turning back to me. “Polly, you look awful,” she said, surprised. Then, to make everything better: “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
I burst out laughing. Now I know where my mother got it from. It’s not a personal tic, it’s just English.
“The police came to talk to me,” I told Liv. We faced each other cross-legged on my bed, in my room at the top of St. Peter’s Terrace. The ceiling was all jagged from the slant of the roof and the protruding window. “Well,” I amended. “One policeman. Singular.”
“What? About Nick?”
“Yes. Did someone talk to you too?”
She picked at the clasp of her bracelet. “No. Not yet. Why did they want to talk to you?”
“Somebody said I was Nick’s girlfriend.”
“What?”
“I know.”
“You’re not his girlfriend.”
“I said I know.”
“Why would somebody say that?”
“Because they’re stupid? Why does anybody say anything?”
“What did you tell him?”
“He wanted to know if Nick had problems. I told him that Nick was the last person in the world to be in trouble.” Nick had started life as a coddled baby, become a much-flattered boy soprano, and finished his childhood at fancy boarding schools. He easily attained an undergraduate “first,” the highest grade, at Magdalene, and currently pursued his doctorate there, much doted on by the faculty. He did what he did because he loved it, and had absolutely nothing to prove. I’d never met anyone with such a lack of unfinished business. “Nick is, like, the nicest person I’ve ever known. He’s just … he’s a sweet, gentle person, and I just—”
“You sound like a girlfriend,” she accused me.
“I’m not anybody’s girlfriend, okay? I’m not. And I know you like him. But I can’t make him like you back. Okay? He’s not even here anymore. What is it that you want me to do?”
She sprang across the duvet and hugged me. She did this crying thing that made her head bounce on my shoulder.
Then she showed me a card she’d made for Nick’s family. She’d folded a piece of parchment paper and sketched one of the arches of Pepys Library on the front. “They put those flower baskets up in the spring,” she explained. I felt like a little kid, needing to be told. I’d only been here two months, months too cold for flower baskets. Liv had seen them hanging from the arches last year.
I was surprised by the envelope. “His family is in Cambridge?”
“Sure. They moved here when he was a kid, when he became a chorister at King’s.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Liv sat up straight and smiled. “That’s okay,” she comforted me. “I mean, you’re not his girlfriend, right?”
“He told me about his sister. I just didn’t know she lived here.”
“It’s okay, Polly. You don’t need to get competitive.”
“I’m not!”
But she knew his family address. She knew his parents’ first names. She knew that flowers are hung from the arches of Pepys Library in the spring. She knew everything that I didn’t.
A group of undergraduates made the “Have you seen …?” posters that went up all over town. One of them wanted me to tell them Nick’s eye color, which is when I blathered about his hands.
The poster had two photos on it, recent enough, but both before his last haircut: a formal picture in a tie, and a candid shot of him punting on the river, on one of those thin, flat boats. It wasn’t the time he’d taken me and Liv.
Of course he’d taken many people punting in his life, of course he had…. He had a whole other life, a history. Of course. I wondered who’d taken the photo, who’d been sitting in the boat, looking up at him standing at the end, driving the pole into the water. I was jealous, which was stupid. The posters were everywhere, wet through from that week’s unusual, near-constant rain. Because it had become December, the posters shared space with holly and fir branches, tinsel and little twinkling lights.
The policeman came back to
I burst out laughing. Now I know where my mother got it from. It’s not a personal tic, it’s just English.
“The police came to talk to me,” I told Liv. We faced each other cross-legged on my bed, in my room at the top of St. Peter’s Terrace. The ceiling was all jagged from the slant of the roof and the protruding window. “Well,” I amended. “One policeman. Singular.”
“What? About Nick?”
“Yes. Did someone talk to you too?”
She picked at the clasp of her bracelet. “No. Not yet. Why did they want to talk to you?”
“Somebody said I was Nick’s girlfriend.”
“What?”
“I know.”
“You’re not his girlfriend.”
“I said I know.”
“Why would somebody say that?”
“Because they’re stupid? Why does anybody say anything?”
“What did you tell him?”
“He wanted to know if Nick had problems. I told him that Nick was the last person in the world to be in trouble.” Nick had started life as a coddled baby, become a much-flattered boy soprano, and finished his childhood at fancy boarding schools. He easily attained an undergraduate “first,” the highest grade, at Magdalene, and currently pursued his doctorate there, much doted on by the faculty. He did what he did because he loved it, and had absolutely nothing to prove. I’d never met anyone with such a lack of unfinished business. “Nick is, like, the nicest person I’ve ever known. He’s just … he’s a sweet, gentle person, and I just—”
“You sound like a girlfriend,” she accused me.
“I’m not anybody’s girlfriend, okay? I’m not. And I know you like him. But I can’t make him like you back. Okay? He’s not even here anymore. What is it that you want me to do?”
She sprang across the duvet and hugged me. She did this crying thing that made her head bounce on my shoulder.
Then she showed me a card she’d made for Nick’s family. She’d folded a piece of parchment paper and sketched one of the arches of Pepys Library on the front. “They put those flower baskets up in the spring,” she explained. I felt like a little kid, needing to be told. I’d only been here two months, months too cold for flower baskets. Liv had seen them hanging from the arches last year.
I was surprised by the envelope. “His family is in Cambridge?”
“Sure. They moved here when he was a kid, when he became a chorister at King’s.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Liv sat up straight and smiled. “That’s okay,” she comforted me. “I mean, you’re not his girlfriend, right?”
“He told me about his sister. I just didn’t know she lived here.”
“It’s okay, Polly. You don’t need to get competitive.”
“I’m not!”
But she knew his family address. She knew his parents’ first names. She knew that flowers are hung from the arches of Pepys Library in the spring. She knew everything that I didn’t.
A group of undergraduates made the “Have you seen …?” posters that went up all over town. One of them wanted me to tell them Nick’s eye color, which is when I blathered about his hands.
The poster had two photos on it, recent enough, but both before his last haircut: a formal picture in a tie, and a candid shot of him punting on the river, on one of those thin, flat boats. It wasn’t the time he’d taken me and Liv.
Of course he’d taken many people punting in his life, of course he had…. He had a whole other life, a history. Of course. I wondered who’d taken the photo, who’d been sitting in the boat, looking up at him standing at the end, driving the pole into the water. I was jealous, which was stupid. The posters were everywhere, wet through from that week’s unusual, near-constant rain. Because it had become December, the posters shared space with holly and fir branches, tinsel and little twinkling lights.
The policeman came back to
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