The Choice (5 page)

‘If you’re at Boniface your tutor must be John Etheridge?’

I hadn’t known that Dr Etheridge was called John, and wouldn’t have dared address him by his Christian name, but did my best to answer casually. ‘That’s right.’

‘And let me guess, your essay is on the Victorian labour movement?’

‘It’s the development of socialist theory in the early twentieth century.’

‘Close. He’s good. You’ll do well with him.’

He was impossibly smug, and I was determined to cut him down to size.

‘You’re a second year, aren’t you? The way you talk anybody would think you were a don.’

He merely shrugged, put his foot down to catch the lights ahead of us and kept it there as we climbed the hill on Headington Road, passing the speed camera at nearly fifty with complete indifference. I was used to Ewan’s driving, so I wasn’t particularly bothered by the speed, but I was getting more and more determined to at least take the edge off his appalling arrogance. Unfortunately I’d missed my chance with his remark about my bum, and as we drove out of the city he was explaining how the internal politics of the Chamber worked, which I needed to know.

By the time we reached Thame he was being so polite and friendly that I’d changed my mind, telling myself that anybody as good looking and privileged as him was bound to be a bit big headed and that I should swallow my pride and make the best of the situation. Although not to the extent of actually going to bed with him. Not that he’d made any effort to try it on, but I was pretty sure he was just biding his time.

Les Couleurs was just outside the town, a small country house converted into a restaurant and hotel. The forecourt was packed with cars, mostly new and all expensive, while an elderly couple getting out of a vintage Daimler were also in evening dress, making me thankful Giles had taken the trouble to correct my outfit. Despite that, the doorman didn’t look at all happy as we approached, but it wasn’t me he objected to, but Giles.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lancaster, but as has already been explained to you …’

Giles interrupted, more amused than annoyed. ‘Don’t worry. We’re simply here for dinner.’

‘Very well then, sir.’

We were shown into a dining room far smaller than I’d expected, with just four tables, although there was another, larger room visible across the hall. I wanted to know what had been going on, and asked as soon as we’d been seated and were alone.

‘What was that about?’

‘Nothing really. He thought I was trying to make a booking for my dining society.’

‘Which society is it? Are you banned or something?’

‘Only from central Oxford, but we’ve got a bit of a reputation, and everyone within twenty miles seems to know I’m a member. The Hawkubites.’

‘That’s the one that deliberately trashes restaurants, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all. We get a bit high spirited sometimes, but there’s no malice in it and we always pay for the damage.’

‘It’s still vandalism!’

‘It’s not vandalism if you’re correctly dressed.’

‘That’s outrageous!’

‘That’s a quote: Oscar Wilde, who was president in 1878.’

There was so much scorn in his voice that I found myself blushing and backing down in my response to his behaviour.

‘It’s an old society then?’

‘We were founded in 1713, which makes us the oldest, whatever the Bullingdon and the Phoenix may have to say about it, and named after a London street gang of the time. The story goes that some of our founders had actually been involved, but I doubt that’s true. Now, they were a rotten lot. One of their favourite pastimes was to put people in barrels and roll them down Ludgate Hill, just for sport. Another favourite was to rob a man and then make his wife earn the money back on her back, if you see what I mean, preferably in front of hubbie. So you see, we’re not really that bad.’

I shook my head in what I hoped he would realise was a gesture of mature contempt for his behaviour, although he was quite obviously utterly indifferent to my good opinion. A waiter had arrived at our table to hand us menus, big white vellum booklets bound with deep-red ribbon. Our conversation changed to food, which Giles seemed to know a great deal about. He was quick to offer advice, but I made a point of making my own choices. Not that he noticed, except to comment on the wine.

‘I dare say the turbot is excellent, but I’m not missing out on grouse, so we’ll just have to have separate bottles. That means a half for me, as the boys in blue don’t seem to make allowances for gentlemen these days.’

‘You didn’t seem worried about speeding.’

‘Fines and the odd three points I can cope with. Getting banned is another matter. I’ll have a half of Fronsac, I think. I suggest you try the Chablis.’

‘I prefer Australian, the Riesling.’ I was making it up, but he didn’t comment and I was left wondering just how much useful knowledge I might be able to pick up from him; political
know-how,
wine and food, social graces, all things that would be helpful. Stephen was distinctly unpolished by comparison, despite his financial knowledge and having been to public school.

The dinner was delicious, from the single oysters presented in tiny silver cups to whet our appetites right through to a slice of the darkest, richest chocolate cake I’d ever eaten. By then I was every bit as mellow as I’d been after my trip to Brown’s, but also telling myself that if men kept on treating me to lavish dinners I was going to have to take up running, or even try out for the Ladies’ boat. The one thing that marred my pleasure, as I sipped coffee and nibbled at a mint, was that Giles was sure to proposition me and I’d have to turn him down.

I wasn’t sure whether I really wanted to or not because, while his good looks and easy charm appealed, his air of arrogant superiority very definitely did not, but that wasn’t the issue. If I gave in I could see all too clearly that I’d just become the latest on what was probably a long list of conquests, and that he’d then move on to somebody else. I couldn’t turn him down flat either, or he might decide I was a prude and lose interest, and then there was Stephen.

‘Shall we go?’

‘Um? Yes, let’s.’

He’d broken into my thoughts, making me wonder if I’d seemed rude, but as usual he appeared not to have noticed, so wrapped up in himself that he was blissfully unaware of my nervousness. As we walked out to the car I was expecting him to try to put his arm around me, or at least make some gesture of affection, but he was talking about different ways to prepare grouse and seemed oblivious of the situation we were in, at the end of a date, when surely any red-blooded male feels entitled to at least a kiss and a cuddle, and generally a lot more.

As we drove back towards Oxford he was still talking about grouse, followed by his uncle’s estate in Scotland, malt whisky and the Loch Ness monster. By then I was beginning to feel insulted, as if he’d decided I wasn’t worth his while, only for him to park in a side street off the Iffley Road, a long way from both his college and mine. It was quite dark, with big chestnut trees overhanging the road and a single dim streetlight, making me think of being eased down to take his cock in my mouth or even fucked over the seat. If I turned him down and he kicked me out of the car it was a long walk back to college in my heels, so maybe, just maybe, it would be easier to give in. He gave a low sigh.

‘This is about as close as I can get without being clamped tomorrow morning, but don’t worry, I’ll walk you back to Boniface.’

‘Oh.’

Any other man would have heard the emotion in my voice. Not Giles. He got out, waited for me to join him and double-checked that he’d locked the car, then set off, once more talking as if he was walking beside a male friend and not a – hopefully – pretty girl with no bra and the shape of her breasts clearly outlined beneath her dress. By the time we reached St Boniface I’d even begun to wonder if he was gay, only to have my doubts pushed aside as he spoke.

‘So what’s it to be: a kiss goodnight, or up to your room for some good dirty sex until five in the morning?’

He’d said it as if he was suggesting we go for a coffee. I was completely taken aback, so much so that I didn’t know what to say, or whether to laugh, to slap his face, or to take him in and let him enjoy himself with me until dawn. Another push and I might have given in, but he waited and when I finally found my voice it was to stammer out an awkward, defensive lie.

‘Um … it’s not a good time … sorry. You know how it is.’

His mouth twitched briefly into a grin, maybe knowing, maybe sympathetic, before he leaned forwards to kiss me.

‘Another time then. Goodnight.’

He gave a little bow, perhaps mocking me, perhaps just playful, and withdrew, leaving me feeling confused, relieved and yet full of regret. As I went in I was trying to tell myself that I’d made the right decision, and really handled him quite well, but there was an empty feeling inside me. I climbed to my room and began to undress, all the while imagining how things would have been if I’d asked him up; urgent kisses, my dress pulled up over my head, his cock freed into my hand and then my mouth, my shoes and knickers kicked away and then full sex, maybe in the same rude kneeling position Stephen had taken me in just two nights before.

I knew what I was going to do, and that there was no point in trying to stop myself. A quick wash and I got into bed, naked, my thighs coming up and open as I imagined what might have been. I began to touch myself, circling my clit to make the sobs come, of both passion and regret, wishing he’d been firm with me in the car, parking in some lonely lay-by, pulling out his cock and demanding that I suck him off, or bending me over the bonnet to take me from behind as other cars swept past, their headlights illuminating my near-naked body with my dress pulled up to my neck and my knickers pulled down as Giles thrust into me. I was nearly there, only for my fantasy to be shattered by the sudden bang of the outer door and Violet’s voice.

‘Sh! You’ll wake Poppy.’

A masculine voice answered, very deep. ‘Then I’ll deal with her too.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s a nice girl.’

I’d frozen, only to quickly pull the bedclothes up as I realised that all Violet needed to do was duck down and peep in the keyhole to discover that I was no more a nice girl than she was. When I heard her door close I tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy, with their voices just audible through the wall, although it was no longer possible to catch what they were saying. Still I tried, too aroused to stop and determined to get there.

My thoughts were a muddle, with a dozen different images now crowding in; Giles, Stephen, Violet and her mystery lover. Before long I’d sorted things out, creating a nice rude fantasy in which Giles and his Hawkubite friends robbed Stephen and then made me earn the money back by taking turns with me in front of him, only for my thoughts to be interrupted once more.

I could still hear Violet with her lover, but their words were now punctuated by urgent gasps, as much pain as pleasure and coming too far apart to be the result of hard thrusts into her sex, while his voice still sounded calm, but full of authority. Whatever he was doing to her it hurt, but it was getting her off too, and I could all too easily imagine the state she was in, maybe spread out in front of him, maybe bent over or on all fours as he tormented her.

She cried out again, louder, and an image came into my mind from an old music video, of somebody dripping molten wax onto their lover’s chest. It made sense, and I could now picture the scene next door; Violet naked, her back bowed as she pushed out her chest, her eyes fixed to the candle flame, her body jerking to the sting of the hot drops as they fell one by one onto her naked flesh. Her thighs would be open, exposing herself to him as he got ready to enter her.

As I began to rub again I remembered his words, his threat to deal with me too and I was immediately imagining myself side my side with Violet, our thighs spread, perhaps with our
hands
tied behind our backs, both vulnerable to his cock and to the steady drip of hot wax, or turned over, bottoms up, playing with ourselves as he tormented us, available for entry at any moment. With that thought I came.

4

MY HEAD FELT
clear in the morning and, while I was a little embarrassed for my outrageous fantasy, I was sure I’d done the right thing with Giles Lancaster. Most likely it was because he was a public schoolboy, maybe it was just part of his personality, but he had a very odd attitude to women and was certainly not to be trusted. Stephen’s attitude was also a little peculiar, maybe for the same reason, but he was far more down to earth.

I was keen to see him as soon as possible, and sent him a text suggesting a lunchtime drink as soon as I was up and about. His reply came while I was in hall, queuing for breakfast, to say that he was rowing until eleven but would meet me at somewhere called The Boatman’s at noon. I had no idea where the place was, except presumably somewhere by the river, so went back to my room to consult my Handbook, arriving at the top of my stair just in time to meet Violet and her mysterious lover coming out of her room. For once they weren’t arguing or having a heated discussion, and I was much too curious to pay attention to the acute embarrassment on her face as she saw me.

‘Hi, Violet. Are you going to introduce me?’

‘Um … yes. This is Dr McLean.’

I knew they’d been talking about me from the snippet of conversation I’d caught the night before, and I couldn’t help but remember what he’d said, so that I was blushing slightly as he gave me a polite nod. He would have spoken, but Violet
was
already hurrying towards the stairs and, as I unlocked the door, I caught her voice, raised in agitation. Whatever was going on between them, she clearly didn’t want it to be common knowledge, which inevitably made me even more curious. He was also at least ten years older than her, maybe more like fifteen, and had been her tutor.

It was all very intriguing, and as I leafed through my Handbook I was promising myself that I’d find out more. The Boatman’s turned out to be on Jackdaw Lane, at least half-an-hour’s walk but through the meadows and along the river. Another, rather obvious, piece of Dad’s advice had been to make sure I didn’t let my social life get in the way of my degree, so I promised myself I’d complete two hours of research for my essay and then set off. Dr Etheridge had provided me with a reading list, which gave me a good start, although I knew I’d do better if I included references he hadn’t suggested as well, which meant chasing up obscure books in the depths of the Bodleian.