Oxford, England
October 2012

All the pretty people

With one more flourish than strictly necessary, Ken brings the motorbike to a halt. After he's cut the engine and stabilised the machine, I swing my right leg over the back of it, so that I am standing on reassuringly stable pavement.

I take a moment to free myself from the helmet without accidentally tearing out a chunk of hair, while Ken simply moves his visor up.

"Shall I pick you up in two hours?" His voice is somewhat muffled.

"Sounds good." I smile at him, allowing him to take my helmet and store it in the box above the fuel tank. It means there won't be any more space for his own later on, but I suspect he's just going to leave it with the agents who are, as ever, faithfully following him around in a not very inconspicuous car.

With Ken's helmet and the general publicness of the place preventing a farewell kiss, I instead touch his shoulder. In turn, he reaches up to squeeze my hand, though the heavy glove he's wearing makes it rather difficult.

"See you later." His eyes crinkle into a smile, before he disappears behind his mirrored visor again and starts up the bike.

As he speeds off, I turn towards the modern Manor Road Building where most of our lectures and seminars are held. It's somewhat to the east of most other university buildings, which is why it's always a bit faster when Ken takes me on his motorbike. When he can't do it, I just take my trusty un-motorised bike instead, the kind his PPOs don't like him to use because apparently, it makes him 'vulnerable'. (No, I don't know either. I've long given up trying to figure out the reasoning behind their various rules.)

Near the entrance of the building, I spot Ginny, Holly and Tammy who are watching me with interest. When they see me looking, Ginny raises a hand to wave me over.

I have to admit that when I came here for my very first lecture, I was pretty nervous. I stuck close to Ken during matriculation, but for the lectures, I knew I was on my own. I've always made friends easily wherever I went, but it struck me the evening before that this time around, I would be at a disadvantage, because I've discovered that almost every person I encounter has heard something about me. Whereas to me, they're all perfect strangers. It's a bit of a disconcerting feeling.

Luckily, on setting foot in the seminar room on the first day, I was immediately waved over by Ginny, as she's doing right now, and invited to sit with her and her two friends. Of course, it was immediately clear that they knew me, but they didn't make a big deal out of it. Instead, they allowed me to sit and listen to their chattering, and I'd be lying if I claimed not to have felt relieved.

Over the subsequent week and a half, I learned a bit more about them (Ginny hails from the London district of Islington, Holly not-so-secretly wants to be fashion photographer and Tammy is allergic to peanuts), which evens the score a little. We sit together in lectures and seminars and have even grabbed lunch together twice. It's not nearly on par with the closeness I share with my New Yorker friends, but it's nice to have a group to belong to.

"That motorbike is hot," declares Tammy once I am within earshot.

I grimace a little. "I'd be happier if it only drove half as fast."

"Likes to ride it hard, does he?" asks Holly and wiggles her eyebrows.

Rolling my eyes, I wave the question aside, but when the other three laugh, I allow myself a smile as well.

"He tends to go a little faster than I feel strictly comfortable with, especially when outside town," I clarify once the laughter has died down.

"Which is also hot," adds Tammy.

Her tone leaves little room for argument, so I just shrug. "Yes, maybe."

Tammy smiles triumphantly and high-fives Holly, while Ginny loops her arm through mine and pulls me along. Behind us, Tammy and Holly continue to debate the hotness of men on motorbikes.

(Briefly, I wonder whether I should weigh in and steer them towards men in uniform, but they seem well-occupied at the moment and anyway, it's not a subject that comes with a sell-by date.)

"Ugh, I'm really not in the mood for any more statistics," Ginny complains, pushing her lower lip forward in a pout.

She's not completely wrong either. Our curriculum this semester consists of Statistical Methods, Qualitative Methods and Sociological Analysis, which… isn't exactly what I had in mind when I signed up for this. I don't mind having a bit of maths involved, but I thought we'd be doing mildly more exciting stuff.

Pushing open the front door to the building, I hold it long enough for Tammy to catch. "Don't we have orientation sometime next month about which optional courses to take?" I wonder aloud.

Ginny nods. "Yes, in week five. I still think they could have distributed the interesting courses a little more evenly though."

"That would have been nice," I agree.

Turning towards the stairs, we begin our ascent to the second floor where they've amassed most of the seminar rooms.

"…leather jacket and jeans. None of those weird biker trousers for me," argues Holly behind us.

"But proper leather trousers are so sexy!" exclaims Tammy

(I've got half a mind to start them on the uniforms after all, if only for a little variety.)

Ginny nudges me with her elbow and whispers conspiratorially, "So, would we find a secret collection of leather trousers in his closet?"

Laughing, I shake my head. "He has proper biker gear for longer rides, but no normal leather trousers for off-duty wear."

"Imagine the pearl-clutching if he were to appear in a pair on-duty," remarks Ginny, grinning at the thought.

The press would certainly have a field day. The outrage would likely only be surpassed if I turned up in a pair of leather trousers on my own. It'd play right into the hands of some of those rags that have been trying their best to paint me as a bit of a Jezebel.

"I don't think the palace would allow it," I reply casually. "They already give him notes on what to wear as it is."

"Like he can't dress himself!" scoffs Ginny.

I nod. "Quite."

We've reached seminar room E, which is one of the smaller ones and just about holds the 25 people that makes up the entire intake for our year. We're still taught all together in Michaelmas term, with the exception of tutorials. It's only when we add optional courses come Hillary term that we'll diverge more.

Prof Schmitt is already in the room, so we hurry to slip inside and find some seats. Holly and Tammy even shut up about leather trousers, which, frankly, was not before time. It's not like there's much you can say about them anyway, is there?

"Textbooks out," calls Prod Schmitt over the general noise of the class. Moments later, the chatter is replaced by the rustle of bags as we all reach for our statistics textbooks.

With a long-suffering sigh, Ginny places her copy of Statistical Methods for the Social Sciences on the table next to mine. It's only our third lecture on the subject and she already appears to be pretty over it. I don't think it's that she doesn't get it – she won a place at Oxford after all, so she can't be lacking in brains – it just seems to bore her.

(On my other side, Holly and Tammy are locked in a whispered discussion about whether it's still acceptable to wear a leather dress when you're a size 12. Given that they're obviously talking a UK 12, this would be a… 8 in real sizes, I think.)

At the front of the class, Prof Schmitt starts talking about mean and median and mode, causing me to flip through my book in search of the chapter he's talking about. If I remember correctly from bygone maths classes, those ought to be descriptive statistics, right?

I've just found what I'm looking for (they are, indeed, descriptive statistics), when Ginny nudges me in the side.

"Look at the teacher's pets scribbling away," she mutters, nodding towards the front of the class, where, indeed, a group of students diligently write down what Prof Schmitt is saying.

I was just about to start taking notes myself, but slowly lower my pen again. "Yes, look at them," I murmur back.

With a grin and an eye roll, Ginny rocks back in her chair, demonstratively folding her hands behind her head.

Instead of the pen, I take up a pencil and lightly underline some sentences in the chapter that seem to align with what Prof Schmitt is talking about. I can always work through it properly later on.

Prof Schmitt continues to talk about descriptive statistics for the next hour. I jot down some notes when I notice Holly and Tammy doing the same, but Ginny doesn't pick up a pen for the entire lecture. I've already noticed that she never takes notes, but it's still a little disconcerting to have someone just sitting there, doing nothing.

When the hour of lecturing is finally over, we move on to the IT Lab for what is called a 'hands-on class'. It basically puts us in front of computers and has us try to get a program called Stata to do what Prof Schmitt talked about in the lecture beforehand. It's complicated by the fact that the program itself doesn't look any less intimidating than it did on the first day and my measly notes don't help much in making progress.

Beside me, Ginny lazily does some clicks and her computer actually starts spouting off results.

"How did you do that?" demands Tammy and I send her silent thanks. I wouldn't mind an explanation either.

Ginny just waves her hand. "Oh, I just did what he told us to do," she declares airily.

Holly points at her computer screen. "Come on, show us!"

Heaving a sigh, Ginny gets up to do whatever she did on Holly's computer as well, but at such a speed that I catch maybe half of it. Something else to look up at home, I guess.

As the hour-long hands-on class finally winds to a close, there's a distinct feeling of relief washing over me. This is neither as easy as Ginny makes it out to be nor particularly interesting. Or economical, come to think of it. I'm much faster determining mean age or size with a simple calculator than with this weird program.

With five minutes left on the clock, most of us start getting restless, sliding our stuff back into our bags and shifting on our seats. Obviously I'm not the only one ready for this to be over.

"Before you leave," Prof Schmitt interjects, "I will upload the first of your three take-home assignments later today. It will be marked, but not count towards your final grade. Group work is permitted. See you on Friday." He dismisses us with a motion of one hand.

It's just as well because his announcement immediately leads to animated discussions in the room. Once you add in the rustle of bags being packed and chairs being scraped back, the noise level rises sharply.

When we've left the room and started walking along the corridor, Ginny turns towards me with a smile. "Let's work on it together!"

It's not actually a question, but it's not like I would have said no anyway. I can only benefit from doing this with Ginny.

"All four of us together," chimes in Tammy, who's obviously had a similar thought.

Ginny nods generously. "Of course all four together."

I take a look at my watch. It's just past noon. "We could get started today, if you're free?"

"We are," answers Ginny, without so much as a look at the other two. (In fairness, I've never seen them do anything without her, so she probably is aware of their plans.)

Holly grimaces at the thought, but nods anyway. "Where do we meet?"

"One of our rooms," suggests Tammy. "Or else, the MCR?"

The MCR is, I think, the Middle Common Room of a college and is reserved for use of graduate students. Ginny, Holly and Tammy are all at St. John's College, which claims to be the wealthiest of them all.

I don't get a chance to confirm though, because Ginny clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "The bedrooms are too small for four people and the common room is too loud," she decides.

"Maybe the library?" Holly adds cautiously.

"It's no good for group projects. If you talk too loud, they are liable to throw you out," reminds Ginny.

When no other idea is forthcoming, she turns her eyes on me. "Where do you live?"

For the briefest of moments, I feel myself hesitating, but then remember that it's foolish. It's not like our address is a big secret or anything. The paparazzi are certainly very aware of it.

"We're renting a house in Jericho," I reply, shaking off the irrational distrust.

A slow smile unfurls on Ginny's face. "Excellent! Quiet and roomy. Let's meet there."

At this, I hesitate again, but this time, it's well-founded. "I don't know…"

We've reached the top of the stairs, but instead of going down, Ginny stops to look at me closely. "Why are you being all secretive?"

"I'm not," I hurry to assure her. "It's just… I have to ask first."

Ginny raises a well-plucked eyebrow. "You have to ask his permission to invite someone over?" Her voice is incredulous and somewhat sceptical, with undertones of something that I can't quite put my finger on.

(Holly and Tammy just turn their heads from Ginny to me and back, like spectators in a tennis game.)

"I don't need his permission!" I clarify, feeling a tad annoyed at the suggestion. "It's a security issue."

"A security issue? What do they think we'd do?" asks Ginny coolly. When she glances at them, the other two immediately nod to back her up.

"Nothing at all. It's just procedures," I try to soothe her, taking a deep breath. "Look, I don't make the rules. I just…"

"Follow them?" finishes Ginny for me.

Yes. I don't make the rules, I just follow them.

"I could talk to him," I suggest slowly. "He should be downstairs, waiting to pick me up."

Ginny cocks her head to the side and considers me for a moment. "Well, what are we waiting for?" she wants to know.

Looping her arm through mine, she pulls me down the stairs and towards the exit. Holly and Tammy follow behind us and I think I can hear Tammy murmuring, "Do you think he's on the bike again?" But Holly shushes her and I decide to leave it at that.

Ken is, indeed, already waiting on the other side of the street and he is, indeed, sitting on the bike again. His visor is down, but from the looks they throw his way, more than a few passing students have an idea who he is.

Disentangling myself from Ginny and pushing the left strap of my backpack further up my shoulder, I cross the street and walk towards Ken. (I must stress that it is a very cute crème-coloured little backpack and not one of these ugly monstrosities that far too many people think nothing of hoisting on their backs.)

As he sees me coming nearer, Ken opens the visor. From the way his eyes crinkle, I know he's smiling. "How were classes?" he asks, the helmet muffling the words a little.

"Good, good," I lie, before pointing at the other three waiting in front of the building. "Do you think it'd be possible for me to invite them over tonight? We have to do a group project."

There's not a second of hesitation as Ken answers, "Sure, no problem."

I frown, confused. "Just like that?"

He laughs a muffled laugh. "Why not?"

"What about security?" I ask, feeling my frown deepen. "Don't they have to be vetted or something?"

Ken reaches out a gloved hand to touch my arm reassuringly. "It's fine. Don't worry. Invite them over."

I'm tempted to do just that, but there's something in his answer that makes me pause. It takes me a second or two to realise it's that he didn't actually deny that they need to be vetted. Which can only mean that…

"You did not have all my classmates vetted in advance, did you?" Scrutinising him through narrowed eyes, I try to read his expression, half-hidden by the helmet as it is.

"I didn't vet anyone," he replies, but let's be honest, that's just another attempt at evasion.

"Your hitmen, then," I amend. "And they did, didn't they? Is that even legal?"

Ken shrugs. "It was regarded as a precautionary measure. And it's not like they'll ever have to know."

"But it's still… isn't it violating their privacy or something?" I argue. "Especially because it doesn't make sense either. They're my classmates, not yours."

Before he answers, Ken pulls off his helmet. He looks a little dishevelled and I have to resist the urge to reach out to smooth down his hair.

"Yes, they are your classmates and I suspected that before long, you'd like to invite some of them," he explains, sounding as sincere as he looks. "I just didn't want you to feel like you have to ask for permission every time you bring someone over. It seemed easier to do a quick vetting in advance than for you to have to extend all invites days before the actual visit in order to allow for the vetting to be done."

That… that actually makes sense, doesn't it? It's quite thoughtful of him, too. (If at the expense of my unsuspecting classmates' privacy.)

"I guess… I guess that's a fairly good explanation," I admit reluctantly.

Ken smiles. "I'm glad you think so. Now, do you want to invite them or not?"

I nod. "I do. I'll be back in a second."

Crossing the street back to where Ginny and the others are, I announce, "It's no problem. Do you want to come by at six? I can message you the address."

"Are you sure it's not a problem?" asks Ginny, considering me with interest. "You seemed to have had a bit of a discussion just there."

"It's nothing and I'm sure," I tell her quickly and muster a smile. "Is six good for you?"

"Should be doable," agrees Ginny for all three of them.

"Great. See you then!" With which words I raise my hand in a wave and hurry back over to the other side of the street, where Ken has pulled on his helmet again and holds out mine for me to take.

We make it home in a few minutes, which is just as well because it's already past three and I still need to tidy up the house. It's my first time having guests over and even though it's just Ginny and the girls, I still want them to have a good impression. (Grandmother Marilla would be proud of me, I'm sure.)

My sudden domestic activity amuses Ken quite a bit, because he hovers in doorways watching me put away stuff and wipe visible surfaces, a grin ever present on his face. I throw a wet rag at him, but it doesn't do much to deter him, just leaves dirty water splattered all over the floor. Naturally, I make him wipe it away, because obviously it's his fault it happened at all, right? Also, if he's helping, he can't hover and grin anymore, so that's two birds with one stone.

(Originally, Ken planned to have one of the palace staff come up twice a week to do our cleaning, but when I advocated for privacy, he was only too ready to change his mind. Besides, I think he noticed that the idea of having royal staff clean up after me made me feel uncomfortable. Doing the cleaning myself means more work, but I prefer it this way. And since we've discovered that Ken is good with a vacuum cleaner, he's been drafted in to help as well.)

By the time six o'clock rolls around, the house is in a presentable state and Ken has been waved off to the pub to meet up with some classmates of his own, so he won't be getting underfoot.

It's a few minutes after six when the doorbell rings insistently and it's indeed Ginny, Holly and Tammy standing on the other side of the door. (Butcher hovers behind them on the driveway, ready to intervene at moment's notice, but I quickly signal for him to withdraw and thankfully, he does.)

"This is quite a house," remarks Ginny, letting her gaze roam as she steps inside. Tammy, following her, whistles appreciatively.

"It's pretty great," I agree with a smile, pointing them through to the dining area.

Dusk is falling outside, which creates the beautiful effect of a still bright blue sky against the already darkening surroundings. The room's many windows allow for a quite spectacular view of it. (They're also the reasons why I love to be in here during thunderstorms. It's a great place do some lightning spotting.)

"Absolutely gorgeous," declares Holly. "Did it come furnished?"

"No, actually not," I answer, while inviting them to sit at the dining table with wave of my hand. "One of Ken's assistants did most of the legwork in getting the furniture together before I arrived in England, but she consulted with me about what I preferred. It was a team effort."

In fact, Melissa had lots of fun with the decorating. She created a pinterest page for design ideas, sent me several emails a day with pictures of furniture and at least three parcels with colour swatches. Not even my vague responses deterred her, which impressed me enough that I passed her on to Nan in the end. Not only did they seem to get along exceptionally well, they also collaborated to create a beautiful home for us. That was the true team effort, but in my defence, I helped by getting them in touch.

"Where is Ken?" asks Ginny. "Is he around?"

(The nickname is a little odd, coming from her, since she doesn't even know him, but I suppose it would have been even odder if she had used his title.)

"No, he's out to meet some classmates at a pub. I promise we have all the space and quiet we need." I finish the sentence with a smile, but there's obvious disappointment flickering over their faces. I'm not even blaming them either. I reckon meeting a prince would have been quite a big thing for them.

"Next time, then," remarks Ginny casually, her features already back under control. Both Holly and Tammy take a little longer, but end up returning my smile as well.

Nodding towards the kitchen, I ask, "Can I offer you anything before we start? Tea, maybe?" (We are in England after all and you bet Mum gave me a lecture on how people in England drink tea. I was just grateful she didn't bust out any charts.)

"Coffee, please," answers Holly.

Tammy nods her agreement. "Milk, no sugar."

(So not all people in England drink tea. I need to talk to Mum about this.)

"Chai Latte for me," adds Ginny.

"I don't think we have any here," I admit, frowning in thought.

"Oh." For a moment, Ginny lets that hang, before relenting. "A mocaccino, then?"

Turning towards the kitchen, I cast a dubious look at Ken's gleaming coffee machine. It has more buttons and levers than an Apollo spacecraft and to say that it and I are not the best of friends would be an understatement.

"I can try that." But I don't sound convinced even to my own ears.

Apparently, Ginny isn't confident of my success either. "No, it's fine. Make that a normal coffee," she amends.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I can do normal coffee. (At least I'm reasonably sure I can.)

Surprisingly, I manage to get the machine to produce a coffee for each of us without it starting to chide me with beeps and blinking lights (it does a good R2D2 impression when agitated), or spewing boiling liquid all over the kitchen. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I return to the table where the other three have already set up their books and notes and notebooks.

Sitting down opposite Ginny, I open my own laptop and pull my textbook closer. "Well, then. Let's get started. Does anyone have any idea what this is about?"


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Like a Rolling Stone' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1965).


To Guest:
I promise I haven't forgotten George and neither has Rilla :). We will soon learn more about where he is and what he is doing.

To Teresa:
I remember your comment! In fact, I sporadically wondered whether you were still reading or if my story had put you off modern AUs for all eternity ;). That's why I'm very glad to hear from you again and doubly glad your are still reading and still enjoying this! (Of course, your lovely words are not hurting either - they're a balm to any writer's soul!) I also absolutely agree with you about being thrilled to finally have moved this show over the pond. I have been impatient about this for the last couple of months! I have some fun storylines coming up and I hope you will enjoy them. And if, from time to time, you might fell an urge to pop in to tell me that you're still reading and enjoying, the writer's soul won't say no to that either ;).