.”
Helena has something for me? And what the hell was that word he just said? I decided to simply nod gravely, as if I absolutely knew what the heck he was talking about.
We said our brief and bumbling goodbyes, and then I watched him walk away—far more intently than was proper for an honorable
young lady.
As I headed into the B&B, I ran into Robbie in the foyer. When he saw me, he gave a furtive glance to the window with a drawn
brow. Looking to see if Tristan had left , I supposed. Has he been waiting here for me?
“Hey. So Tristan invited me to formal dinner at his college to night. I’m sorry to miss our evening group plans, but it just seems too special an opportunity to pass up.”
Robbie’s face transformed. “Really? Are you going to be okay on your own with that guy? He seems dead sleazy to me.”
I laughed outright, in his face, taken completely by surprise.
“ That guy ? Sleazy ? You mean Tristan, who we spent our day with? The one who took time out to show us all over the city and held Doris’s arm
to keep her steady over the cobbles? Shy, soft-spoken Tristan, who is a fellow at Oxford? Helena’s son, Tristan?” I laughed,
hardly able to get the words out, enjoying myself immensely while he stood there, arms crossed and unamused. His little scowl
made me laugh all the more. “Do you have a Taser I can borrow? Or perhaps a small switchblade?”
“Alice, you don’t know him. Just because he seems nice doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy where women are concerned. I know what
these public school boys can be like.”
I laughed even harder.
“No doubt he has designs on Doris too, the pervert!”
His sharp blue eyes narrowed. “You know what? You’re totally right. I was worrying over nothing. The minute you open your
mouth, he’ll be dragging you back to return you. The good news is, I’m sure you’ll have the rest of your evening free to join
the group for dinner. As planned.”
He turned and started up the stairs, but I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Wait,” I called after him, giggling helplessly. “Robbie, wait!” He stopped midway up a step but didn’t turn around. “Do you
think you could help me go over some kung fu moves? In case he tries to hold the door open for me.” He carried on without
looking back. “Robbie, don’t go! Where can I buy some brass knuckles?”
Helena magically had a second dress for me. She said she had gotten it as a backup for the backless goddess dress but kept it on reserve, because she knew if I’d had a more modest option, I would have chickened out.
I called her my fairy godmother and kissed her on the cheek. It was simple, black, and Jackie O in a classic but also perfectly
modern way, and of course, because Helena had had something to do with it, was incredibly flattering.
After a long deliberation, I decided not to bring my crutches. I was going to a formal dinner at Oxford on a starlit night
with a gorgeous man. Crutches just didn’t fit with the imagery. Besides, I had managed dinner in London without them, and
my ankle, while still sore, had been feeling much better. I did, however, tuck my black flats into my handbag just in case
there would be lots of walking.
I sat in the lobby to wait, and within a minute or two, Robbie had jogged down the stairs on his way out. He stopped when
he saw me cross-legged on the armchair, a small smile on my lips and smoky eyes imploring him to give me another reason to
tease him.
His gaze dragged from my heels to my hair to my lips. An unguarded flash of longing made my stomach flutter before it disappeared.
He nodded curtly and moved along. You’re the lothario I need to watch out for , I thought as he walked out. What a hypocrite. A man with a girlfriend definitely shouldn’t be looking at me as if he’d like to ravish me on the wingback.