“Oi!” Clive called out behind us, coming from the bar and carrying a large tray of shot glasses and Guinness pints. “You’re just in time.”
We let him pass through the crowded, uneven doorway—precious cargo, after all—then pushed through the crush until our hands found the shot glasses.
“Yikes,” I said, pulling back a moment. “I wasn’t expecting it to be warm.”
Nick reached in and took a pint and a shot for India.
“You chase the warm with the cold,” he instructed. “Right, all, this is Bex’s first chaser. Let’s have a toast.”
“Three cheers to the lemons!” Gaz shouted, thrusting his hand in the air so hard that he spilled some whiskey on his cheek.
Cilla nudged me. “See what I mean?” she said. “Not a bloody lick of sense.”
“How about a real toast?” Clive interjected. “One that uses words in a sensible order.”
I held up my shot and thought for a second. “Thanks, everyone, for the warm welcome. Sorry about the Revolution.”
Nick hoisted his pint glass. “We’ll get you next time.”
The warm whiskey went down like sweet, spicy fire. I gulped the Guinness as quickly as I could, and put down my empty glass to see Nick watching approvingly.
“Joss,” he said. “You’re officially spared from The Glug this year. We’ve got a ringer.”
Joss turned away from her date, who looked like Edward Scissorhands up close but without the roiling inner life. “I didn’t want to do it anyway,” she said. “College-sponsored drinking games are the tool of the patriarchy, right, Tank?” Then she nodded toward the door. “Heads up, Clive. Penelope Six-Names, your four o’clock.”
“Not again,” he said, gesturing at an eager-looking girl with straw-like bangs, a sunburn, and two large, full glasses. “Six-Names knows better than to bring him a drink we didn’t see the bartender pour.”
“I have no idea what anyone is talking about,” I said to no one in particular as Clive slipped away to head off Six-Names at the pass.
“Never you mind about The Glug, you’ll soon find out,” Nick said. Then he went very still. “This song is brilliant,” he said.
Everyone around Nick seemed to agree, and pretty soon, our entire room was screaming the chorus of “Wannabe.” Nick smiled wide and shouted along, but—much like how he did not chug his Guinness, and wholly skipped the shot—he let his friends dance and rage around him, freely idiotic, like youthful, well-educated court jesters sans the belled hats. I sensed a reserve in his body language, suggesting he wasn’t as comfortable outside the safety of Pembroke’s walls, and I wasn’t sure if that was natural shyness or the hesitation that comes from knowing you’re not just in the spotlight, you are the spotlight. For me, partying next to Mr. July in the previous year’s unsanctioned Hot Princes of the World calendar ended up being no weirder than walking into a Cornell house party and bumping into half the basketball team. Well-wishers, limelight seekers, curious fans—they’re everywhere. The only difference was that this particular center of attention had a lot more self-control, and a bigger birthright.
And a more protective posse. That night, and many times since, I noticed how seamlessly Gaz and Clive, the PPOs, and a few other acquaintances from Nick’s Eton days knew how to close ranks, no matter where we were (The Bird was a favorite because the small rooms made it easier to keep an eye on their quarry). Girls and guys alike sidled up wearing their ancestries or their social standings on their sleeves, and the lads gracefully deflected them—they were like a human condom, strategically positioned to keep everything treacherous out of the hot zone—which left Nick free to chat up girls who didn’t seem like they wanted something from him beyond what any young thing might want from an attractive guy at a bar. The whole operation ran smoothly enough that it never got in the way unless you were one of the misguided missiles seeking royal heat. India Bolingbroke was on the inside circle; Penelope Six-Names, conversely, peered over Gaz’s shoulder and protested, “I just want to say hi! I’m family! We’re third cousins!”
“Everyone’s a third cousin,” Gaz said, twirling her and dipping her with surprising grace.
My edges were fuzzy, thanks to the alcohol. Everyone’s edges were fuzzy a lot of the time at Oxford, which is probably why most of these details never leaked: People think they’re telling the truth, but no one can remember for sure. Sometimes when we went out, I’d get a phone number written on my hand, and then forget and wake up with only half of it still there. Other times I’d stumble home on my own. But, more often than I ever intended, I’d end up with Clive. I had no interest in a relationship that would constrict my time in England—which makes me laugh out loud now, given that I ended up in the most constricting relationship in England—and it wasn’t the shrewdest move to jump into bed with a guy living practically on top of me, but the whiskey wasn’t always on my side. Fortunately, Clive was. He swore leaving Oxford with a steady girlfriend would make it too hard to build a serious journalism career, because he’d need freedom to chase a story (or presumably, an attractive source), making our friends-with-benefits arrangement mutually satisfying.
Mostly. Making out with Clive sometimes felt like sucking face with a math experiment. He fixated on a weird numerical pattern, nine turns of the tongue clockwise and nine turns the other way, like he’d memorized instructions from a magazine. It seemed odd at first, a guy with so much else going for him having so little game, but the longer I watched him with Nick the more I understood Clive did himself no favors. He took his role as Nick’s wingman-in-chief almost as seriously as his journalistic aspirations. In fact, generations of men like Clive had spent their lives making sure their own Nicks didn’t get snookered by opportunists or social climbers or enemies, nor poisoned, nor impulsively married to the peasant girl selling flowers on Tottenham Court Road. Whether Nick wanted to be or not, he was the sun, and everyone revolved around him. And anyone who resented this arrangement had the very fabric of the universe working against them: Like me and Lacey, like gravity itself, it simply was.
Chapter Three