The Reunion, page 2
I should have been bricking it when I stepped on to the polished cobbles as a freshly minted first year eighteen years ago. Neither of my parents had finished their A levels and more kids in my year at school were going to prison than university. But I’d been dreaming of these historic ivy-covered buildings and the ‘quad’ of perennially green grass stretched between them since Helen had been accepted five years before. It felt like stepping through the pages of a novel or on to a film set when Mum and I drove her past the ornate steeples of King’s College Chapel and the university’s other domes and spires in our battered old Vauxhall Corsa. I remember watching Helen in the front seat, her dark spiky head bent over her detailed ‘to-do’ list, no fear on her face. She looked so focused that I vowed one day that I’d come too.
I memorised everything Helen said about college life, from the strange vernacular she took on – ‘sets’ for the bedrooms they were balloted into, ‘bedders’ for the cleaners who helped keep them tidy, ‘bops’ for parties and ‘slops’ for the canteen food. By the time I marched down the stony central avenue myself five years later, Cambridge was the only future I wanted. I had sun-kissed blonde hair, long legs encased in tiny denim shorts and a rucksack Helen had crammed full of Yorkshire tea bags, bottles of Sainsbury’s Pinot Grigio and a crate of duty-free Marlboro Lights she had brought me back from a press trip to Eastern Europe. The perfect social currency. I ditched it all as soon as I got to my room and went straight to the library. I’d got into the habit of putting my work first at school. I don’t think I went to a single party during the whole of my A levels – why change now?
I loved everything about Cambridge, from the smell of polished wood and old books in the library to cycling down to the river on Saturday mornings to watch the rowers, their long oars turning over the water in unison. Unlike many of my fellow students, I went to every lecture on my course. I couldn’t get over being taught by the people who’d written the textbooks I’d crammed from to get in here. I would have been a total bluestocking if I hadn’t started dating Henry.
I actually met him in the library. Such a Cambridge cliché. I’d noticed him around, of course – he and Will were about a foot taller than everyone else in college and louder and braver too – but I never thought he’d look at me. I didn’t need him to; I was perfectly happy flying under the radar. Until he exploded on to the scene and transformed my bookish existence. He told me he needed the same book as me (I didn’t find out until later that he was studying Classics, not Law) and that if I let him have it, he’d buy me dinner. Helen had said I should say yes to every new experience, so I agreed. His broad shoulders and Abercrombie & Fitch good looks might have had something to do with it, too. He took me to this tiny restaurant set deep into the vaults near Trinity College, with candles in bottles and wax spatters up the walls – a far cry from the ‘surf and turf’ and two-for-one alcopops at Wetherspoons that passed for splashing out where I was from. I remember his golden hair glowing in the candlelight and the way he had this knack of asking the right questions and really seeming to listen to the answers. I fell for him on the spot. As his girlfriend, my life opened up. I still worked hard but the entire university was stuffed full of people he’d been to school with who owed him a favour or wanted his approval. It brought me out of my shell. I’d always treated everyone as an equal (another life hack from Helen) but now when I walked across the quad, people actually noticed. I felt like a poster child for having it all. I was invited to every party, every ‘bop’. Until…
My grip tightens around the stone lion. I look down at my hands. They’re shaking, and there’s moss under my fingernails. I remind myself I’m an adult now; nobody can force me into anything any more. And, as Helen would say, do or die, babe. It’s been eighteen years since we started college, fifteen since I left. If I’m not going to settle the score now, then when?
I carefully scrape the nails clean of grime – no point ruining a good manicure – and force myself to step off the street and into the grounds. Objectively, it is beautiful here; the red-brick porters’ lodge, square as a children’s drawing, offset by the carpet of brushed gravel leading back to the blocks of sandstone behind it. I can see why so many undergrads are wowed on arrival; I was. Now, all I see are ugly memories.
My Samsonite suitcase bangs every step of the porters’ lodge on the way in. I’d rather have gone straight to the hotel, but Nick wants to see if anyone’s around for a drink before dinner. He doesn’t understand that I’d cross the street to avoid half the people who will be here tonight. How can he when I’ve sheltered him from the truth?
I think I’m holding up quite well. It helps that the grounds are relatively deserted. Apart from the handful of students with their phones out on the way in, there’s only a squad of Asian tourists with cameras on the far side of the quad. They’re taking pictures of the Great Hall’s medieval archway and its Doric columns. It was in contention as a set for the Harry Potter films back in the day, so it sometimes draws a crowd. But the academic year doesn’t start for another month so there are no students stretched out under the willows by the library and the bike racks opposite the college bar are empty. Only those who’ve come back early for sports or have some other special dispensation are allowed in college. Henry rowed in the college eight and was captain of the rugby team. Some holidays, he didn’t leave at all. I corral my thoughts back to the present. Thinking about any of them won’t make me feel better.
Nick is talking to the college porter, a round-faced guy with crooked teeth and a wispy beard that looks as though it can’t quite commit to settling on his chin. The badge on his black waistcoat tells us his name is Chris. The late autumn sun is blazing outside. He must be boiling in his three-piece suit. I watch as Nick grills him. The porters are not only the gatekeepers of the college but also the biggest source of gossip. I knew them all by name when we were here (one of them even used to leave chocolates in my pigeonhole), but those guys must have retired a long time ago. Chris seems so young. As my thirties recede, I find myself thinking that more and more – at the doctor’s, in restaurants, meeting my children’s teachers. The reality is that I’m getting older.
Chris aside, the porters’ lodge is like stepping into a time warp. It looks exactly the same – a narrow rectangular room with the long counter Chris is standing behind at the front and the entire back wall divided into pigeonholes for student mail. I half expect to see my maiden name pasted on to one of them. Some of the notices on the twin magenta noticeboards on either side of the door look as though they’ve been up since we studied here. I wonder if I peer underneath the faded pages whether I’ll see the flier for the charity calendar some of us put together when I was in my second year. It might have been dog-eared but it was still up when I was doing my finals – eleven of the most popular girls looking sultry and wistful in various beauty spots around the college. Lyla was January and December – the girl set to be January got glandular fever and Lyla was cock-a-hoop about taking out two spots – but my photograph was the front cover. I binned my copy when I left.
The claret-coloured leather on the counter Chris is leaning across has been redone but the row of beige-encased CCTV screens is the same. It only covers the front and back entrances to college. My breath catches at the back of my throat as I think of one of the many blind spots the cameras don’t cover. I can almost feel the cold of the pillar seeping into my bones; the gravel scraping against my face. I run my hands through my hair, straightening my already perfect ponytail. You’re safe now, I intone silently as I let my breath out slowly, yoga style. But I’ve always been rubbish at yoga; I can’t switch my brain off. I force the shutters closed on the image. I need to stay focused.
As if he can sense my tension, Nick reaches for my hand, running his fingers up the curve on the inside of my wrist and playing with the chunky silver Tiffany cuff Helen gave me a couple of months after graduation. He jokes it’s like a shackle but I like the solidity of it. Some days I need something to weigh me down and remind me that I did choose the life I’ve got. And how much good there is in it.
‘So are we all registered?’ I struggle to keep my voice light. I thought enough time had passed that being back wouldn’t affect me. But standing here in the college grounds themselves, Gothic buildings looming on every corner, my skin feels itchy, like I’ve been rolling in sand.
‘We are and I must stop banging on. Sorry about that, pal.’ Nick reaches out and pumps the porter’s hand. ‘Couldn’t resist the chance to take a walk down memory lane. I imagine you’ll have a lot of people bending your ear back today.’
‘You’re not the first.’ Chris is clearly from the West Country, though he’s making an effort to iron the rounded vowels out of his voice. It reminds me of how hard I had to work to smooth my own flat accent into something plummier – for all the good it did me. I want to tell him not to bother. ‘A lot of people want to wish Will Jenkin well.’
I fight back a shudder. Will is sponsoring a champagne reception before the fifteen-year reunion dinner tonight. He invented some kind of portable flatscreen and made a fortune in tech. Now he’s lobbing some of it at the college. Nick says rumour has it he’s planning to get into politics and be Cambridge’s answer to Boris Johnson and this is how he’s kicking off his campaign. Not if I can help it.
‘It’s nice how many of us want to come out and support one of their own. I know he’ll be pleased, whether or not he decides to run.’ Nick’s tone sets my teeth on edge.
‘Did you know him?’ Chris sounds impressed.
‘On and off.’ Nick chooses his words carefully. ‘More since we left, if I’m honest.’
I shudder again. Yes, I knew him. But the porter’s too preoccupied with Nick to ask.
‘Were you a member of those Odysseans like him, then? They say there was a few of them here at this college.’
‘Not my scene, really.’ Nick drums his fingers on the desk. I look out of the window until I can master my expression. The Odysseans’ drinking society was out of control long before the university forced them to disband. Made up of the richest, best-connected male students across Cambridge, they spent their time scaling college walls and climbing buildings late at night, going on benders, smashing up restaurants and paying them off. Each of them had a revolting drunken party trick, which ranged from the lanky one who could snort condoms up his nose and through his mouth to the fat one who downed drinks out of a top hat. Yet, because most of them hailed from legacy families with parents known for making extravagant donations and they threw a magnificent garden party at the end of every year, any misdeeds were swept under the carpet. One year they had caviar shots and the Brit band of the day performing. I remember I wore a skintight yellow dress in honour of the hit song ‘Yellow’ and Henry pulled me on stage at the end. A few people griped that the Odies were throwing their money around, but it didn’t stop them wanting to come. It’s one of my abiding memories – watching members of the college faculty swaying to an acapella version of ‘Trouble’ while half a dozen Odies vomited champagne and caviar into the bushes a few feet away. College calibrated into a single moment.
‘Of course, that was all disbanded long before my time,’ Chris probes. He obviously thinks Nick’s being cagey. ‘But they say the Bullingdon Club had nothing on you guys.’
Nick’s Adam’s apple bobs as he looks for the words to answer Chris’s question. ‘We moved in different circles, but I always enjoy seeing him at these things. Clearly, I’m not the only one who feels that way.’
‘Of course, it’s nothing to do with all the free booze,’ I say, the memory of Henry buying me that yellow dress souring my tone.
‘I hardly think our cohort has to worry about getting their money’s worth on champers,’ Nick says, but Chris chuckles.
‘It’s certainly one of the more popular reunions. The bedrooms on every staircase are sold out.’
I feel a renewed sense of relief that Nick suggested staying in a five-star hotel a few minutes away. When he comes up for other alumni events, he usually stays in college. He says it’s all double beds and en-suites now, whereas in our day you were lucky to get a sink and a mattress with springs.
‘And there he is: the man himself. Will Jenkin.’ Nick pulls open the door to the porters’ lodge and my heart free-falls through to my stomach. Think of the devil and he shall appear, as my mum used to say, though she was usually talking about my dad. The sentiment just as readily applies to Will Jenkin ‘no S, there’s only one of me, sweetheart, haha’. I force myself to take another deep inhale, holding the breath in my diaphragm. When my pulse has stopped racing, I turn slowly, the way they do in horror movies when they’re told, ‘It’s behind you.’
It’s not him. At least not in the flesh. My internal organs rearrange themselves. One of the kitchen staff is planting a life-size model of Will in the middle of the path, holding up a tray of champagne with details of where in the college the reception is being held (in the Great Hall, just like the dinner, rendering the entire sign totally superfluous). Will’s teeth twinkle and his dimples flash.
If anybody else tried to pull this off, it would be beyond tacky, but the graphics on the figure are so retro and the whole thing is so irreverent that it works. It’s got the hallmarks of Will’s tech company all over it. He’s been described as the next Elon Musk. He was integral in organising the government’s last three elections and there’s talk of a knighthood for all the work he’s done with technology in children’s schools. As a grammar school-educated child himself, he never misses the opportunity to tell everyone he’s ‘paying it forward’. The college can’t get enough of him. My eyes catch on his tanned hands, strong, tapered fingers tucked on either side of the tray. I could tell them a very different story.
‘Do you mind if we go back to the room now?’ I touch Nick’s arm. ‘We don’t have that long until dinner.’
‘And some people take longer to get ready than others.’ Nick rolls his eyes affectionately, but I can tell he’s distracted. He’s looking at the sign and running his hand through his short curls, trying to work out how it was done. He works in oil and gas now, directing operations and flying to summits in exotic locations. But at times like this, the long-haired engineer that he’s papered over with a golf habit and an encyclopaedic knowledge of wine appears. My heart softens. It’s when he’s vulnerable like this that I feel most affection for him.
We start walking back, tracking across the gravel path to a stone one that rounds the side of the Old Court to the tiny car park behind the library. I half expect to see Will’s old MGB parked up. You weren’t allowed cars when we were at university because of congestion in the city centre. But people like Will and Henry got away with it. The Odies used to hightail it through town and out along the river up to Grantchester, college scarves flapping in the wind as they revved the engine. Rumour has it they nearly ran Stephen Hawking down once. I remember there was a cafe a few miles away that served its own cider that the four of us used to go to, Lyla in the front next to Will because she didn’t want to get her clothes wrinkled, Henry and I squashed into the bench seat along the back, heads low until we hit the back roads. If I wanted to, I could still conjure up the smell of petrol and old tyres and feel the weight of Henry pressed against me, the sound of our laughter over the engine.
Today the car park is almost empty. Our Range Rover dominates the space, alloy wheels gleaming in the September sun. I let the leaves crunch under my feet. Autumn’s always been my favourite time of year – the smell of bonfires in the air, the way the trees shed their leaves, ready for renewal.
Nick flips on the radio as I buckle myself in. It’s a slow news day; they’re still talking about an unsolved hit-and-run from six weeks ago. I breathe in, reminding myself why I’m here, what I’ve come to do. The leather seats have that new car smell; I took it to the car wash to rid it of the stench of spilled snacks and stray PE kit earlier this week. I felt stupid; nobody was going to be judging me on the smell of my car. But I did it anyway. We pass Will’s cutout again on the way back down the drive. This time, I stare right at it, taking in the overconfident grin, dimples and eyes the colour of midnight. His whole face lit up in glorious technicolour. I square my shoulders. I half expect to see Henry and Lyla propping him up on either side – faces I thought I knew as well as my own but didn’t really know at all. I steel my nerves. Earlier, I let Nick give Artie the majority of the pep talk about how when people do mean things to you, you have to forgive them because they might not have meant to hurt you. But when he’d ducked into the kitchen to get Luci a coffee, I told her she needs to stand up for herself and not let them get away with it. It’s the advice Helen gave me fifteen years ago. I didn’t listen then. But I’m listening now.
Three
Then
‘I’m not coming back for the summer holidays.’ We’re in the Old Court and the wind is whipping off the ancient buildings so I have to holler to make myself heard. Lyla squealing while the boys pelt her with grass in the background isn’t helping.
‘What? I can’t hear you. The connection’s bad.’ Helen’s voice sounds tinny.
‘I’m going to Europe.’ Even though the wind twists my hair around my face so I end up talking through a mouthful of it, I can’t keep the smile off my face. This is going to be the first holiday Henry and I go on together, even if we do have Will and Lyla in tow. We were planning to do a week somewhere last summer, but Henry’s family took him to South America. He asked if I wanted to go with him, but I had to make up an excuse. There was no way I could afford it.
This trip will be pretty much the first time I’ve been abroad (aside from one cheap package holiday to Rhodes before my dad left), though of course I haven’t shared that with the other three. Unlike them, I couldn’t afford to take a gap year and see the world. I’ll save my travelling for after college, when I’ve got law school tucked under my belt.
