The next day with its full schedule of lectures and tours passed without incident, and Saturday evening arrived. Sebastian and Saffron were in her room in St. Mike's, where they had just made love, and they lay rather self-consciously folded in one another's arms. They had seen magazine ads, mostly for perfume, of how this pose of sybaritic abandon was supposed to look: glistening, tangled limbs and tousled curls; heads thrown back to gaze into one another's eyes in spellbound, satiated adoration. But because Sebastian did not adore, only Saffron held her head at this awkward angle. And it was much too cold in her room for abandoned limbs.
"Time to go," he said.
"I know," she replied, too quickly. Her voice, which she had tried to train since meeting Sebastian into the self-confident bray of the upper classes, usually betrayed her, this time breaking in the middle of the two short syllables like a schoolboy's. She cleared her throat and aimed for a lower register.
"I have work to do," she added firmly but unconvincingly. He was making moves to get out of bed. Think of something to ask, quickly.
"How's it going with the parents? Have you seen them today?"
"Yes. It was ghastly. Bloody Lexy being here is causing no end of strain. I've even wondered…"
"Wondered?" she asked, treading gently, gently. It wasn't like Seb to "share," as the American students would say. These few sentences were as gold to her. She didn't want to rush at him, make him clam up.
"I told you. I've wondered if she has some vague hope of getting back together with my stepfather."
"There's a cracked idea." Saffron gave a gentle snort of contempt, to mask her guilty realization of how similar were their situations, hers and Lexy's. The Americans would probably tell them both it was time to "let go and move on," and they'd be right. How easy it was to spout brainless platitudes.
"Isn't it just? I really don't think James would be that mad, but you never know… he's such a stick; I never understood what my mother sees in him, really… I wish she'd go away… stay away from them. If anyone hurt India, I swear… "
Saffron, thrilled at these disjointed disclosures, wisely kept quiet, but she was thinking, not for the first time, that Sebastian could be a bit of a mummy's boy. He'd do whatever it took to make his mother happy and keep her that way. The thought of James leaving his mother to reunite with the gorgeous Lexy-she could see it made Sebastian livid.
"Maybe you could have a word?" she suggested tentatively.
Sebastian, no longer listening, swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his rucksack. He had brought his kit with him to save time. He always did that. She knew how much rowing meant to him-she was reconciled to the fact he wanted that Blue more than he wanted anything, certainly more than he wanted her-but couldn't he at least pretend reluctance to leave? Maybe it was time, fretted Saffron, to start a slimming regime. She had put on a couple of pounds lately… The words of a Tracy Chapman song went through her head, as they often did when she thought of Seb:
Maybe if I told you the right words
At the right time you'd be mine.
"Couldn't you…" she began. Don't say it.
Sebastian began pulling on his rowing shorts and shirt. He reached for his warm-up top.
"Couldn't I what?" His back was to her, which made it easier. Whatever you do, Don't Say It.
"Couldn't you stay, just a bit? This once?" Oh, fuck. She knew better than this. She had no mind left when it came to Seb. Fuck fuck fuck it. Keep your face still and flat. Don't let him see.
He turned. He wasn't angry, as she'd feared. It was worse. From the condescending, pitying smirk on his face, Saffron had her confirmation that those were not the right words. Those were precisely all the wrong words, lined up in the wrong order, and said in the wrong tone of voice. And definitely at the wrong time. Full points.
It was his leaving a bit early that had thrown her off, she thought. Otherwise she'd have been smart enough, calm enough, to keep her mouth shut.
Sebastian said nothing, just knelt to tie his shoes. Then he picked up his rucksack and headed for the door. As he was leaving, he threw over his shoulder the three little words that made her heart, which had plummeted like something thrown through an open trapdoor, lift again with hope.
"See you tomorrow."
But his tone was dismissive, like a king ordering the removal of a chamber pot, and she worried over this for a long while, playing and replaying the whole scene in her head. Rewind. Couldn't you stay? Oh my God, what had she been thinking? Play… just a bit? This once? Rewind. Just a bit?
Anger, the only fitting response to his boorish behavior, never entered into it. The option of never seeing him again wasn't a choice that existed for Saffron. She was too amazed, too in awe, that Seb had ever looked her way in the first place, let alone chosen to spend time with her.
That the awe was the reason he would leave her one day-that she knew already. -- The path to the boathouse skirted the sanctum of the Fellows' Garden, so Sebastian missed witnessing any scenes that might be playing out there. He walked instead along the outside brick wall of the garden, even though he had long since learned how to take a forbidden shortcut through whenever the coast was clear. With all the visitors, he doubted the favored meeting spot would be clear tonight. He passed by Gwenn Pengelly-he recognized her from the telly. She was headed away from the tennis courts towards the main building. She seemed to want to engage him in conversation so he just gave her a wave of his hand and kept going.
He looks dark, she thought. Obsessed. Too serious for his age, that one.
Sebastian quickened his pace. Having dawdled, he was late now. He had his routine, and it seldom varied; it unsettled him when it varied. He hadn't missed a day on the water except when a red flag warned of foggy or windy conditions, or the stream was running too fast. First, he's have a warm-up in the gym, including a spot of weight-lifting and a stint on the much-despised ergometer, then he would carry the single scull from the boathouse and feed its awkward length into the river. He would lock in the oars and, grabbing both oars in one hand, step lightly into the narrow scull, maneuver expertly into the seat, and secure his feet onto the footboards.
Nearly an hour later he was ready to set out. The weather being warm, the air heavy, he had brought with him a drink bottle, which he slotted behind his shoes in the scull. He took a few minutes to settle himself, breathing deeply, then used one oar to push off into the river. He began building up his pace slowly, the boat slivering through the water and leaving a ribbon trail behind. Immediately, he felt calmer, anonymous and alone, just himself testing himself against the limits of his endurance. To Seb, sculling was much harder than rowing, because of the need to keep an even pull on both oars. In a way, he preferred it, for the challenge. He thought he might always prefer the isolation of the single scull to the camaraderie of a crew boat.
He was St. Mike's star: Everyone knew he was headed for the Blue Boat-that he'd one day compete in the famous, four-and-a-quarter-mile Oxford-Cambridge race. Kevin, the club captain, granted him more leeway than most, even though Kev, whose father was career Army, had a morbid fear of the early morning marshals and stayed well within the rules. Kev reminded Sebastian, who assessed any rule in terms of whether it served his own purposes, of a dog behind an invisible electric fence, terrified of setting one paw wrong and being zapped silly. Imagine living your life that way-Sebastian couldn't. Old Kev even believed, when closer observation of his character might easily have convinced him otherwise, that Sebastian always operated within the rules. Even if he'd been so inclined, that was getting harder each day: There was so much congestion on the Cam a flurry of regulations had been issued to try to disentangle everyone and their oars. With the rules changing so often, the chances were good there was always someone out there illegally, rowing or spinning at the wrong place and time.
Still, trying to outwit the EMMs for the heck of it was one of Sebastian's favorite pastimes, although their main interest was to be on the lookout for too much early noise and too many novice boats on the river. Sebastian knew just how far to push it, and went no further. He wasn't going to risk what he already thought of as his seat in the Blue Boat.
Sebastian's thoughts kept pace with his steadily increasing speed, his powerful leg drive propelling the scull with ease: So what if the boats these days seemed to be filled with long, tall graduate students, some doing bullshit degrees just so they could row. I can compete with the best of them. I will win.
Sebastian was far from being a novice rower, even when he had been a novice. He had grown up near Cambridge, and knew the river well, from Baitsbite to Jesus. For much of his young life, he had withstood hot days in the sun and bitter cold mornings in the rain just to be on the water. He now knew the river, he thought, as well as he knew Saffron. Better than. He knew the moment boats had to cross at the Gut and Plough Reach; he knew where crews would be spinning, just upstream of Ditton Corner. He knew where the river narrowed to the point it was barely possible for two eights to squeeze past each other.
He knew that come Michaelmas term, between Chesterton footbridge and Jesus Lock, the junior and novice crews would be menacing everyone else out on the water. Uncoxed boats, rowing blind, the steerer's mind elsewhere, were a particular hazard. It didn't help that the river was increasingly crowded with rowers of all skill levels, and that long boats motoring past often had a complete disregard for the rowers, rather seeming to steer straight towards them. The "party" long boats of an evening, carrying drunken passengers, were the worst. No matter how many regulations CUCBC might pass, you couldn't regulate against stupidity. The dangerous corners of the Cam-Queen Elizabeth Way, Green Dragon, Ditton, and Grassy-each year awaited the unwary.
An uncoxed boat was bearing down on him now, all of the rowers, to Sebastian's trained eye, too quick into the catch, or splashing their blades about in a domino effect from the stern. He eased up and gave a shout-it was that collection of berks from Jesus again. This time of year, there were usually only town crews on the river; very few, if any, college crews like this lot; maybe the odd post-graduate crew. Annoyed at the interruption, Sebastian strove to regain his rhythm, his thoughts also changing course, to his parents, the famous Lexy, all the oldies who had begun arriving the day before. Some of them in their forties, from the look of them. Really old. It was a wonder they could walk. Losing their hair, wearing glasses in old-fashioned frames, flaunting their kangaroo paunches. Trying too hard, some of them, to look with it. And that was just the women. It was pathetic.
Thirty, to Sebastian, was a great age. Christ had been thirty-three when he died, hadn't he?
Thinking: Only thirteen years to go, Sebastian pulled harder and the scull shot away, skimming the glassy water like a gull. -- Sebastian was well downriver as the old members enjoyed a celebratory meal, preceded by drinks in the SCR.
Portia, wearing her academic gown over a dark sheath, had been making her way downstairs when she ran into Lexy, coming from the other end of the corridor. Tonight Lexy had exchanged her vamp-of-the-sea look for a black one-button pantsuit that accented her whippet waist, with a filmy white blouse spilling out of the low-cut jacket. She had looped her black academic gown over one arm, along with a small and sparkly evening bag, so as not, Portia imagined, to obscure her splendid appearance just yet. Portia also imagined it was the slightly longer gown of a Master of Arts; Lexy having matriculated as an undergraduate the requisite number of years before, the "promotion" was automatic.
Portia commented on the elegance of her suit.
Lexy nodded, abstractedly acknowledging the compliment. Her manner was jumpy, which might have been explained by her next words:
"Someone broke into my room-I guess while we were at the wine tasting today," she said. "Went through my things."
"Oh, no. I am sorry. That kind of thing is rare around here, you know. The students will 'liberate' the occasional food item from one of the communal kitchens, but that's only because they're starving half the time, poor things."
"Well, it's happened now."
"We'll have to make sure the Master knows. What was taken?"
Lexy hesitated, a frown creasing her otherwise flawless complexion. "That's just it. Nothing is missing, that I can see. It's just… a bit creepy, is all. Considering."
Portia didn't have time to wonder what she was meant to consider, for Lexy had gone on to a new topic:
"You'll be at High Table, I suppose? What a bore. I was going to ask you to sit with me and Geraldo."
Portia thought this would probably be more entertaining than what went on at High Table, and said so.
"The thing is," said Lexy confidingly, peering up at Portia out of her legendarily blue eyes, "I'm rather afraid Sir James may try to sit next to me."
Portia, who had gained the impression Lexy thought that an outcome devoutly to be wished, was confused. The famous Lexy might do many things, she felt, but confide in the likes of a perfect stranger like Portia wasn't one of them. Not without an ulterior motive.
"Afraid?" she prompted.
"Oh, I don't mean afraid afraid. It's just jolly awkward. You do see?"
"You think he's carrying a torch, do you?"
"All indications are so, yes." Lexy blushed becomingly. "What do you think?"
Portia smiled. "I'm hardly in a position to know. Has he been bothering you?"
"Oh. Well, no, not exactly. James is too much the gentleman for that. It's more this hangdog look whenever he sees me. The sad eyes following me everywhere. It's obvious he wants to get me alone. I can only guess why."
Portia, who didn't really believe Lexy's answer to a request for a chat would be "no," pondered the meaning behind this extraordinary conversation. While Portia knew Lexy in the way one did know someone who was constantly in the news, Lexy could have no idea who Portia was. Portia was used to being confided in-she had that kind of face, she guessed-but this was… different. It had, thought Portia (beginning to descend the stairs, Lexy glued to her side), all the hallmarks of a woman scorned wishing to be vindicated before the world of society, the world in which Lexy operated, the only world Lexy knew. If anything, Portia was certain Lexy would welcome Sir James' approaches, if only so she could turn around and leave him in a publicly splashy way.
Now, how to get myself out of the middle here? she wondered.
Fortunately, they had reached the SCR by this point, where the buzz of animated conversation could be heard even through the heavy wood door.
"I'm sure it will be all right," Portia, who had no such certainty, told Lexy. "Oh! I think I hear your friend Geraldo."
Geraldo Valentiano was indeed in the room, talking loudly about polo in what seemed to be his trademark predatory fashion with none other than Sir James' wife. He might have been leaning in a bit too close, but India, for her part, was openly admiring his biceps. Portia slid a glance over to Lexy to see how she was taking this, and was surprised to see a look of genuine indifference on her lovely face. Her eyes were seeking someone else. Three guesses who that might be, thought Portia.
Then Portia noticed the search operation was mutual-that is, Sir James stood near the drinks tray looking vaguely around the room, but at the sight of Lexy his gaze, anxious and worried, settled immediately on her. Portia wondered if there weren't some truth in Lexy's take on the situation. Odder things have happened, she thought, than old flames reigniting.
But Lexy headed straight for Geraldo, who had left India with the promise of fetching her a drink. He had stopped, however, to admire his profile in a gold-framed mirror, a distraction which had temporarily derailed his mission. Lexy, with a meaningful glance at Sir James, was heard to tell Geraldo and the assembly in a loud voice that someone had broken into her room.
Sir James looked about to respond, but a couple walked in just then, looking unmistakably American in a way Portia found hard to define. Perhaps it was that their clothes looked starchily brand new, as if fresh out of the boxes. The man wore a Masters' gown, also shining in its newness. The woman Portia assumed was his wife wore a dress straight from the Paris couture collections, but of an unbecoming shade of purple under her own academic status gown.
Just after the pair came Hermione Jax, Fellow of the college and one of its most stalwart supporters, financial and otherwise. Hermione in academic regalia looked to be in her element, as in fact she was. Disapprovingly, she scanned the assembled company with her protuberant, long-lashed eyes, then made her way over to the drinks tray where the Master and Bursar were now standing.
Over the growing volume of conversation, Portia heard Sir James say, "It would be jolly fun. You're quite right. A row for old times' sake." She turned and saw he was talking with the Reverend Otis and the big Texan from the bar. "Lexy was our coxswain, back in the day. I wonder if you could persuade her?"
"That's a grand idea," agreed Augie Cramb. "I used to love to row. Do we have enough to make an eight?"
"Doubtful," said Sir James. "But we could manage a four, I think. I say, Geraldo, you rowed for your college, didn't you?"
Geraldo, tearing himself away from his image, said, "Of course. I was and am a superb athlete." Clasping his hands in front of his stomach, he flexed his chest muscles by way of demonstration.
"I saw a young man decked out for rowing headed towards the river earlier," said Augie.
"That was my son," said Sir James, not looking at Augie. His voice held an odd, gruff note that might have been melancholy.
"Will he be joining us for dinner?" asked Augie.
"He's got his own friends." India had walked over to her husband. She took his arm proprietarily. Just then the gong sounded for dinner, and James led the way towards the dining hall, rather charging ahead and dragging India with him. Portia wondered: Was he hoping to snag a seat next to Lexy? If so, he was out of luck. It was Augie Cramb, unencumbered and making an heroic sprint, who managed to gain the coveted spot. -- A short time later, the St. Mike's alumni group sat beneath the painted bosses of the Hall's hammerbeam roof and the painted eyes of the former Masters' portraits, steadily working its way through the appetizer course (although as someone observed: "Appetizer is rather a misnomer in this case, wouldn't you say?"). The conversation gradually gathered strength and became a collection of discordant noises, like a symphony warming up on untuned instruments. Adding to the cacophony, four undergraduates, huddled in a corner, sawed away on stringed instruments until they were finally banished by the Master, well before they'd run through their repertoire.
Because of the presence of the distinguished guests, the High Table was unoccupied, the Master, Bursar, and Dean having literally come down from on high, the better to exercise the personal touch in their fundraising efforts. These were dark days indeed for the Master, who, having sacrificed much to attain his status in the college, loved his usual position above the crowd. The Bursar felt similarly. The Reverend Otis, however, was always happiest amongst what he endearingly thought of as his flock.
Portia, who was seated next to him, had trouble hearing what was said throughout the meal, and remembered little of it afterwards. Of course he, dear man, tended to waffle on about nothing in particular, but in the most soothing way. One felt positively shriven after an hour with the Dean.
The American woman (Portia had learned her name was Constance and her husband was Karl) had a voice like the crazed yapping of a caged dog. The acoustics in the room had always been terrible, and with drink the noise level became intolerable. Still, above it all could be heard the yap, yap, yapping of Constance Dunning. She seemed to be discussing triangles, which puzzled Portia, until she realized she meant relationships.
"Divorce is always such a pity. I don't care what the circumstances." Portia heard this plainly. "Don't you agree, Karl?"
Of course, Karl did agree.
Constance's yap was punctuated here and there by loud guffaws from Augie Cramb, who was clearly going all out to impress Lexy, who in her turn was probably secretly storing up the Texan's buffoonerisms to amuse her friends back in London.
Gwenn Pengelly had walked in a minute late, earning a frown of disapproval from the Master. Gwenn smiled unperturbedly and took the nearest empty seat, which happened to be on Karl's other side at the far end of the table.
Portia looked down the table, past the field of candelabra flames that flickered like gold against the polished wood, and saw that Sir James, far from Lexy, was flanked by his wife on one side and Hermione Jax on the other. How rare a sight, thought Portia: Although Hermione was always one to stand on ceremony, she had apparently happily relinquished her spot at High Table for a seat next to the illustrious Sir James.
For his part Sir James, awaiting the next course with every appearance of joyful anticipation (that smile will soon be wiped off your face, thought Portia, or I don't know the college chef), leaned over to talk with Hermione. But his eyes frequently drifted, as if by compulsion, in the direction of Lexy Laurant. -- An hour had passed in apparent conviviality. Had the Bursar but realized it, his cost-cutting schemes usually back-fired in this regard: The inedible food led to over-consumption of wine, saving the college little and almost certainly adding to the monthly expenditures. It did, however, frequently lend a bacchanalian air to the tenor of the evening meals, featuring many a loud, impromptu toast to the founder of the college and its various benefactors. Gwennap Pengelly and Geraldo Valentiano, in particular, might have been said to have overindulged, judging by the increasing volume of their laughter. That was unfortunate on this particular evening, about which the police were going to ask numerous questions that almost none of the guests were going to be able to answer.
The conversation ranged and wandered, as conversations of the reunited will, over the fields of "Do you remember so-and-so?" and "Whatever happened to what's-his-name?" Hermione Jax, however, had other things on her mind and was emboldened to speak that mind. With Hermione, this was not uncommon.
"I realize I was probably not your first choice in dinner companions this evening," she said to Sir James, launching into one of the few conversations that would later be remembered.
While what Hermione had said was indisputably true, Sir James, true to his upbringing, demurred politely.
"See here," she continued. "May I give you some advice?"
Sir James, guessing at the topic, said quickly, coldly, "I'd much rather you didn't."
"Yes, I suppose when one can guess at the advice already, one would rather not hear it. An observation, then. You've already crossed the Rubicon with regard to Lexy, you know. Years ago. There's no going back."
Sir James arranged his silverware, which was one centimeter out of true.
"There's always a way back when it's a question of forgiveness," he said gruffly. "Otherwise we'd all be… doomed."
"A bit melodramatic that, what?"
Lowering his voice still further, although it was highly doubtful his wife could hear them over the din, he said, "I should say it depends on how many lives you think you have. I believe I have only this one, and I've made a right cock-up of… a few things. I won't have a million chances to put it right. This weekend is it."
Hermione, being in many respects an intelligent woman, forbore to ask what his wife would make of this new resolve of his. She could guess, only too well. -- As the alumni dinner ended, Sebastian was still moving with practiced speed along the river, his sculls cutting rhythmically through the dark water, the sky as it deepened towards night making him feel both invisible and invincible. It was nearly Lighting Up, and he was reluctant to stop when his strength was nowhere near exhausted, but he didn't want to be too flagrant about bending the rules. To be selected only for the second boat, which Sebastian regarded as a fate worse than death, was one thing. To accumulate so many fines he was forbidden the river altogether was unthinkable.
Minutes later he slowed as he approached the college; leaning onto the outside scull, he turned the boat until it was parallel to the bank. As he stepped out and lifted the boat from the water, his head was filled with the future glory of winning a Blue and the imaginary applause of onlookers, which is why he never noticed the lumpen pile of black cloth to one side of the boathouse doors. He might not have seen it at all in the light ground mist but that a slight disturbance caught his ear, causing him to turn towards a rustle in the undergrowth. Some small animal making its way to shelter before total darkness fell, perhaps. It was then to the left of the boathouse he noticed a shadow, nothing more. He went to investigate. There was a scull lying on the ground, next to that lumpen pile.
If someone had forgotten to put away the college's equipment there'd be hell to pay, he thought. Was all this stuff lying there when he'd set out? He wasn't sure…he hadn't been looking in that direction.
One year, during May Bumps, a group of undergraduates had thrown a plastic dummy in the water dressed in Queens' colors. Intimidation of their chief rival was the goal. It was the kind of harmless rag that went on all year, usually in the run-up to the Bumps. So Sebastian didn't hesitate, but poked at the lumpen form with the tip of one of his oars.
That didn't feel right, he thought. He couldn't have said why it wasn't right, but the form was softer and more yielding and yet heavier than he, in his limited experience of dummies and lumpen forms, would have expected.
No. No sirree. That couldn't be right.
He stepped a foot closer, peering into the darkness. Then, dropping his oars with a loud, jumbled crash, he ran.