I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
Charlotte Brontë (possibly Emily), “Stanzas,” 1850
The grilling began at the Bombay Curry House when, after being uncharacteristically quiet all evening and barely eating my chicken tikka masala, I failed to dodge Charlie’s loaded question: “How was the tute?”
Now, after thirty minutes of detailing and defending, I need a drink. Badly. “Guys! It wasn’t a big deal. Really. Let it go.”
Maggie looks at me. I can tell she senses that I was more affected by the tutorial than I’m letting on and, unlike Charlie and Tom, I think she also senses that the undertow of sexual chemistry is secondary to something larger. Something I don’t even understand myself.
I stand up from the table and announce, “Well, I don’t know about you locals, but this American’s going to her first British pub.”
Charlie and Maggie gasp. Tom drops his fork. They shout, “You’ve never been to a pub?!”
ON THE WALK up St. Giles, Maggie informs me, “Pubs are like churches here.”
“Right,” Charlie replies. “Except we consider them sacred and attend them religiously.” Then he pulls open the old, beaten-to-hell door of the Eagle and Child.
The Eagle and Freaking Child. This isn’t just a pub, this is the legendary watering hole that hosted the Inklings, an informal assemblage of writers including J. R. R. Tolkein and Magdalen’s own C. S. Lewis. I get a chill when I walk through the door. I turn to share the moment with my companions, but they’re already halfway to the bar, immune to the ghosts of history.
The pub has beams that make the ceiling head-bumpingly low in places. Tom stands with his head at a constant tilt, unbothered. Rooms lead to other rooms, which grow progressively smaller, like caverns in a cave system. It smells like hops and rain.
Charlie turns to me, taking me by surprise. “Tipple, darling?”
I come back to reality. “Yes! Cider!”
He shakes his head. “Save your cider for Old Rosie at the Turf.”
“Then a Grey Goose dirty martini, straight up, three olives.”
Charlie attempts a kindly face. He fails. “This isn’t a bar. It’s a pub.” He turns away from me, leans in to the burly bartender, and says, “Gin and tonic for the missus.”
We take our drinks over to Maggie and Tom, already halfway through their pints of thick black beer. Charlie waves at someone, his hand brushing the ceiling. I go up on my toes to see above the crowd.
Oh.
Cecelia.
I quickly scan the group she’s with and ascertain that Davenport isn’t among them. Surprising.
“Cecelia wants us to join her. Shall we?” Charlie asks, but is already walking over. Tom, seeing where we’re headed, waves enthusiastically at Cecelia, as if welcoming a soldier home from war. She gives him a princessy three-fingered wave back.
As we approach the table, it occurs to me that Davenport could actually be here somewhere. At the bar, or in the bathroom. But Cecelia is making introductions and I force myself to pay attention. “This is Ahmed,” she says, indicating a suave-looking guy with a pencil-thin mustache who gives us a cheeky salute. “His father’s the Jordanian ambassador.” Seems like unnecessary information, but no one else blinks. Ahmed puts his finger to his lips—shhh—and pretends to hide his beer. I smile at him. Cecelia then turns to a ridiculously hot guy sitting next to him, who I realize is Charlie’s rower. “And this is my second cousin Ridley,” Cecelia says, smiling. Of course they’re related. Gorgeousness this obvious can’t be coincidental.
Charlie elbows me and breathes into my ear, “When our children ask me, ‘Funny Daddy, where did you meet Pretty Daddy?’ I shall answer, ‘Why, the back room of the Bird and Baby, of course.’”
“And this,” Cecelia continues, gesturing to a guy slouched over at the end of the bench like a zombie, “is Ian.”
Ian rouses himself enough to say, “Ian is arse over tits, at the moment.” He gives us a smile that reminds me of one of Dalí’s melting clocks. Then his half-lidded gaze finds me. “An’ who’s this?” He leers.
Cecelia brushes the hair back from her face as if she is being photographed. “This is Emma.”
“Ella, actually.”
“Of course,” she says, not even glancing at me. “And this is Charlie, Maggie, and Tom.”
“Please, join us,” Ahmed says gallantly, sweeping his arm at the table. They’re collected around an L-shaped banquette with two chairs opposite the long side.
“I’ve been saving this spot for you all night!” Ian slurs, patting the space next to him on the bench, looking, unfortunately, right at me.
Charlie doesn’t waste a second, hopping into the chair directly across from Ridley, as if joining him in a scull. Tom takes the chair next to Charlie, hoping that his newest “friend,” Cecelia, places herself next to him on the short side of the banquette. No dice. She takes Maggie’s arm and, in a very girlfriendy way, slides to the far side of the bench, pulling Maggie in after her, placing Maggie between Tom and herself.
And then there was one.
There’s one spot left and its occupant has been preordained by Drunk Ian, who crawls out of the booth. “Ladies in the middle,” he slurs. Reluctantly, I slide in next to Ridley, and Ian follows me in, already a bit too close for comfort.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Apparently that one word is enough to give me away. “A Yank!” Ian exclaims.
Ahmed leans around Ridley and addresses me. “Are you a Rhodes scholar, then?”
“That obvious?” I laugh.
He smiles tightly. “Always nice to have a Rhodie at the table.”
He’s saying the exact opposite of what he means. His father may be an ambassador, but Ahmed’s diplomacy could use some work.
“I’m honestly curious.” I shrug, wanting to play nice. “What exactly is the ‘Rhodie’ reputation here in Oxford?”
Before anyone can answer, Ian comes to life. “Bloody insufferable,” he yells. “They think they’re the cleverestest blokes in the room, but they can’t wipe their own arse without a manual.”
Silence.
“They’re also loud!” Ian shouts.
Cecelia clears her throat. “I think what Ian is trying to say—quite poorly—is that Rhodes scholars are often selected for their academic achievement and professional drive. However, once here, they can have a difficult time adjusting to the freedom from structure that Oxford affords.” She gazes calmly at me. “They don’t know what to do with the rather significant amount of time between classes, the lack of syllabi, and such.” She affords me a small smile. “Also, they often seem quite overwhelmed by the, shall we say, unorthodox relationships that can often occur between student and tutor.”
I stare levelly back at her. Her face is a mask. I can’t tell if she’s judging me, if she’s implying something about what she thinks she witnessed between Davenport and me a few hours ago, or if she’s just being her.
“And they can’t drink for shite,” Ian sneers. “The gravest fault of all.”
Charlie perks up. “Then we shall put our dear Ella to the test. Time for one of our infamous British drinking games.” He looks at me, and gives a wink.
I nod, happy to move on from the subject of my Rhodie shortcomings.
“A shame Jamie couldn’t come tonight.” Cecelia sighs. “He so loves a good drinking game.”
Pray tell, “Ce,” what else does he love? Whatever. At least I know he’s not going to suddenly pop out of the bathroom. I can relax.
A hand plops onto my thigh. I jerk, whipping murderous eyes to Ian, who withdraws his hand as if he’s touched a stovetop.
“Sorry! Jus’ trying to get your attention. I have a question for you, an immensely important one. Ready?” He gets serious, even though his eyes are floating in two different directions. “Do you go left or right?”
“What? I don’t—”
“Your political leanings. What are they?”
Here we go.
CHRIST ALMIGHTY, THESE people can drink.
I’m a good drinker, I can hold my own. Still, I’ve had to sit out the last few rounds of Fuzzy Duck (deceptively innocent name) because I need to, you know, not die tonight. Ian, on the other hand, somehow gets drunker. He’ll start talking to me, then forget why he started talking to me, go silent for a few minutes, and then start up again. It’s excruciating. He also creeps closer to me every time he speaks.
Ian aside, I look around the table and find myself smiling. Maggie is red-cheeked and laughing, Tom’s asleep with his head on the table and arms dangling down like a little kid. Cecelia is smiling. Charlie continues to work his magic on Ridley. He’s a master. He’s rigged the game so Rower Boy has to pour the shot into Charlie’s mouth every time he “loses.”
I’m at that place where I either need to drink more or I need to leave. It’s the point-of-no-return portion of the evening.
“You completely misunderstooded me,” Ian exhales onto the side of my face.
He’s referring to the last fragment of conversation he doled out. I answer him in the hopes of shutting him up. “I understooded you perfectly. You’re saying Americans are stupid. I get it.”
“It’s your disdain for intellectualism, your narrow-minded ignorance, your . . . your . . . your—”
Ridley leans across me. “You’re pissed, Ian, go home.”
Ian gets closer to my face, barreling on, “Your obliviousness to the imminent demise of your arrogant empire.”
“Well,” I say before I can stop myself, “if anyone’s an expert on dead empires, it would be you guys.”
While Ridley laughs, Ian takes the comment personally. “And you’ll end up just like us, bloody irrelephant!” The table goes quiet. He seems to sense, through his drunken haze, that he’s misstepped. He tries to regain some dignity by laughing at his malapropism. “Irrelephant! Now you’ve gone and done it, ol’ boy. Tusk, tusk.” He bursts out laughing and everyone relaxes. But then he drops his hand on my shoulder. “Ah, let’s not fight.” His tone turns intimate and he moves closer. “Let’s kiss and make up.” He leans in, and I turn fully to face him, hoping to scare him with my eyes, bracing my back against Ridley’s strong shoulder and arm.
In my deadliest tone, I say, simply, “Don’t.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Ah, come now, let’s be friends! We love our Yanks here. Don’t we?” he spews to the table. Then, back to me, “Especially a tasty bit like you.” I stare at him, recognition niggling. Tasty bit. Realization hits me: he was the drunk guy from the street the other night. Oi, that’s a tasty bit. Instantly, my skin begins to crawl.
Before I can say something, Ian puts his hand on mine, leans in, and murmurs, “I, especially, love a good . . . Yank.”
Of its own volition, my right hand sails through the air and clocks Ian right on his smug little chin. I was aiming for a push back hit, but it ends up decking him.
Whoops.
The spectators gasp and Ian’s head flops back. I think I knocked him out. Everything freezes. All eyes turn to me. Somebody do something. Somebody say something. Please. Help.
Charlie obliges. “I say, I haven’t seen a right hook like that since Lennox ‘The Lion’ Lewis dropped Rahman in the rematch! Brava!” I have no idea what Charlie is talking about, but it breaks the ice. Everyone suddenly cheers.
“My dad, actually,” I murmur, “taught me how to—I—I’m just gonna . . .” I start crawling over Ian.
Tom’s eyes bug. “Wait. Your dad’s Lennox Lewis?” But I’m up and moving toward the exit.
I hear Maggie sigh behind me. “Lennox Lewis is black, Tom!”
“Well, duh, Mags! I just didn’t know Ella was!”
As Maggie and Charlie start in on him, I push through the front door and out into the night.
