My Oxford Year

“Gorgeous boy,” she breathes.

“Beautiful mum,” he says back, clearly echoing some childhood game.

Looking at her love for him is like looking directly into the sun.

She steps back like a general, assessing her son fully. “You’re looking quite well, my love, quite well.” She pokes his stomach. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you came.”

Whatever I was expecting Jamie’s mother to be like—their relationship to be like—it wasn’t this. At all. I’m so confused I’ve been standing here with my mouth wide open since she grabbed him.

She eyes me. “Shall you introduce me, or must I do everything myself?”

“Yes, of course.” Jamie touches my shoulder. “Eleanor Durran, may I present my mother, Antonia Davenport.”

She takes my hand with gusto. “Eleanor! How lovely. You don’t often hear that name anymore.”

I smile. “That’s why I go by Ella.”

She chuckles. “Family name?”

“Eleanor Roosevelt,” I answer. “My father had delusions of grandeur.”

Jamie chimes in. “You’ll appreciate this, Mother, Ella actually saw you standing—”

I grab the sentence out of his mouth. “Standing over there and wanted to tell you that I absolutely love your dress!” I smile hugely and quick-flash my eyes to Jamie, silently threatening death if he contradicts my story.

“Likewise,” she says, still smiling. It’s as if she’s physically incapable of not smiling. It’s natural, real, written on her face with caring penmanship. There’s a mischievous quality to her, a whimsy that I’ve seen in her son when he’s at his happiest. It’s infectious. “That yellow is extraordinary. In truth, it was the first thing I noticed, and I thought to myself, ‘Who is that stunning light of a woman standing there?’ And then I realized you were standing with my son.” She pokes Jamie’s stomach again. “Well done, you!”

Jamie grabs her wrist and peers at the fan hanging off it. “And what is this?”

“Oh, Jamie, I’ve discovered the most exquisite escape hatch.” Her wide eyes and open enthusiasm strip thirty years from her face. “If I find I’m unable to extricate myself from a particularly dire conversation, I simply wave this and insist that I must get some air. Menopause is truly the most miraculous excuse.”

Jamie lifts an eyebrow. “Is it? I must try it sometime, then.”

Her eyes flit behind me and she calls, “William! Come say hello!”

I look over my shoulder and find the man who stormed out of Jamie’s office, looking as though he has been forcibly stuffed into a tuxedo. A rugged, feral man tortured into elegance. I smile at him as he approaches. He barely returns it, the side of his mouth spasmodically jerking to the left. I don’t wait for an introduction, extending my hand gamely. “Ella Durran. Nice to meet you, sir.”

He takes it, brief but firm. Unisex. He’s not changing his greeting because I’m a woman or, more, his son’s girlfriend. I can respect that. “William Davenport,” he intones, low and rumbly, like a cartoon lion. “I had heard my son was dating a beautiful American girl,” he continues, trying to be endearing, but like his tux, this, too, seems unnatural. He doesn’t look at me.

“I had heard those rumors, too, sir, but I didn’t let them stop me.” Antonia laughs, Jamie smiles, but William gives me nothing more than a tight smirk. He glances at his son. “Jamie.” I can’t tell if it’s a greeting or a reprimand.

“Father,” Jamie replies, suddenly austere, as if he’s mimicking William.

Antonia steps in. “Eleanor, have you ever been to Scotland?”

“No, ma’am.”

She turns to Jamie. “Invite her at Christmas! We’d adore having her.”

“Most kind of you, Mother, but actually”—Jamie softens his voice—“Ella and I are going on holiday.” A flicker of disappointment crosses Antonia’s face and she turns back to me.

I stall, trapped. Jamie hasn’t talked with them about this? “Thank you so much—really—but you see, I’ve never been to Europe,” I say. “It might be the only chance I’ll get while I’m over here.”

Her smile returns. “Oh, then you must go!” she cries. “Another time.” What a gracious, lovely woman. Antonia’s gaze catches something behind me and she rolls her eyes slightly. “You’ll excuse me, but duty calls. I really must say hello. Be back straightaway,” and she moves off, leaving Jamie, William, and me in a loose triangle.

Wasting no time, William leans in to Jamie. “Dr. Solomon said you weren’t willing to do another round of stem-cell replacement.”

Even though he has one round of chemo left, and he won’t have conclusive test results until January, Jamie has decided not to try the stem-cell replacement therapy again. He says it only gave him a year of remission last time, and it was painful, and depleting, and required him to live in a hospital for a month in total isolation. The only other option is a different kind of chemo, which Jamie seems to prefer. I’m doing my best to stay out of it.

At Jamie’s silence, William presses, “Care to explain?”

Any ease Jamie had possessed has disappeared with his mother’s departure. He’s gone cold. Dead-fish cold. He gazes dully past William’s shoulder into the party. “No.”

“Even though it’s your best chance of remission?” William doesn’t even glance at me. Apparently, I don’t belong in this conversation.

But Jamie murmurs, “There’s Cecelia,” and waves to her across the room. “Come, Ella. Let’s say hello.”

“Jamie,” William says lowly, tightly. “This is not a time to gamble, to be reckless. What about trying the—”

Jamie turns to me as if his father has evaporated. “Shall we?”

I glance guiltily at William and say to Jamie, “Join you in a sec.”

“Be quick about it.” Jamie leaves before I can even metabolize my annoyance at his command.

I take a breath and turn to William, smiling, ready to mollify, to assure him that I’m there for his son. “I guess it’s fair to say that Jamie’s a bit stubborn about his medical decisions. But we’re handling it. In fact, he didn’t get a chance to tell you, but his numbers are really promising right now—”

“Are you quite finished?” William’s gaze snaps to mine like a laser, like he’s scanning me. I freeze. Before I can unfreeze, Antonia returns, all easy smiles, touching her husband’s arm.

“So sorry to interrupt, but we really must go find the table now. The Beauchamps are waiting and you know Matthew won’t have his Scotch until you do and you know how insufferable Caroline finds him until he has had it. Please be sure to find us later, Eleanor,” she says, smiling. “And do take my invitation seriously. We would simply love it if you came to visit us. Wouldn’t that be splendid, William?”

William breaks his stare and then, as if nothing but warmth had passed between us, says, “Splendid.”

Antonia leads him away and I, still mulling over the encounter, cross to Jamie and Cecelia, who stand about thirty feet away, heads huddled together. My unease with William is replaced by a sudden nervousness at approaching Cecelia.