My Oxford Year

“For what?”

“Some unfortunate charity.”

I shrug. “So, let’s do that.”

Maggie’s brow furrows further as Charlie scoffs and says, “It doesn’t work like that. You have to be invited.”

“Well, how do you get invited?”

“No one knows. It’s like MI6 . . . they find you.”

Maggie, distraught, drops her head into her hands. “Oh, Charlie, don’t tease me with what I can’t have.”

“Yes, Tom’s done quite enough of that,” Charlie drawls. “Look on the bright side. At least yours knows which team he plays for. Straight as an arrow.”

“So is yours,” I remind him.

“Bottle, please,” Charlie groans. I pass him the bottle and he takes a swig.

“You could make your life so much easier if you’d just fish in more familiar waters.”

Charlie comes back at me dryly, “Where’s the sport in fishing from a stocked pond? I much prefer the open sea.” He peers at me. “So where might our dear professor be baiting his hook this evening?”

There’s a moment of silence. Charlie hands me the bottle knowingly.

“We were spending too much time together,” I say, taking a sip. “We’re taking a break. It’s a good thing. We thought it was for the best.” Charlie opens his mouth to speak again, and I cut him off. “Maggie, you need a plan.”

IT’S LATE WEDNESDAY afternoon and after a full day of sitting on my ass writing about the portrayal of female beauty in Bleak House and Middlemarch, I feel anything but beautiful. So I take a long walk over to the hippie salad stand in the Covered Market for an early dinner of quinoa and falafel. Nice and healthy. And then I detour to the unconscious reason I came to the Covered Market: Moo-Moo’s. I collect my Cadbury caramel milkshake and walk aimlessly by the stalls as vendors close up for the night, sucking on the pink straw until the only sound in the building is the sweeping of brooms, the clanking of security gates, and my unadulterated last-dregs slurping.

When I emerge into the crepuscular light of Market Street and turn right onto Turl, I find myself at the Lincoln College gates. Coincidence? Yes. No. Maybe.

The door in the gate opens before me. Not pausing to consider what I’m doing (or why), I hustle over and catch it just in time, slipping into the lodge. The porter, who knows me well at this point, nods hello and I casually continue past him. I scoot over to Chapel Quad and up staircase eight, finding myself in front of Jamie’s door. I take a breath. I knock.

No answer.

I’m simultaneously disappointed and relieved.

I head back down the stairs and pause in the shadows of the quad. What am I doing? I should’ve called him first.

I take out my phone and search through my call history for his number. I have to scroll back six days. I hesitate. I take a breath and press the button.

If he seems weird, I’ll tell him I had a question about the reading. Why are we reading William Barnes? (No, but seriously, Jamie, why?) I won’t leave a message if he doesn’t pick up—

“Well, hello, stranger. What a pleasant surprise,” he whispers.

His voice torches that ever-ready kindling in my stomach. “Why are you whispering?” I ask instead of a million other things.

“I’m in the library at present.”

“The Bod?” I ask.

“No, Lincoln’s,” he breathes, and I’m moving. I don’t even know where I’m going (Jamie’s never formally taken me around the college), but I know the library is the big church on the corner of the High and Turl Street.

I walk through a narrow arch in the medieval wall and into Front Quad. “Working on the thesis?”

“Eternally.” Jamie sighs.

“And how’s it coming?” I ask, exiting the lodge and turning left on Turl.

“Brilliant.”

“Really? That’s great. Good to hear.”

“No, not really,” Jamie whispers. “I think it’s only appropriate at this point to give back my doctorate and self-exile in ignominy to the Isle of Elba.”

I come to an iron gate that looks like it leads to the church. I push on it. It won’t budge. That’s when I notice the card reader attached to the latch, blinking its red eye at me. Dammit. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I say, hoping someone will exit the gate so I can slip through.

“How are you and George Eliot faring?” Jamie asks, just as a girl approaches the gate and opens it. I smile confidently at her, as if I belong here, and slip inside.

“I’m in love,” I answer truthfully, but distractedly. “She’s the voice of God in my head.” I walk up to the sliding glass doors of the library and find yet another card reader. I grind my teeth.

“I told you,” Jamie purrs.

“Forgot your card?” I hear behind me. I whip around and find a lanky acne-riddled boy grinning sheepishly at me.

I tightly cover the mouthpiece on my phone and flash my winningest smile. “Yes! I’m such an idiot. You’re my hero.”

He flushes red and, ducking his head, swipes his card. The doors slide open. “Thanks,” I mouth.

“Anytime,” he whispers.

“What’s that? Where are you?” Jamie asks.

“Just getting some food,” I lie as I close in on my unsuspecting prey.

“Doesn’t Moo-Moo’s close at five?”

You think you know me so well, Dr. Davenport. “Tell me exactly where you are in the library, the precise spot,” I whisper, entering the main room of the converted church.

Wow. I was not expecting this. It is gorgeous. Soaring white marble ceiling with painted blue insets, high arched windows, an open floor with wooden stacks jutting inward like ribs, and a long table in the center. Religion for bibliophiles. There’s even a late-medieval tomb topped with the horizontal carving of a knight, sword clutched atop his chest, a mirror image of the bones the sarcophagus contains. Eerie, but I love that it’s still here. Someone clearly doubted the spiritual wisdom of removing it. A few books sit atop it, waiting to be reshelved.

“Shall I tell you what I’m wearing as well?” Jamie chuckles.

“It does kind of turn me on. Imagining you sitting there, working away. I can see myself—”

“Right.” Jamie coughs. “Well then, allow me to assist.” He drops his voice, murmurs, low and sweet, “In between the stacks are study carrels. Last row in the back. I like the one on the right, closest to the window overlooking the High. Sometimes there’s an unfortunate fresher in my spot and I challenge him to a duel.”

“Ooh, blood sport. Hot,” I coo, padding lightly down the center aisle.

“I take my chair, prepare my tablets and books . . . er, unbutton my jacket, and then I, well, I suppose I sit down—” He stops abruptly, voice suddenly less phone sex and more awkward telemarketer. “This can’t be remotely exciting.”

“You have no idea.”

“I want to see you,” he groans. “I hope soon.”

“Sooner than you think,” I say smugly, closing in on the final stack.

“Bollocks. The librarian’s onto me. I have to go. Chat soon, yes?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer, grinning. I hang up just as I turn the corner, his carrel, no more than fifteen feet away, coming into view.