* * *
If I had actually harbored fantasies of landing myself a prince, I might’ve been deterred by the intensity of the competition outside the cozy confines of Pembroke. Our college-mates, while clearly interested, were at least accustomed to the sight of Nick, and initially that was the only place I saw him. But off campus, so to speak, the curious eyeballs were more intense. Guys jockeyed to get him on weekend sports teams or present themselves as potential confidantes, the better to boost their own profiles; the ladies were eager for a shot at an heir they couldn’t count on running into every day on their way out of the bathroom. They all tried to be subtle about it, and failed spectacularly. It was like dropping a steak into a rabid pack of horndogs.
The first time I witnessed this was about three hours after I’d hung up the phone with Lacey. I’d begun working my way through Oxford’s pubs in my ten days there before school had started, thanks to the guiding hand of Cilla and the others, and that night I found myself outside on a bitingly chilly night, trudging past several warm and inviting ones.
“Where are we going again?” I asked Cilla, shivering as I tried to keep up. Her stride is all business.
“It’s called The Bird,” she tossed at me over her shoulder. “It’s where C. S. Lewis and Tolkien and some other people got together and gave notes on each other’s manuscripts and probably acted totally unbearable.”
We pulled up our parka hoods against the mounting wind until we came to a plain yellow gabled building with its name in iron gothic letters across the front.
“The Eagle and Child,” I read aloud. “I thought you said it was called The Bird.”
“Same thing,” Cilla said. “It got nicknamed The Bird and Baby because of the pictures on the pub sign, and that got shortened to The Bird.”
“So its nickname has its own nickname?”
“If you think that’s off, wait until Gaz busts out the old Cockney rhyming slang,” Cilla said. “As if he’s not indecipherable enough on his own.”
She paused. “I also finally talked Nick into coming out to toast the start of term, so he’ll be here. Just pretend he’s normal.” She stopped. “Not that he isn’t, but…you know.”
She pushed me inside the pub, where the boisterous, noisy vibe clashed with the unassuming exterior. Fresh paint butted up against original brick and stonework, the walls warped and bulging in some corners. Students sloshed beer over the edges of their pint glasses as they snacked on plates of thick-cut chips, and while the music was loud, the human din was louder. Later on I would flirt with the VIP club scene, but velvet ropes are more Lacey’s speed than mine. I have always preferred a dive.
Cilla scanned the crowd, which wasn’t easy, given that the pub was essentially a long chain of cramped rooms.
“I wish Gaz would invest in a stepstool,” she groused. “His hair would be so easy to spot if he weren’t so bloody short.”
“I think we walked right past them,” I said, gesturing toward the larger of the two front rooms. “Half of the girls in here are loitering over there.”
We peered to our right, and eventually I recognized Nick’s head, and saw that it was bent at an angle toward a group that included golden-blond India Bolingbroke. Standing to either side, like wardens, were Gaz and Joss, chatting up a gloomy guy with six rings in his nose.
“Oi!” Clive called out behind us, coming from the bar and carrying a large tray of shot glasses and Guinness pints. “You’re just in time.”
We let him pass through the crowded, uneven doorway—precious cargo, after all—then pushed through the crush until our hands found the shot glasses.
“Yikes,” I said, pulling back a moment. “I wasn’t expecting it to be warm.”
Nick reached in and took a pint and a shot for India.
“You chase the warm with the cold,” he instructed. “Right, all, this is Bex’s first chaser. Let’s have a toast.”
“Three cheers to the lemons!” Gaz shouted, thrusting his hand in the air so hard that he spilled some whiskey on his cheek.
Cilla nudged me. “See what I mean?” she said. “Not a bloody lick of sense.”
“How about a real toast?” Clive interjected. “One that uses words in a sensible order.”
I held up my shot and thought for a second. “Thanks, everyone, for the warm welcome. Sorry about the Revolution.”
Nick hoisted his pint glass. “We’ll get you next time.”
The warm whiskey went down like sweet, spicy fire. I gulped the Guinness as quickly as I could, and put down my empty glass to see Nick watching approvingly.
“Joss,” he said. “You’re officially spared from The Glug this year. We’ve got a ringer.”
Joss turned away from her date, who looked like Edward Scissorhands up close but without the roiling inner life. “I didn’t want to do it anyway,” she said. “College-sponsored drinking games are the tool of the patriarchy, right, Tank?” Then she nodded toward the door. “Heads up, Clive. Penelope Six-Names, your four o’clock.”
“Not again,” he said, gesturing at an eager-looking girl with straw-like bangs, a sunburn, and two large, full glasses. “Six-Names knows better than to bring him a drink we didn’t see the bartender pour.”
“I have no idea what anyone is talking about,” I said to no one in particular as Clive slipped away to head off Six-Names at the pass.
“Never you mind about The Glug, you’ll soon find out,” Nick said. Then he went very still. “This song is brilliant,” he said.
Everyone around Nick seemed to agree, and pretty soon, our entire room was screaming the chorus of “Wannabe.” Nick smiled wide and shouted along, but—much like how he did not chug his Guinness, and wholly skipped the shot—he let his friends dance and rage around him, freely idiotic, like youthful, well-educated court jesters sans the belled hats. I sensed a reserve in his body language, suggesting he wasn’t as comfortable outside the safety of Pembroke’s walls, and I wasn’t sure if that was natural shyness or the hesitation that comes from knowing you’re not just in the spotlight, you are the spotlight. For me, partying next to Mr. July in the previous year’s unsanctioned Hot Princes of the World calendar ended up being no weirder than walking into a Cornell house party and bumping into half the basketball team. Well-wishers, limelight seekers, curious fans—they’re everywhere. The only difference was that this particular center of attention had a lot more self-control, and a bigger birthright.
And a more protective posse. That night, and many times since, I noticed how seamlessly Gaz and Clive, the PPOs, and a few other acquaintances from Nick’s Eton days knew how to close ranks, no matter where we were (The Bird was a favorite because the small rooms made it easier to keep an eye on their quarry). Girls and guys alike sidled up wearing their ancestries or their social standings on their sleeves, and the lads gracefully deflected them—they were like a human condom, strategically positioned to keep everything treacherous out of the hot zone—which left Nick free to chat up girls who didn’t seem like they wanted something from him beyond what any young thing might want from an attractive guy at a bar. The whole operation ran smoothly enough that it never got in the way unless you were one of the misguided missiles seeking royal heat. India Bolingbroke was on the inside circle; Penelope Six-Names, conversely, peered over Gaz’s shoulder and protested, “I just want to say hi! I’m family! We’re third cousins!”