I scooted back on the bed to put a little social distance between us.
“Lacey promised to send me every new episode of our favorite show, which is this crazy-bad supernatural soap opera. I think the writers make all their decisions by throwing darts at a bulletin board,” I said. “There are vampires, werewolves, witches, one shape-shifter, a private investigator who can smell the future, and two panthers who seem like they know too much. Actual panthers, not CGI.”
Nick blinked. “Oh no. Night Nick is about to become obsessed with this.”
“Is that your insomniac side?” I guessed.
“More like his evil twin,” he said. “Freddie and I have a running joke about how once it gets late enough, Night Nick takes over, and Night Nick is a total bastard to Day Nick. He does things like watch TV for hours, instead of going to bed. Night Nick once watched all three Lord of the Rings movies instead of resting up for an official appearance with Gran. Day Nick got his ears boxed for it.” He sighed. “At least those are good. Night Nick usually has the worst taste.”
This is true. He is the only person I know who has sought out every cut-rate sequel to every dance movie of the past twenty-odd years, and I once caught him voting in the finals of a web series called So You Wanna Be the Next Real Housewife? (“It will be a crime if Ashleigh doesn’t win this, Bex,” he’d told me seriously. “Just look at her lip implants.”) I’d almost choked on my breakfast when the Guardian recently reported that our go-to TV program is Morning Worship.
Nick rewound the bit of Devour I’d been watching.
“Amazing,” he said. “You’d think the coffin would sink.”
“That’s the part that’s bugging you?”
A knock came at the door. Cilla barged in just as Nick slammed shut the laptop, closely followed by Clive, who tossed him a newspaper. On the front page, in the bottom right corner, a headline read, NICK SAYS NO TO POLO: “Horses Are Terrifying Beasts.”
“Crikey, who did you plant that one with?” Nick asked.
Clive looked smug. “Penelope Six-Names. I told you she was weak.”
“She comes from a long line of fools,” Cilla said. “My great-granddad once saved the life of her great-granddad after he fell on a pitchfork during a routine game of lawn bowling.”
“Oh, ‘fell on,’ right,” Clive said. “Remind me never to play any games with your family.”
“How did you pass the security check?” I joked.
“My dad used to be one of Richard’s PPOs,” Cilla said. “Skills with unconventional weapons were an asset.”
“Did you have to say ‘terrifying beasts’?” Nick frowned, examining the paper. “I don’t have to sound wimpy in these things, you know.”
“Well, I was feeling colorful,” Clive hedged. “And it worked, didn’t it? Penelope is busted. Besides, everyone already thinks you’re afraid of polo.”
“I’m allergic to horses!” Nick yelped. “If this keeps up, I’m going to go on TV and sit on one and then get wheezy and faint and fall off and break my neck and then who will be sorry?”
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re not overreacting,” Clive said mildly. “Speaking of, I haven’t told Gaz about this one yet. I’m not sure how he’ll take it.”
“Why on earth would Gaz care?” Cilla asked, poking through my mail nosily. “It doesn’t involve free beer or potted meat products.”
“He’s shagging Penelope Six-Names,” Clive informed her.
“What?” Cilla was startled. “He never. That useless tart? Since when?”
“The other night at The Bird,” Clive replied. “But now he’ll have to scrap her, I guess, as she’s clearly untrustworthy. Why are you so bothered?”
“I’m not bothered in the slightest,” Cilla said, nose in the air. “I just had hoped for his sake that he had better taste in girls than he does in shirts. Apparently not.”
She turned to me, and I detected a faint blush in her cheeks. “We’re going to The Head of the River. Kitchen is open late tonight and I’m dying for fish and chips. Are you in?” she asked.
“That sounds great,” I said, but just then I saw Nick’s finger twitch. He was jonesing, and besides, I had something that I wanted to ask him. “Um, but I can’t. I’m having some trouble with one of the Hans Holbeins, and Nick agreed to help me out.”
Cilla let out a braying laugh. “Art, Nick? Can you even draw stick people?”
“It’s art history,” he said. “These people painted my entire bloodline. I’m very useful.”
Clive looked disappointed. And, admittedly, rather cute in his England rugby shirt, his glasses slightly crooked, his hair still a Gluggy mess.
“Are you sure?” he asked me. “It’s pub trivia night. Hugh von Huber is hosting, which means it’ll all be questions about historical Germans who were actually very kind.”
“Thanks,” I said, getting up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Another night, I promise. If I screw up the actual university part of Oxford, I’m on the next plane.”
“Suit yourselves,” Cilla said, closing the door, but not before an appraising look at us.
Nick and I were alone again. There was a moment of silence.
“I don’t want you to think—” he began.