Oxford, England
April 2013
The young men who move in your circle
Beckett looks up when I stop my bike next to him. "Good evening, Miss," he greets politely.
"Hello," I reply, before nodding in direction of the house. "Are his guests still there?"
"They are, Miss," confirms Beckett.
Humming thoughtfully, I look at the house for a moment or two, then give myself a mental push. "Better go and meet them," I declare brightly.
"Certainly, Miss," agrees Beckett evenly. (Sometimes, I feel tempted to poke him or pull his hair or something, just to find out whether he's actually human. I can't say I'd be too surprised if the turned out to be a droid.)
Feeling I should say something in parting, I settle on a somewhat awkward, "Well… have a nice evening, then."
Beckett inclines his head. "You, too, Miss." If he picked up on the fact that I just wished him a nice evening despite him spending said evening standing on the street in front of our house, he does not show it. But then, Beckett rarely ever shows what he is thinking. (Definitely droid, I'm telling you. At least some kind of weird hybrid!)
Leaving Beckett behind, I push my bike up the short driveway and lean it against the low wall to my left. I'm secretly quite glad to no longer be riding it. My shoes are very pretty (dark green and strappy), but also arguably too high to safely ride a bike in. It's a bit of a relief that I managed to make it home in one piece, to be honest.
Upon reaching the front door, I briefly consider ringing the bell, if only out of laziness, but then decide against it and fish the keys out of my little evening bag. The door is, as ever when Ken's in, not properly locked (the easier for the PPOs to storm the house, should it prove necessary), so I just need to turn the key once to move the latch back and the door swings open.
As I shrug out of my jacket, I'm still undecided whether to call out to alert the inhabitants to my presence or just go upstairs. The decision is taken from me when, seconds later, I hear familiar footsteps coming closer, followed by Ken appearing in the hall.
"You're back," he states – quite unnecessarily – and smiles.
"So I am," I confirm. Out of habit, I turn to hang my jacket from the hall stand, but find it already well-occupied. I count at least five unfamiliar-to-me jackets.
Ken has followed my gaze. "They're still here," he remarks, stretching out a hand to take my jacket from me.
"I know. Your bodyguard said," I inform him. I brace my one hand against the wall, balancing first on one leg and then on the other to take off my shoes.
"Don't let him hear you call him that," warns Ken, but he's grinning as he says it.
I shrug and grin back at him. "I'm unconvinced anything would actually happen. I've never seen that man loose his cool."
"Nor I," acknowledges Ken, inclining his head to show that he's accepting my point.
As I carefully place my shoes in a corner (they're new, after all), Ken hangs my jacket over the back of a chair that is otherwise just uselessly standing in the hall. This accomplished, he looks back at me. "So…" He trails off.
"So…?" I mimic, even though I have a pretty good idea what he means to say.
"So they're still here," he elaborates. "And they'd like to meet you. Are you up for it? If not, we can sneak you upstairs and I'll tell them to live with it."
I shake my head. "No, let's meet them. Or re-meet, I should say. Haven't I met some of them at the godawful engagement party last year?"
No clarification needed as to which 'godawful engagement party' I mean.
"You have." A pause, as Ken looks at me with something akin to surprise. "I didn't realise you remembered them."
"I don't," I reply, giving him a wide smile and brushing past him towards the dining room.
I really don't remember most of them. All those people I was introduced to at that party kind of started to run together pretty quickly. I really only remember those that made themselves memorable by being nasty. Anyone would be hard-pressed to forget a Vera Lloyd, even if, I'm sure, there are many people out there who would very much like to forget her, thanks a bunch. Memorable as Vera is, I hardly remember any of the other women I met and of the men, I really only recall Steve and Airedale-obsessed Giles. I wager a guess that the latter is not likely to be present tonight. (Just as well, too. I'm unsure what George would do to an Airedale-obsessed person, but whatever he would do, I'm confident I'd do little to stop him.)
Feeling Ken's presence close behind me, I step into the dining area. There are five men sitting at the table, just as there were five unfamiliar jackets hanging outside. All five of them – the men, not the jackets – are turned towards me, watching me with apparent curiosity.
"Good evening, gentlemen," I greet them, tilting my chin up in an attempt to exude more confidence than I truly feel.
No sooner have I uttered the words than one of them jumps to his feet. At second glance, I recognise Steve Broderick. Somewhat bemused, I observe him rushing over to stand in front of me.
Reaching out to grasp one of my hands, he declares, "I must offer my sincerest apologies! Can you forgive me?"
"Um…" My first impulse is to turn to look at Ken, but I suppress it. I don't want to appear needy or insipid.
"For how you were treated while a guest in our house," clarifies Steve as he releases my hand. "I failed to notice at the time, but Fiona alerted me to it. It is utterly inexcusable, but I hope you will nevertheless forgive me. Name your price!"
Price?
"There… there is no price," I assure him (partly because I'm not yet ready to say that there's nothing to forgive). "It's okay. I mean… I'm still here, right?"
By which I mean to say that it didn't kill me and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger and all that, but Steve obviously misunderstand spectacularly. "And thank goodness for that! I never would have forgiven myself if a weekend spent in my home had contributed to the demise of your relationship." He looks genuinely stricken at the thought.
It hits a little too close to home for me – and not only for me. Behind me, I can hear Ken make a sound that is too unthreatening to be a warning but clearly meant to remind Steve of… something. Some kind of pre-agreed code of conduct, probably. (The mere thought makes me want to roll my eyes.)
Though whatever it is that he meant to communicate to Steve, it completely goes over the latter's head anyway, for he continues blithely, "I owe Ken far too much to play any part in chasing away his girlfriend."
"Really?" I ask, starting to feel amused. "Why do you owe him?"
"I never would have passed Latin at Eton if he hadn't helped," Steve announces with great conviction. "Nor French." He pauses, pondering. "Or maths, come to think of it."
"What Stevie is trying to say is that Ken had a distinct part in him getting his GSCEs," chimes in another of the men from where they're seated at the table.
Steve, bless him, nods to back that up and adds brightly, "And A-levels as well." (Whatever his failings, false pride certainly isn't one of them.)
"Yes, thank you, Steve, Mark." It's Ken's voice from behind me, sounding the tiniest bit irritated.
I, however, chose to ignore him, instead focusing on the man who is obviously Mark. "I've heard about you," I tell him.
"Likewise," he responds, tipping his head slightly.
Hmm. So they've been talking about me, yes?
I consider protesting, but Ken seems to sense my thoughts before I can voice them out loud. "Only good things," he promises, laughter in his voice.
Placing a hand on the small of my back, he guides me forward towards the table, but I make a point to shake off his touch. Instead, I approach the man called Mark and offer him my own hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine," he replies, standing up and briefly clasping my fingers.
"And mine!" announces one of the hitherto silent men, loudly scraping his chair back as he gets up. I watch him curiously as he walks around the table, comes to a stop in front of me and performs a formal bow, never once breaking eye contact.
"I see your form hasn't improved much, Damian" points out Ken drily. Turning my head slightly, I can see him and Mark exchange a grin.
Damian, as I perceive the bowing man to be called, just ignores him. Like his two friends before him, he also seizes my hand, but unlike they did, he bends to gallantly kiss the back of it before I have even time to blink.
"My name is Damian," he tells me, straightening. "And I begin to understand why Wales has been hiding you away. Were you mine, I wouldn't introduce you to other men either."
Uh…
"You're the only one I had second thoughts about introducing her to and not for the reasons you think," interjects Ken, deadpan. The other men laugh and I can't help a smile either.
Even Damian, I notice, has mirth dancing in his eyes. He keeps his face perfectly sincere and ardent, but he's no less amused by this than the rest of us are. He's clearly the charismatic one of the group and he's playing up his role, but it's all in good fun. However many women he might otherwise charm on any given evening, there's obviously one of these antiquated men's codes in place that basically makes me untouchable. (Also eye roll-worthy, of course, but I keep my face straight.)
"Thank you," I tell Damian in my most well-mannered voice. Pausing for effect, I then add, sotto voice, "I guess."
He flashes me a wide grin, finally letting go of my hand. "You're most welcome!"
This time, I allow myself a small eye roll, before looking at the remaining two men who are standing next to their chairs. "And you are…?"
"I'm Hugh," answers one of them, raising his hand.
"Hugh," I repeat, committing the name to memory.
He, however, shakes his head. "No. The name's Hugh."
I frown at him, feeling confused. "Hugh, right?"
"It's Hugh," he corrects – or would be correcting if there was anything to correct.
Despite my confusion, I resolutely don't look to Ken for help. When Mark speaks up, I'm still quite grateful for the support. "She's saying it right, Hugh," he remarks. (Indeed pronouncing the name no different than I – or indeed Hugh himself – did.)
"But I can tell that she's spelling it wrong in her head," insists the man who might be called Hugh. Looking closer, I can see that his mouth is twitching, as if he's suppressing a grin, and that's when I realise that he's joking.
I still don't understand what he's on about though, so make a valiant attempt at figuring it out. "There are different ways to spell the name?"
"Certainly!" assures Maybe-Hugh. "There's the bog-standard English way of spelling it H-U-G-H and there's the traditional, beautiful Scottish way of spelling it H-E-W."
Right.
"And I imagine you spell yourself the Scottish way?" I guess. (It would explain his accent, anyway.)
"The only correct way to spell it," affirms Hew-not-Hugh. "It's also not the way Hugh Grant spells his name."
"And bonus points are absolutely awarded for that," I finish for him, nodding gravely.
"Absolutely," agrees Hew, before declaring to no-one in particular, "She gets it!"
Well, I do try.
Turning to the last remaining man, I ask, "Anything I ought to bear in mind when it comes to your name?"
He shakes his head. "I'm Tony," he replies simply, a slight smile on his lips.
Probably not too many ways to spell that one. Though in fairness, before tonight, I didn't know there was another way to spell Hugh either.
"Tony is the brilliant one," Steve informs me sincerely. "He always had the best grades of us and won all the scholarships."
Scholarships? Interesting. That means I might not be the only one in this room with paupers for parents.
"I'm just lucky to have a good memory," Tony demurs quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.
Steve, however, is not to be deterred. "The only subject Tony didn't get the best grades in was PE," he continues thoughtfully. "Hew is the best sportsman of us."
Looking at Hew, I have little trouble believing that. Moving my gaze from him to Damian next to him and then to look at each of the men in turn, I realise that we're all standing somewhat awkwardly around the table, so I quickly invite them to sit, please.
There's some shuffling as everyone sits back down. As we're a chair short, I motion for Ken to scoot back a little and settle myself on his knees. His arm comes up to wrap around my waist and I sense, more than I feel, him briefly kissing the back of my neck.
Reaching out, I pick up glass that I perceive to be Ken's and take a sip of the golden-brown liquid. Whiskey. Instinctively, I wrinkle my nose.
"Do you want some?" As he speaks, Mark is already reaching for the bottle.
I don't have time to decline though, before Ken interjects, very matter-of-factly, "An 18-year-old Lagavulin Feis Ile? Let's not waste it like that."
"Waste it? That's no way to speak about a lady, Wales," chides Damian, looking indignant on my behalf.
He seeks eye contact with me, probably to show that he understands how to treat a lady, but I just laugh it off. "He's not wrong, is the thing. Whiskey is an acquired taste and I never did acquire it."
"Which is why I have a bottle of Petit Mouton waiting on the kitchen counter for you," Ken informs me, a smile in his voice.
Now this is more like it!
I move to stand up, but Tony is faster. "I've got it." He moves over to the kitchen area and, with directions from Ken, pours and brings me a glass of red wine.
(It's excellent red wine, too. One of the reasons I couldn't break up with Ken even if I wanted to is that I'm forever spoiled when it comes to good booze. I can't really see myself going back to the cheap supermarket wine I used to drink.)
Sipping my wine and settling back more comfortably against Ken's chest, I look at the men in front of me and ask, "So, you all know each other from school, right?"
"We all attended Cheam together," replies Mark, nodding.
"Cheam was –" begins Ken.
"– before Eton," I finish. "Yes, I know."
Cheam School was the boarding school Ken was sent to at age eight, shortly after his grandmother died. (Age eight! To a boarding school!) And these here are the friends he made there, or at least the friends had there. I seem to remember that Steve and probably one other friend predate his school days. Either way, it was a friendship forged in the English boarding school system and given how young they were when they essentially left home, I have no trouble understanding why it's a strong one.
"Steve and I were at Eton as well," Mark explains. "Hew attended Gordonstoun, Damian was at Marlborough and Tony went to Harrow."
All, I assume, posh private schools.
"As for university, Steve defected to Newcastle and Damian was at Exeter," continues Mark. "Hew, perhaps wisely, forwent it altogether."
Hew shrugs. "My old man kicked the bucket when I was in sixth form. I had to take over management of our estate up in Scotland."
"Quite a responsibility," I observe.
He shrugs again. "Nothing compared to what Wales will one day have to shoulder. And he doesn't even get to choose his own estate manager!"
Estate manager?
"He means the prime minister," clarifies Ken quietly.
Well. I guess that's a novel way to describe the person running this country.
Taking another sip of wine, I look from Hew to Tony sitting next to him. "What about you?" I ask him, trying to draw him into the conversation. "Which university did you go to?"
"Oxford. Same as Mark and Ken," he replies with a lop-sided smile. "I almost went to Cambridge, but that was frowned upon."
"Rightly so," I decide. If I've learned one thing in my time here it's that you're either a Cambridge or an Oxford person. Apparently, they're mutually exclusive.
"Ah, those were the days." Mark sounds a little wistful. "It's nice coming back though. Revives all those memories."
Ken laughs softly. "We did have some fun, didn't we?"
"Past tense?" asks Damian with a grin. "Not living it up anymore then, Wales?"
"Not so much," answers Ken, still chuckling. "I've found that I'm a little old for the all night partying by now."
"Well, you will be thirty next year," I chime in helpfully, turning to him with my most innocent smile.
In response, Ken taps my nose once. "I can live vicariously through you," he points out, before adding, louder, "Rilla has a group of friends that make sure she doesn't miss any Oxford traditions. They took her to cheese floor tonight."
"Oh God!" groans Mark. Turning to me, he asks, "Was it awful?"
"Terrible," I answer brightly and toast that fact with some more wine.
"Was the cheese not good?" wonders Steve, his brows knitted into a frown.
Giggling, I shake my head. "No. No, that's not… cheese floor isn't about cheese. Not of the edible kind, anyway."
Steve looks no less confused.
"There's this nightclub, Atik, also called Park End," explains Mark. "They have a dancefloor where they play awful, terrible, cheesy pop music. That's cheese floor."
"It's horrible," agrees Ken, clearly amused.
"But cult," amends Tony with a grin and a shrug.
Mark nods. "Very cultish. Same as the bop."
"The bop?" repeats Hew questioningly.
"Bops are essentially in-house parties held in the bars of various colleges," replies Tony. "They can get quite…" He trails off, searching for the right word.
"Memorable," finishes Ken for him, the emphasis clearly indicating that he has quite a few memories of bops during his first time at Oxford.
I must remember to ask him later!
For now though, I simply tell Hew, "I don't know about other colleges, but at Oriel, bop nights usually include fancy dress. Adds to the craziness of the thing, I guess."
"You would make a beautiful Cinderella," declares Damian earnestly.
I snort. "Over my dead body! Besides, I'm more of an Arielle anyway." This, indicating my red hair. "Or a Merida. At least Merida is a character Joy can approve of."
"Who's Joy?" asks Steve, scrunching up his face is if trying to remember if he's ever encountered a Joy somewhere.
"My sister," I answer. "I corrupted her daughter with Disney movies, which Joy is not well-pleased about. She's a lawyer working with abused women and doesn't much care for most of Disney's messages."
My statement is met with a mixture of polite nods and baffled glances. Clearly, these men are not well-versed in all things Disney.
Watching them over the rim of my wine glass, I briefly consider elaborating, but don't get the chance to, because Ken nudges my shoulder to get my attention. Turning my head to look at him, I raise an eyebrow questioningly.
"Speaking of lawyers," he begins, "Tony is one. He has a colleague at his law firm who specialises in privacy law. Tony offered to speak to him about your parents' case."
"Would you?" I look back at Tony and smile widely. "That'd be awfully nice!"
"No problem," he assures, seeming a little uncomfortable with the attention.
Luckily for him, Steve draws the general attention to himself when he asks me, "Why do your parents need a lawyer?"
"They don't need one, specifically," I demure. "But they decided to look into sending a legal warning to some of those newspapers that basically accused my family of running the Sinaloa cartel out of our living room."
"I remember that," chimes in Hew. "Your brother got kicked out of college for smoking weed, didn't he?"
No-one at the table appears at all scandalised by that revelation (I even spy Damian nodding in sympathy), but I shake my head anyway. "He wasn't kicked out," I correct. "I mean, I will neither confirm nor deny any pot-smoking that he might have participated in, but he left college out of his own free will and despite what the papers are trying to instigate, he was never officially found to own or consume any drugs."
"Why draft in lawyers then?" Mark wants to know. "Wouldn't it just be easier to let it slide?"
"For Shirley, sure," I agree. "He has since move to California and is working to release his first app. I don't understand much of what is going on there, but people seem to be willing to invest in his work and they don't appear spooked by any allegation of drug use either."
"They're probably high as well," mutters Damian. When he notices me having noticed, he winks at me.
"Maybe." I shrug. "As it is, it's a non-issue for Shirley, but it's a little stickier for my parents. My dad is a surgeon and my mum both a college professor and a children's book author. Allegations of drug use, either against them or their children, don't go down too well in their fields of work."
Steve nods slowly. "And that's why they need lawyers."
"I don't think they intend to sue, but if they can get a retraction printed, that might help quieten down the whispers," I explain.
"We'll look into it," promises Tony and I bestow a smile of thanks on him.
Before I can add anything else, the old-fashioned grandfather clock over in the reception area chimes, drawing my attention. One strike, then another.
"Is it already two AM?" I ask, dismayed, and grab Ken's arm to look at his watch. It does, indeed, confirm it to be two o'clock.
"Bedtime?" asks Ken, dropping a kiss on my shoulder.
"Unfortunately so," I confirm with a sigh. Turning to the others, I explain, "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you now. I have an appointment with Dr Gecko, my thesis supervisor, early tomorrow. He's super nice – I mean, he comes to classes dressed as an actual gecko in a waistcoat every Halloween and has his students call him Prof Gecko just for that day – but he is a vexingly early riser."
Mark nods understandingly. "We can't have you falling asleep while meeting with your supervisor."
No. That would be awkward.
"Even so, you must know that we won't allow Wales to hide you away again," Damian informs me with a charming smile. "Not now that we know you."
"It's up to her," remarks Ken easily. "If she truly wants to see you again, she can."
Steve perks up at this. "Hewie and I have plans to meet at that new private club on Hertford Street next Saturday. You should all come!"
Next Saturday? Isn't that…
This time, I do turn to Ken for help. I have no way to articulate my concern, but luckily, he understands anyway. Smiling reassuringly at me, he then smoothly tells his friends, "We have plans that day."
We do have plans, though probably not of the kind his friends think. Saturday is the first anniversary of Mrs Weisz's death and Ken suggested spending the day by reading cheesy romance novels and eating rich Hungarian food. I can't think of a better way to honour her and I know she would agree.
"Another time then?" asks Steve, looking a little deflated.
"Another time," I promise and mean it.
Chugging the remaining wine, I stand up. As I do, I lay a hand on Ken's shoulder to indicate for him to stay put. Tony and Mark, too, make attempts at getting up, but I quickly shake my head and they sit back down.
I take my leave from the men to a chorus of "good night", then lean down to give Ken a light kiss, wrinkling my nose when I taste the whiskey on his lips. With a final wave, I turn towards the stairs, leaving the men to their questionable choice of booze.
Walking up the stairs, I almost trip over George, who sits on a step halfway up and stares at me accusingly.
'There are strangers in this house!' his eyes seem to say. 'In my house! Galumphing strangers who are strange and who galumph! I do not approve of this! I do not approve of this at all! He let them in without asking me and you were not there to protect me! You were gone and I was all alone with the galumphing strangers!'
"Sorry, Georgie," I apologise, laughing, and pick him up. He puts a paw on my chest to guarantee a modicum of personal space and stares at me some more. He does not appear convinced about my apology.
"I am sorry," I insist as I continue to walk up the stairs, George securely in my arms. "I promise we won't invite them again without telling you first. And I know you don't like them being here, but I liked meeting them. And all things considered, it went rather well, don't you think?"
But George just gives me his haughtiest glare and wiggles free of my hold, clearly not yet ready to forgive me for this grave transgression of allowing galumphing strangers into the house. I imagine I'll have to spend a day or two grovelling before I can gain his forgiveness. Very likely, I will also spend quite a few pounds on more than one package of Dreamies. (George always claims he can't be bought, but he's secretly not opposed to a little Dreamies-bribery happening.)
Still. No matter what the cat says, I really do think it went rather well, all things considered.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?' (written by Peter Sarstedt, released by him in 1969).
To JoAnna:
It will happen. Scout's honour! ;) Just give it another ten chapters or so. (Which, given the length of this story, could be seen as "just around the corner"!)
You're exactly right about Owen. He genuinely likes Rilla and enjoys her company, but he's also trying to get closer to Ken through her. I don't think these things are mutually exclusive. "Multitasking" is a good way of putting it, actually. He's not insincere in how he treats Rilla, but as you said, she's much better about letting him in and forging a connection, so there's some hope that maybe that connection can be extended to include Ken as well. So far, Ken has proved stubborn about not accompanying her to Windsor, but I do think Owen hopes that maybe one day, she will bring him along and that this will give him a chance to talk to Ken about matters that are not "business". Also, of course, Rilla talks about Owen in a positive way, so there's hope it might sway Ken towards being more lenient where his father is concerned. All of which is to say that you're not reading too much into this at all. In fact, you're reading it entirely right!
I had fun with the friends! In fact, after a couple of more recalcitrant chapters, the last one was super easy to write. It all came together so nicely and the friends blended well and, of course, I had fun with the food on offer ;).
To AnneShirley:
Dev would certainly think it not wrong at all! In fact, I'm sure he'd be delighted at having found a partner in crime ;).
