"Ah come on, Sunny! It'll be fun!"
"Fun? Our bar quizzes are like a reinforced version of University Challenge, for fuck's sake. A fun quiz has questions that aren't impossible to answer. When there's just the two of us, we're lucky to get more than one question right between us."
It's Sunday evening, and after what feels like an extremely long weekend of entertaining my parents, I've finally got a few hours of peace to myself. And now Gabriela wants to fill it with a stupidly difficult bar quiz. I wasn't kidding when I described it as 'stupidly difficult'; it's the sort of quiz where a score of zero is considered an achievement because it's definitely possible to finish up in minus figures.
Gabriela laughs. I recognise that businesslike laugh; she's intent on getting her own way regardless of how hard I try to resist.
Sigh.
May as well concede now. I haven't the energy to argue; spending the best part of two days with Mum and Dad has sapped any fight out of me.
"Okay," I grumble, pulling on my slouchy boots and slinging a zip-up hoodie over my shoulders. "I'll come, but only if you pay for the quiz."
Before anyone thinks I'm being a complete tight-arse by saying that, our college bar quiz only costs £2 per team to enter.
"Consider it done," says Gabriela smoothly, a triumphant smile etched across her face. If I didn't like her so much, I'd find it incredibly irritating that I almost always end up giving into her requests.
Reluctantly, I follow her to the junior common room, muttering about what a waste of time and effort this is.
"What would you like to drink?" Gabriela flutters her long dark lashes as she asks. Even though she's gazing demurely at me, I can tell the eyelash-flaunting profile is entirely for the bar attendant's benefit as it's Marcus who's serving again this evening.
Seriously, this is almost becoming Marcus's full-time job now; he's constantly behind the bar these days. I thought PhD students were given tax-free stipends?
"Do they not pay him to research rather than pull pints?" I mutter in Gabriela's ear.
"Who cares?" Gabriela hisses back. "He's hot. Just pick a drink, Sunny."
"I'll have a pint of lager please," I reply after a moment's consideration; I wasn't planning on drinking this evening but I don't suppose one would hurt. "Carlsberg or Kronenberg; whichever's the cheapest."
"We're out of Carlsberg and the Kroney's off," says Marcus apologetically, "but we've got Becks instead, if that's any good?"
"Yeah, fine," I reply. "It all tastes pretty much the same to me anyway."
Gabriela pays for the drinks with a flourish of her highly polished nails and flirtatious smile, and we nab some seats at a small, unoccupied round wooden table. It's one of the few empty spots in the common room; the larger tables are all occupied by serious-faced quiz-attendees, many of whom are doctoral or post-doctoral researchers in their mid-twenties or older.
"Mind if we join you?"
I glance up in surprise to see Jonty and Paul standing hopefully by our table. As usual, I take one look at Jonty and there's a familiar swooping sensation in my stomach. The excitement is slightly muted by awkwardness, because Paul's there too, but Jonty's good looks and suave charm more than compensate.
"Of course you can," replies Gabriela immediately, giving me the most unsubtle nudge and wink ever as she shuffles closer to my side, making room for the two guys. I kick out in her direction viciously, succeeding only in bashing my toe against a hard wooden table leg instead and having to stifle a grunt of pain.
"Hi," says Paul pleasantly, settling himself down next to me, apparently oblivious to my discomfiture, and completely at ease with the fact that we've shared tongues in the recent past. "How's things?"
"All good, thanks," I reply, plastering what I hope is a plain expression on my face whilst my intestines spasm and cringe uncomfortably. I might actually need to run to the toilet for a nervous poo at this rate. "How was your Christmas?"
"I've forgotten all about the holidays already," he replies with a small smile. "Seems light-years ago, even though we only got back beginning of last week."
"Oh, I know. Term's barely started and we've already got so much work to do!"
Phew. It's okay; I've got a grip and I'm nailing this normality thing. My innards relax and my anxiety begins to dissipate.
Paul and I pass the time with continued small-talk about university work and college, never once mentioning that night. It's a slight shame I don't fancy him because he's actually not unpleasant to talk to and would probably make a perfectly nice boyfriend. I'm so shallow. Maybe I should look past his slightly bland personality and physical appearance? He's not ugly by any means; he's an inch or two taller than me, with hazel eyes, freckles and curly brown hair, but - I dunno - he just doesn't make my heart skip a beat like Jonty or Al does.
Hang on - Al? Making my heart skip a beat? What the fuck am I even thinking? That bloody silly dream pervading my thoughts again? No; Jonty is the one I'm totally invested in, not Al. Delicious surfing boy with the dark-gold eyes, soft, sexy voice and manly jawline. Not the tall guy with vibrant green irises and an affected Etonian accent. Think of bullion bars, brain; not emeralds.
"Everybody ready?"
The voice of the quizmaster brings me back to the moment. I smile and nod at whatever Paul is saying, hoping that I'm responding appropriately. A general background murmur of assent sweeps the room.
"Then let's get started. The first ten questions are on artists. I'll give you the titles of ten paintings and all you have to do is name the artist and the century in which it was painted. Painting number one is 'Portrait of Kitty'…"
I'm floundering already. I might have had a chance if the first question had been 'Sunflowers' or 'The Last Supper', but Hell would freeze over before such simple questions would ever get to echo through these halls.
"Anyone know 'Portrait of Kitty'?" Gabriela whispers, looking from me to Jonty to Paul and back again.
"Lucian Freud," says Paul furtively, ensuring that the table immediately next to us don't overhear. "Must have been painted in the twentieth century."
"Nice one," replies Jonty, promptly scribbling the answers down. Purely out of interest, I sneak a quick peek at his handwriting. To my disappointment, it's big, ugly and rounded, and not at all easy on the eye, unlike him. Shame; I imagined him to have quite an elegant style.
"Painting two is 'The Persistence of Memory'." The quizmaster takes a sip from a tall glass of water and surveys us all.
"Even I know that one," says Gabriela with a grin. "Dali. Twentieth century. I hope they're not all going to be last century's works, otherwise that will be very boring."
I decide it's best if I don't say anything at this point in case the stupid jumps out of my mouth. Sometimes, I'm convinced I only ended up in this University by way of a monumental clerical error.
I'm only a third of the way down my pint by the time we've moved on from paintings and the voice of the quiz presenter rings out again.
"Okay, if you're ready, here's the second set of ten questions." He pauses for effect. "Name the ten British monarchs and their spouses in order, following on from Richard II's rule."
See what I mean about having to be Mensa-level to even get one question right? I can't even name the monarchs themselves.
"I had a ladybird book on this topic," laughs Gabriela. "Pity I never memorised it."
"I've no chance with this question," says Jonty carelessly. "I didn't even do GCSE History."
"Neither did I, but let's look at it logically," I suggest. "Kings usually named their first-born sons after themselves, right? So Richard III probably came after Richard II."
"No, he didn't," replies Gabriela, her brow furrowed in thought. "I'm almost positive that Richard II was a 14th century monarch, and Richard III only ruled for a few years near the end of the 15th century."
"Don't tell me that's a fact you recall from your ladybird book?" I say incredulously. "I can barely remember what I did yesterday, let alone what I read fifteen years ago!"
"No! It was mentioned in a TV documentary on Richard III. One of our secondary school teachers made the whole class watch it. It was fascinating, actually; all about how archaeologists found Richard's remains buried beneath a car-park in Leicester. I think I remember the presenter saying that King Edward-the-something was Richard III's predecessor." Gabriela shakes her head. "I really wish I'd studied A-level History. Kings and queens are fascinating."
"I did study history at A-level and I haven't a clue," replies Paul, flushing slightly, "but in my defence, our syllabus wouldn't have been useful for this quiz. They didn't teach us anything about what order the British monarchs ruled in. We studied stuff like 'Russia in the age of absolutism and enlightenment' not which king was married to which queen."
"Don't look at me for any answers," says Jonty, holding up his palms and absolving himself again. "I did nothing but science subjects for A-level."
"Same," I nod. "Come on, we may as well guess the monarch names. Henry VIII - he must have been one of the ten. He had six wives; Anne Boleyn, Anne of Cleaves, Catherine of Aragon…shit. I can't remember the other three."
"Oh," says Gabriela looking into her empty glass disappointedly. "I need a top-up. Anyone else want a drink?"
"No thanks," I reply.
"Oh yes please," says Paul, at the same time that Jonty murmurs "Yeah, pint of Wherry, please."
"I'll have the same as Jonty," adds Paul. "Thanks."
As Gabriela gets up to visit the bar, one of the guys from the table next to us catches our attention and leans across. "Sorry, we couldn't help overhearing you. Henry VIII is definitely on that list somewhere. We'll swap you some monarchs for paintings if you like?"
"We like," says Jonty swiftly, without bothering to consult the rest of us. "We didn't get many artists, though."
"We only got the really obvious one," snorts the guy, "so I'm sure we'll be able to help each other out. Who painted 'Landscape with the fall of Icarus', do you know?"
"Didn't get that one," says Jonty. "Sorry."
"Oh. How about 'Doubting Thomas'?"
"Nope."
"'Portrait of Kitty'?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. Henry VIII is the eighth monarch on the list," Other Table Guy whispers conspiratorially. "So who painted the 'Kitty' picture?"
"Gustav Klimt," Jonty replies promptly.
Hang on; that's not right. I'm sure it was some guy called Freud.
I shift uncomfortably as Other Table Guy gratefully writes down the incorrect answer on their team's sheet.
Feeling indecisive, I reach for my drink and take a large gulp. I'm torn between saying something and risking the potential wrath of Jonty's wrong side, or remaining silent. I can't even secretly confer with Gabriela on the matter as she's still at the bar. Anxiously, I sneak a sideways glance at Paul to see him looking questioningly at Jonty.
Jonty stares defiantly back at Paul, dark eyebrows raised over irresistible honey eyes as though daring his friend to contradict him. After a moment, Paul breaks visual contact and slumps.
Even Jonty's friends appear to be trapped under some sort of bewitchment. Perhaps we're all ensnared by the power of his handsomeness?
Gabriela returns from the bar with a tray bearing a pint of lager for herself, two pints of beer for the boys and several packets of crisps. She places the tray on the table and grins at me before sitting back down. "You sure you didn't want anything, Sunny?"
I hold up my half-full glass. "Still got plenty left, thanks."
"How are we doing for monarchs?" Gabriela asks, looking expectantly at the two boys.
"We've been reliably informed by the table next-door that Henry VIII is the eighth on the list," replies Paul after a pause, and I wonder whether Gabriela can detect a note of resentment in his voice, because I certainly can. It's clear he doesn't approve of his friend's deceit, but neither is he prepared to do anything about it.
"Oh! Well I know that Henry VII was Henry VIII's father," says Gabriela, clapping her hands together excitedly in response to Paul's revelation. "So that's another one we can add. Henry VIII's wives are obvious, but I'm not sure who Henry VII married. Now, let me think. Henry VIII ruled somewhere around the middle of the 16th century, so Henry VII must have been about the beginning of the 16th, and - oh! Richard III must have been the monarch before Henry VII, because he ruled at the end of the 15th century!"
"Why don't we just consult Google for the answers?" Jonty drawls, looking around the common room. "Everyone else is."
"Doesn't that defeat the object of a general knowledge quiz?" I say bitterly, my voice sounding sharper than I intend it to. Fortunately, Jonty doesn't seem to notice. He's clearly got thicker skin than I would have ever given him credit for.
"I'm sure Anne Neville was the wife of Richard III," continues Gabriela, oblivious to the little exchange between Jonty and I. "Jonty? Write down 'Anne Neville' as the sixth-place wife."
"Wasn't Henry VIII's son called Edward?"
"Yes! Not sure which one, though. There have been a lot of Edwards. Eight at least. There was an Edward just before Richard III, but I don't know what number he was either."
"Okay, let's go for Edward IV as Richard III's predecessor, and Edward V for Henry VIII's son," I say, washing down my suggestion with a mouthful of lager.
"Weren't there some Henrys around then? Sod the wives, let's at least get the kings' names down."
"We're missing six kings," says Jonty, as the quizmaster jumps into action again, ready to reveal the third set of questions.
"Just shove a load of Edwards and Henrys in the gaps. And name all of their wives Anne. One of them is bound to be correct," replies Gabriela, as Jonty hurriedly scrawls some answers in the blanks.
"I need to go to the loo," I murmur, sliding my chair away from the table and getting to my feet. The room feels warm and cloying after Jonty's smooth lie and I have an urge to escape even if it's just for a moment.
The toilets are a few minutes' walk away from the bar, and, as always, there's a bit of a queue for the cubicles. On my way back, I glimpse Paul coming out of the gents toilets a few metres ahead. As it seems inappropriate to tail him back to the common room, I speed-walk the short distance to catch him up.
"Hey," I say as I draw level with him."Fancy seeing you here."
He gives a wan smile. "Ready for another round of impossible questions?"
"Not really. To be honest, I find our college quizzes a bit boring; they're too difficult and I lose interest quickly. You look a bit sad," I remark, seeing his slightly glum expression. "What's up?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just a bit annoyed that Jonty deliberately gave that guy the wrong answer. I know it's stupid, but…it just seemed deceitful."
I nod and grimace sympathetically. "Yeah. It pissed me off too."
"And I'm annoyed at myself for not calling him out on it. He intimidates me a bit, you know?" Paul sighs and grinds to a halt at the end of the corridor. He turns to look at me directly, his hazel eyes brimming with a strange intensity. "Sunita? Look. I'm probably about to make a complete idiot of myself, but…I'd…well…would you like to go out for a drink sometime? Only I'd kick myself for not asking and I fully expect you'll say No, but I had to find out and…"
"Yeah, sure." Swayed by Paul's admission and taken aback by the unexpected nature of his proposal, the words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to dwell upon his request.
He breaks into a broad grin and runs a hand through his sepia curls. "That's great! How about next Sunday?"
Gosh, that was quick. "Erm, yeah. Okay," I reply, feeling as though I've just been bowled over by an ocean wave and caught up in its turmoil; unsure which direction is sky and which is beach.
"Awesome. I can't wait!"
Barely seconds after Paul has spoken, his lips are on mine. I'm sightly unbalanced by the sudden momentum and I end up staggering, back first, into a wall.
Whilst it's not exactly an unpleasant experience kissing Paul, as he's actually pretty competent at snogging, I wish he'd chosen somewhere more private to taste my tongue instead of this corridor, where the whole of St John's can bear witness to our union. I'm also a little repulsed that he never waited for an invite
"You're such a good kisser, you know that?" Paul murmurs breathlessly, once he has detached his mouth from mine.
"I, err, thanks," I reply lamely, uncertain how to respond, and disorientated by the action. I feel a sudden urgency to return to the safety of a full room and my friend Gabriela. "Let's go back to the bar."
Paul reaches for my hand and as his fingers brush mine, I surreptitiously pull away and pretend to be reaching into my jeans pocket for something. I'm not ready to walk into the common room hand-in-hand in some open declaration of love for him just yet.
"Would you like a drink?" Paul asks politely as we reach the common room.
I nod, wanting nothing more than to rinse away this slightly bitter taste in my mouth. "Diet coke would be great, thanks. Ice, no lemon. Do you need any help with carrying?"
"Nah, go ahead and sit down. I'll be over shortly."
"Thanks." Without pause, I head straight for our table, not daring to look at anyone else on the way.
"You've almost missed the third round!" Gabriela shrieks accusingly as soon as she sees me. "Quick; sit down and see if you can identify any of these British trees from their latin names."
I plonk my backside down onto the seat next to her, grateful for a distraction from my haywire thoughts, even if what I know about trees would go on a postage stamp with room to spare.