“Which story did you plant with me?” I said at the same time.
“See, the thing is,” Nick said, fidgeting, “there are always people with big mouths, or bad intentions, or who just can’t say no in the face of a fat pile of cash. Father told the press to back off and let me be, but sometimes they try to get crafty with the people on the ground here.”
“And you all tell different lies to see which ones end up in the paper,” I reasoned. “Like a trap.”
“It’s harmless,” Nick said. “It’s not like we’re having her executed. Just maybe thrown in the Tower for a week.”
“So what lie did you feed me by the bridge the other day?” I crossed my arms, hurt and put off. “Or was the entire conversation a test?”
“I was hardly camped out there waiting for you to come trotting by at dawn,” he said, sounding defensive. Then he picked uneasily at my quilt. “When I was a child, you couldn’t pick up a paper without reading something salacious about my parents,” he said quietly. “A miscarriage my mother had, some terrible fight, a story about her up all night crying because she’d hugged an old childhood friend and everyone decided he was actually my father. True stories that only someone inside our house would know. My mum…” His voice faltered. “I’ve learnt to be careful. I don’t know how else to do it.”
I studied him for a second.
“I guess I can see your point,” I said. “If every stupid thing I said ran the risk of being in The New York Times, I’d have duct-taped my mouth by now and become a recluse.”
An expression of sadness crossed his face, and realizing what I’d just said, I wished I could’ve done exactly that.
“Dammit,” I cursed. “I’m sorry, I forgot that your mom doesn’t—”
“Never mind,” Nick said. “I know you meant well. She’s…just shy.”
I reached over to squeeze his hand, but caught myself and ended up patting his knee like an affectionate old aunt. “I just mean, I don’t have a right to be mad. I obviously don’t know what I’m talking about.”
He met my eyes. “If it helps, it was different with you. Everything I told you that morning was true.”
Then he opened my laptop. “And I will buy you three plates of fish and chips in exchange for letting me experience this show, and perhaps one of those Twinkies, which look like an equally bad idea,” he said, hitting play. “Let’s get to work.”
Chapter Five
Night Nick and Night Bex were equal parts compatible and self-destructive. One Devour episode led to another, and one shipment of Twinkies became three (Nick liked to stick his fingers in them and eat them like corn dogs, and also prod me in the face). Lacey sent us her DVDs of old seasons so Nick and I could binge on the whole saga from the beginning while we waited for the newest hours, and she was delighted to have what she viewed as a profound impact on Nick’s life.
The more fun I had feeding Nick’s obsession, though, the more often Clive found himself displaced from my bed. While I was never in love with Clive—the closest we got to being official was agreeing that, officially, there were no strings attached—we definitely were involved. There’s no denying it, no revising it, no editing my behavior into something more innocent. Nick’s great-grandmother, Marta, the Queen Mum, once asked me if I was nervous about—and I quote—losing my maidenhead on our wedding night. I snickered before I could catch myself, and she playfully wiggled the scotch in her hand and said, “Too right. A woman can’t bloody well pick her signature drink without sampling the whole bar.”
Not looking to fall in love didn’t mean I didn’t want to sample the cocktails, so to speak, but at Oxford, the bar wasn’t as open as I’d have liked. Half the men we met wanted an in with the Crown, were prone to spouting off on the plight of the landed estates, or just wanted to ask endless conspiracy theory questions, like whether the Queen ever rigged the horse races (no) or requested certain Coronation Street storylines (she says no, but I don’t believe it). Any promising guys without Nick-related agendas lost interest in me once they got wind of who my friends were, and decided I wasn’t worth the fuss. It turned out to be less agita just to walk down the hall, and Clive made himself a habit that was hard to break. He was attentive and witty, and with a bit of coaching, his kissing vastly improved (he’d always been skilled at the rest of it). I thought it was sweet that he’d put his hand on the small of my back to steer me through crowds, and that he bought a hypoallergenic pillow in case I wanted to sleep in his room. But it was hard to untangle that warmth and comfort and familiarity—that pure like—from the other truth of the circumstance: I enjoyed Clive’s company, but I also enjoyed the company Clive kept. Cutting the umbilical cord that yoked me to Lacey for twenty years was so much easier thanks to everyone on my floor not named Bea, and over time, their friendship became my cocoon. Especially because the instant the grapevine gleaned that I had gotten tight with Nick, polite nods and interest in the American newcomer gave way to under-the-breath jokes about my nationality, or snickers about the origin of my family’s money. Assumptions about my motivations had been made, and I was being assessed and found wanting.
“All hail the Sofa Queen,” one guy said at a pub.
“Cheers, BHS!” said another, at breakfast, referencing a British furniture store.