Page 19 of A Smart Girl's Guide to Second Chances
I woke up at 4.29 am, one minute before my alarm. It was the first day of May, and I was seeing Alex again. Dressed and under-caffeinated, I walked from my college room to the High Street. I felt like yelling, ‘May Day!’ in the sinking-ship sense, and running back to bed. An enormous crowd had already amassed and I didn’t have Alex’s number – how were we going to find each other in this heaving mass of people?
Underneath the doubt and panic, emotions that were old friends, was something else. It was excitement, hope even. The chance of seeing Alex again was propelling me forwards through the crowd like some kind of rocket fuel – stronger than Nescafe Blend 43 or even Jägerbombs. I’d only felt like myself twice since the start of Trinity term – each time I’d been with Alex.
I looked up to see if I could spot any blond heads in the crowd and felt compelled to stop. The city’s sky was awash with tinges of blush and tangerine. I rifled through my bag and pulled out my digital camera. I looked at the small screen and took the photo. I hadn’t quite managed to capture what had made me stop, but it was still beautiful. To be deeply moved by spires wasn’t exactly an original thought, but right then I truly believed that I was the only person who had ever felt that way.
‘Hi.’ A deep Australian voice spoke behind me. I turned around and there he was in an unbuttoned navy woollen coat with his college jumper beneath it, black backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked exhausted but his bright blue eyes sparkled.
‘You haven’t slept yet, have you?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he admitted.
‘You know you’re allowed to shift to the local time zone when you move countries,’ I said.
‘It’s not normal to be jet-lagged for three years?’ he asked with mock surprise. I laughed and my nerves settled.
‘I’m considering subletting my bed,’ he added.
‘Don’t do that.’ The words tripped off my tongue before I realised what it sounded like. He raised an eyebrow, and I knew my cheeks would be flushed. ‘I think it’s almost time. Should we try to get further down the street?’ I asked, keen to move the conversation away from Alex’s bed. Whatever effect Alex seemed to have on me couldn’t quash my pathological need to be on time.
‘Yep,’ he said. He offered me his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I took it. It was strong and, just as I remembered, warm.
Together we moved with the tide of people streaming towards Magdalen College. A mix of students, Oxford locals and visitors, who looked like they were at aMidsummer Night’s Dreamcostume party had filled the length of High Street, right down to the bridge. Everyone stared up at the college’s bell tower, waiting for the show to start.
‘I think it’s more fun being up on the roof than down here,’ he said.
Before I could reply, it began. There were six clangs and immediately the buzz of anticipatory chat died down and the crowd stopped jostling. Out of the silence and stillness, a choirin the bell tower began to sing a hymn in what I assumed was Latin (or was it ancient Greek – neither language seemed dead in this city). It was far too early in the day for choral music hardly anyone could understand, sung from a medieval tower to celebrate the arrival of summer. But it was also magical, the kind of thing that only made sense if you were there in the moment.
I snuck a glance at Alex just as he turned to look at me and we smiled at each other. Who was this guy? And why did it feel as if there had been a surge of electricity through my body from where my fingertips met his.
The choir finished the final hymn, which sounded like it had been composed by someone in a fever dream, and the crowd slowly began to clap. Solemn proceedings completed, a street party sprang up around us. Accordions, banjos, trumpets and many varieties of percussion struck up enthusiastically, and we were part of a jolly, if slightly earnest, street party.
‘This country has the most random traditions. I’m obsessed,’ I said.
‘Australia just can’t compete with this level of enthusiastic participation,’ he agreed. ‘Coffee?’
All the cafes in the centre of town had opened hours earlier than usual. The smell of bacon and coffee seemed to be wafting out of every picturesque pastel shop door. My stomach had a Pavlovian response, either to the smell or suggestion, and rumbled.
‘Definitely, yes, and also food,’ I replied.
We took the last tiny table in a cafe that was pumping out breakfast sandwiches and ordered two with coffee. We both drank long blacks and somehow this didn’t surprise me.
‘Do you know what I love about this country?’ Alex asked between enormous bites.
‘Its unproblematic colonial past,’ I guessed. He laughed.
‘Its food,’ he said. I smiled – I suspected that he held a contrarian opinion on most things.
‘No, seriously,’ he continued, ‘I think the thing I’m going to miss most about this country is cheese and onion crisps.’
‘You’re moving home?’ I asked.
‘No. No one’s doing work in my research area in Australia. I’ve applied to Harvard for my post-doc, so I guess I’ll have to get used to a whole new world of snackage.’
I felt an unexpected flicker of disappointment. I didn’t even know him so why did I care that there would soon be half a world between us?
‘So why consulting?’ Alex asked. I smiled. I liked that he wanted to have a real conversation.
‘Do you want the answer I’ve given in job interviews?’ I asked, though I already knew what he’d say.
