Page 29 of A Smart Girl's Guide to Second Chances
‘Great,’ Alex replied. ‘Can you tell them that there’s a deep cut to at least one artery, but it’s been stemmed. Though it might have been a vessel and it’s more than a couple of centimetres long, so it’ll need stitches.’
He turned back to Jack Wills Guy. ‘We’re all under control. You and I are going to stay like this until the ambos arrive. The most important thing is that we keep this pressure on the wound and keep your arm elevated. Does that sound like a plan?’
The guy, now much less freaked out but still woozy, nodded.
The pub manager, with the authority of someone who regularly announced ‘last orders’, asked the gawking crowd to move into the main part of the pub. I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to linger but also not wanting to abandon Alex at his own celebration drink. I waited for a moment too long in case Alex looked up. But he didn’t – he was totally focused on his patient.
‘Who washe?’ I heard a girl wearing a Teddy Hall scarf ask her friend as we all shuffled out.
I turned back and caught one last glimpse of him, and wondered the exact same thing.
Outside the pub, the dancers and musicians decked out in flowers and bells were gone and people who hadn’t been up since dawn were bustling through the cobbled-stone square on foot and bikes, piles of books in their arms or satchels over their shoulders.
I slowly walked away from the picturesque pale pink building as an ambulance pulled up in front of the entrance. How many family events (and flights) had been derailed by someone in my family stepping in to take charge of a stranger’s medical emergency. I half smiled. The morning had felt so uniquely English, but apparently the ability to lose yourself in a medical emergency was universal. I crossed Radcliffe Square alone, not knowing if I’d ever see Alex Lawson again.
Chapter 14
Two days later, I checked my pigeonhole in the porter’s lodge. And there, among the usual flyers for student plays and club nights, was a thick creamy envelope with my name written on it. I ripped it open. It was an invitation to a dinner the next day to be hosted by the Shelley Society. And scrawled in black ballpoint ink at the bottom was a phone number and a note:I have a lot of time on my hands now that I’ve submitted my thesis. I’m not very good at fun either – maybe we can learn together? Would this dinner make your list? If so, join me. Alex.
I felt a flash of excitement, swiftly followed by a rush of panic. The dress code was black tie.
Given I lived in jeans and jumpers, I needed to enlist the urgent help of Lily. Oxford seemed to have two dress codes: scruffy casual or black tie, nothing in between. I owned a single black formal dress that had been a workhorse over the last two terms for college formal halls and events. But I didn’t want to wear it to this dinner.
The next evening, I stared at myself in the mirror on the inside of Lily’s wardrobe, which I’d raided. Did I look like someone else or like an enhanced version of me? I was wearing Lily’s emerald-green dress, big gold earrings and sparkly deep-green eye shadow. Lily had used her hair straightener to create gentle waves in my hair. I looked like a grown-up woman.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to a secret society event; I hadn’t heard of it even after two years here,’ Lily said. ‘I’m so bloody jealous!’
It was a weird dynamic – Lily was normally the one invited to wild-sounding parties. She was the repository of anecdotes with a beginning, plot twist and end, and I was the audience. But tonight she was the godmother and I was Cinderella – out of my hoodie and into a gown.
Alex had been very blasé about the whole thing when I’d texted him to say I’d love to come:Warning: It will be a bunch of undergrads pretending they’re inBrideshead Revisited.
Obviously this was not enough information, so Lily had done some digging. What she’d found out was that the Shelley Society was one of the college’s oldest secret societies, one that had been around for hundreds of years, and the only one the college officially endorsed. It had its own set of silver. The members met twice a year for a feast in the dining room, which only the college’s academics were normally allowed to use. The whole thing was totally archaic and intimidating.
Lily surveyed her handiwork (my face), added one more swipe of blush to each cheek and then poured us both a glass of our local shop’s cheapest white wine.
As she studied my face again, I looked at hers. There was something off. Her energy wasn’t at her usual full-beam. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘We can talk about it tomorrow,’ she said, looking away.
‘We can talk about it now,’ I said, putting my drink down. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just rejected my place at law school,’ she said. I stared at her for a moment. Lily had been at Oxford for the last two years as a Marshall scholar, doing a master’s degree in art history. Then, she was meant to return home and go to law school.
‘Right,’ I said, trying to sound supportive yet neutral. ‘Why?’
‘Because I really don’t want to be a lawyer,’ Lily said. ‘Or study law.’
‘That’s a good reason,’ I said. ‘So, you’ll... get a job?’
Most of our friends from school had already started working in hard-won grad jobs or entry-level roles. We were already at the tail end of the gainfully employed. And in a few months, I’d be suiting up and joining everyone in the city back home.
‘I’ve applied for another course,’ she said, a hint of defiance in her voice. ‘A jewellery design course at Melbourne Polytechnic. I want to have a crack at making art. You know... be in the arena and all of that.’
‘Wow, amazing!’ I said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible. I knew that I was the test balloon, that she was gauging my reaction before she told her family. Lily’s parents had moved to Australia when she was a kid and devoted their entire lives to their daughters’ educations. Law school represented the prize for all they’d sacrificed for their children – they’d be unequivocally devastated.
‘Have you been thinking about this for a while?’ I asked.
‘Since high school,’ she said, after a moment’s pause. ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’
