Page 87 of Save Me

“Kind of like this.” He lifts a hand and shakes it exaggeratedly. I love how honest he is.

“But you got through it.”

“Yep.” He smiles encouragingly again. “It’s not rocket science. You’ll be fine.”

I nod, shrug, and shake my head, all at once. Jude laughs, and I pull a face. At that moment, the door opens, and a girl walks outof the office. Her cheeks are red and her lips are bloodless. Apparently, I’m not the only person to be eaten up by nerves. Unfortunately, I don’t get a chance to ask her what it was like as she disappears without a word. The office door shuts again, and I look questioningly at Jude, who still has that reassuring look on his face.

“Don’t worry, she’ll tell you when to go in.”

So now the waiting starts again. By this point, it feels as though I’ve used up all my jitters on just sitting here this long. After five more minutes, my left foot has fallen asleep, and I move it unobtrusively to stop the pins and needles. It feels like there’s a whole anthill dancing around in my ankle boot. I shake my foot out again—and at that exact moment, the door creaks open. The professor comes into sight, and I freeze, my foot hanging in the air at a funny angle.

“Ruby, come in please.” She has a pleasant, calm voice, which acts like a fire blanket on my anxious nerves. I hear Jude behind me say, “Good luck,” but I don’t have the head space to thank him. She holds the door for me, and, as we walk together into the room where my interview will take place, she introduces herself to me as Prudence.

The office is about the size of our living room, but it’s so cluttered that it seems kind of cozy. The furniture looks antique, like it’s been there since the college was founded, and the air smells of old books. The walls are lined with shelves, stacked high with towers of books. There’s another professor sitting at a writing desk on the other side of the room. She’s busily making notes and only looks up when Prudence leads me to a table. I smooth my skirt again and sit up straight on the chair. The two women settle down across the desk from me, open their notebooks, and then lean back.

My heart is pounding in my throat, but I try not to let that show, to look confident. I’m certain that I can do well here. I’m prepared, and I’ve done everything I could to be ready.

I take a deep breath and let the air out again slowly.

“We’re very pleased to meet you, Ruby.” The second academic opens proceedings. “My name is Ada Jenson, and, like Prudence, I teach politics here at St. Hilda’s.” Her voice also has a soothing effect on me, and I wonder how it’s possible for some of the cleverest women in the country also to have the skill of making people feel at ease in a situation like this.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I answer, then clear my throat. My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed something sticky that’s got caught on the way down.

“We’ll get started right away,” Prudence continues. “Can you tell me why you’d like to study here?”

I stare at her. I wasn’t expecting that. Everything I’ve read about these interviews suggested that the opening question would be directly related to the course. I can’t help myself—a grin spreads over my face. So I tell them. Everything. I tell them how I got interested in politics when I was little and that I’ve dreamed of studying at Oxford since I was seven. I tell them that my twelfth birthday present from my dad was subscriptions toTheSpectatorandTheNew Statesmanand that he spent hours watching televised debates in parliament with me. I tell them about my passion for organization and debating and my longing to change things for the better. I try not to suck up too much while emphasizing that Oxford is the best university for me, the place I can learn what I need to get to my goals.

I’m almost out of breath when I finish, and I can’t tell whether or not they’re satisfied with my answer. I wasn’t exactly expectingthem to high-five me or whatever, so that doesn’t worry me. After that, they do ask me questions about politics. I try to make good arguments and not be fazed by their follow-up questions. The whole interview is over in no more than about fifteen minutes.

“Thank you for the conversation,” I say, but Ada is already deep in her notes and doesn’t hear me. Prudence brings me to the door and smiles again as she says goodbye. I follow suit, then walk outside. The door closes behind me, and, all of a sudden, I feel utterly exhausted.

Sitting on the chair opposite me is the same boy who smiled at me in the common room earlier on. I remember the girl with pale lips who vanished before I could even speak to her. I’d have loved a few encouraging words from her, but now I understand why she fled so fast. Now that the adrenaline is ebbing away, I just want to get out of this building, into the fresh air. Even so, I force myself to speak. “You’ve got this, good luck,” I say honestly, then head outside, trying to find my way back to my room.

27

Ruby

I spend the rest of the day exploring the college. I get a takeaway coffee, stroll around the lawns and extensive grounds, and look inside the buildings where my student guide tells me PPE is taught. I’m thrilled to mingle with the real students, and, at one point, I’m so deep in thought that I accidentally wander into a lecture theater. Nobody seems to notice me, so I sit cautiously down in the back row and spend the next hour and a half listening to a lecture on the work of Immanuel Kant.

The best ninety minutes of my life.

In the evening, applicants to all Oxford colleges are invited to the Turf Tavern, a legendary pub frequented by all kinds of famous people, including Oscar Wilde, Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Taylor, Margaret Thatcher, and the cast ofHarry Potter. I get to the meeting place given on my timetable way too early, but I’m not the only one. There are some of the people I recognize from the common room this morning among the little chattering groups, and Jude is here too. He greets me with his beaming smile and immediately starts to ask me about my interview. Once everyone’s arrived, weset off. The pub is about a mile and a half from St. Hilda’s. Our route takes us over Magdalen Bridge, beneath which the River Cherwell glitters in the orange-red light of the setting sun. We pass a deer park, and a few of the animals look up curiously, twitching their ears at the sound of us. Like most of the others, I stretch out my hand to them, but they clearly aren’t tame enough to stroke. They all turn tail and bolt away across the Grove. After that, we walk between old buildings, sometimes on paths that are only just wide enough for two people to go side by side.

It’s starting to get dark. If I’d been alone, I’d have been scared in these alleyways, but Jude is at my side, telling me about his studies and taking my mind off things. I’m hanging on his every word. Everything I’ve seen today, and what he’s telling me now, is deepening my longing to study here. I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I do Oxford. Now that I’ve had a taste, I’d be crushed if I didn’t make it. Can I do this? I don’t know. I really don’t want to have to fall back onto plan B.

Suddenly, the path opens out. There are streetlights shining up ahead, while scraps of conversation and music fill my ears. A few minutes later, we emerge into a courtyard crammed with people. Most of them look like students, and they’re chatting and drinking pints of beer.

Our group weaves between them to the Turf Tavern door. It’s an ancient, half-timbered building, with dark beams running diagonally across the white plaster. The roof is wonky, and in places, it’s overgrown with moss. Some people have managed to get seats under umbrellas outside the pub. It’s cold enough that I can see my misty breath in the air, so it’s hardly surprising that most of them are wrapped up in thick coats, scarves, and woolly blankets.

There’s a chain of colorful lights running along beneath thesign and above the front door, which is dark green with peeling paint. Jude holds it open for me, and I step inside the pub.

It feels practically medieval in here. The Turf has a low ceiling and rough, bare stone walls. There are little wall sconces, while the lamps over the tables have shades like dinner plates. We’re led down a narrow corridor to an area behind and to one side of the noisy main bar.

Given Jude’s height—in here, it feels like he’s about six-six—I can’t see much apart from his back in front of me.

But then I hear it. A laugh I know very well.

Jude walks over to one of the tables reserved for us and pulls out a chair. The others all start looking for seats while I stand there, staring at the group who’ve bagged the table next to ours. Sitting there are Wren, Alistair, Cyril, Camille, Keshav, Lydia, and…James.

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