The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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Unusual Revelry

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As Rosie's birthday approached, both of the boys approached me separately to ask advice about presents.

“Last year we just bought wine, but I feel like we should try a bit harder now that we live together.” Harrison picked up a copy of The Universe in a Nutshell, turned it over to look at the back cover, then put it back with a grimace and a shrug. “She's probably read most of these.”

We were browsing the shelves in Innes, combing our way through the science section. “You don't have to get her a book,” I pointed out. “Other presents are available.”

“I know.” He smiled ruefully. “But I don't want to fall back on all the obvious girly stuff.”

“She likes girly stuff.”

“But she hates it when people assume that's all she likes.”

“Point,” I acknowledged. I put back an intriguing volume on the physics of music and rubbed my nose, thinking. “How about something to do with knitting?”

His smile widened into a cheeky grin. “Do we want to encourage that?”

“Yes! She enjoys it! Don't be mean.” I elbowed him, although my mouth curled of its own accord as I thought of the strange, misshapen green disc she had proudly insisted was a beret. “Maybe tickets to something?”

“Maybe. Aspects of Love is on in Edinburgh in a couple of months. We could all go; a matinée wouldn't be too expensive.”

“Don't give Theo ideas,” I cautioned. “He was asking me the other day whether it would be too much to buy her jewellery.”

“Oof.” Harrison's brows dipped, and worry pooled in his dark eyes. “What did you say?”

“That it depended on the jewellery. I probably should have just said yes and told him to get something else, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings. It's like kicking a puppy.”

Harrison nodded. “Is she definitely not interested?”

“I haven't asked her. If I did, it would be obvious why.”

“Mmm.”

We wandered back out onto South Street. In the courtyard in front of Holy Trinity, sweet, sad music drifted lightly from a student's flute. I stretched, basking in the delicate warmth of the late winter sun.

“The thing is,” Harrison said slowly, “they would actually be good together.”

“That's not up to us. And they're friends.” I shrugged. “That complicates things.”

Harrison gave me a sidelong look. “What about Luc?”

“What about him?”

“Does she really like him, or is it just...you know...the usual?”

“The usual?” I laughed.

“You know. Like she was with Mark. Pretty new face, seems unattainable...”

“I'm not sure I'd call Luc pretty.” Although with his tall, broad frame, tan skin and sharp eyes, he was certainly striking. “And I honestly don't know.” I glanced at him. “How are things going with Mark, anyway?”

Harrison grinned. “Brilliant. He's such a good teacher; he won't let me get away with anything.”

“Meaning?”

“Wavering vibrato, nasal projection, sliding onto notes – he picks up everything, even tiny stuff, and helps me find a better way to do it. He's incredible.” His eyes grew thoughtful. “And it's not just the technical stuff. Somehow he...he really gets me to feel what I'm singing. Not the story or the meaning – something deeper than that. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” I exhaled slowly. “Yes, it does.”

“Although...”

I stopped to examine the display in the window of the fishmonger. “What?” Not quite casual enough, I thought with an internal wince.

“Claire, is he English?”

It wasn't the question I expected – but there was no use pretending I didn't know what he was talking about. “No.”

Harrison nodded slowly. “So Mark Lowry isn't his real name.”

That, I wasn't going to answer. “What makes you ask?”

“His accent, mainly. It took me ages to pick it up, but there's...there's a lilt to it sometimes. Not Welsh, exactly. I thought it might be Scandinavian, but I don't know. I'm not a linguist.”

But he was musical, and he had a good ear. I supposed it wasn't really a shock that he'd noticed.

“Rosie's not right, is she?” He shot me a quick grin. “With her exiled prince theory?”

I laughed, and borrowed a response from Mark. “What do you think?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Well, then.”

He tilted his head. “Still not going to tell me?”

“I can't.”

He nodded, then arced his back and tipped his face towards the sun. “God, that feels good.” His eyes widened, and I knew he'd had an idea. “Hey – shall we get ice cream?”

“Harrison!” I shook my head, smiling. “We had breakfast...what, an hour ago?”

“Exactly. Time for elevenses.”

“Did you change places with a Hobbit in your sleep?” I slipped my arm through his. “Come on, then. Jannetta's it is.”

***

I watched Rosie closely in the next couple of rehearsals, trying to work out how deep this crush on Luc went – but it was difficult to say for certain. She went through her standard performance of trying harder with her clothes and hair, but she was her usual sunny self with him, not at all awkward or shy. Luc, too, was hard to read; he was friendly towards her, but then again he was friendly towards almost everyone. If anything, he seemed more intent on getting to know Harrison and Theo – and, bizarrely, me.

“I am sorry for what I said about the wig,” he said one evening, his eyebrows crinkled in concern. “I hope it didn't upset you?”

“Of course not.” I looked up from my score and smiled. “It was awful. I looked like an old hag.”

He smiled back playfully. “I am sure you did not.”

I thought back to when I'd met Mark outside the Union, grey wig askew, cigarette in hand. “No, I definitely did.” I closed my score and shifted my bag off the seat next to me. “How are you finding St Andrews?”

“It's different. And cold.” He sat down, almost hesitantly. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It's about your friend.”

I braced, and readied a mental list of evasions and subject changes. Harrison was one thing, but I wasn't about to start discussing Mark with a stranger I'd known for barely two weeks.

“Theo.”

“Oh!” I completely failed to smother my surprise. “You might be better asking Harrison, to be honest.”

Luc made a non-committal noise and glanced towards the front of the auditorium, where Harrison and Theo were playing about with blocking for 'Red and Black.' “He doesn't seem to like me much. I wondered why.”

I flicked my eyes towards Rosie, who was busy handing out cotton caps to the factory girls, then quickly looked back again before Luc noticed. It wouldn't be fair to give her away. “Theo...Theo can be moody. I live with him, and we rub each other up the wrong way all the time. I wouldn't worry about it.” I gave an apologetic smile; I'd avoided Luc's question, and he knew it. “But he's lovely, really. He just takes some getting to know.”

“Should I try harder?”

“I wouldn't.” I wondered why he'd want to, but kept my curiosity to myself. “It's usually better to give him space. He'll come round eventually.” Maybe. I glanced at Rosie again, when Luc was safely distracted by the arrival of Aaron and Roosevelt; she caught my eye and smiled widely, and then went back to her box of props.

I did take Theo to one side later, when Luc was chatting intently to Harrison about techniques for extending vocal range. 

“You need to stop being so rude,” I told him without preamble.

“I'm not!”

“You are. Why do you think he's going out of his way to talk to you? He thinks he's offended you somehow.”

Theo's gaze strayed across the room to Rosie.

“Stop it,” I said sharply. “I know you like her. I know it's hard. But you're not helping anything by sulking every time she so much as looks at someone else.”

His cheeks coloured. 

“What happened when you took her out for dinner that night?” I asked him more gently.

“It was nice.” He fidgeted with his cuff. “Really nice. And there was this one night in Glasgow – Harrison had gone off to the bar, and it was just the two of us, and she said she was sleepy and she leaned on my shoulder...” He shrugged, looking puzzled and a little hurt. “I don't know. We'd both had a bit to drink.”

In vino veritas? I wondered. “Just try to be nice to Luc,” I said aloud. “You don't have to be his best friend – but at least stop being a prat. She won't like you any better for it.” 

He smiled guiltily. “I know.”

I kept an eye on them for the rest of the evening. Theo defrosted a little, although Harrison's attempts to draw him into conversation with Luc resulted in some very stiff and awkward body language.

“He's like...I don't know...an offended bear,” I complained as I walked along Lade Braes with Mark the next day.

Mark laughed. “I'm not sure that I'd compare Theo to a bear.”

“Maybe not.” I twirled a stem of grass between my fingers. “Although it's more flattering than comparing him to a sulky toddler, which is nearer the truth.”

“A bear cub?” Mark suggested.

I thought about it. Wide eyes, appealing expression, very little idea of how the world worked and a bumbling, care-free attitude to finding out? “That's more like it.”

Snowdrops carpeted the slope to our right. To our left, where the path dropped sharply away, a wandering Labrador nosed through the fallen branches and peeping greenery. Light from a low, fat sun slanted through the trees, and the trunks cast reaching shadows across the park.

“And Rosie's still pining?” Mark aked eventually as we neared the old watermill. 

“Pining isn't the right word. You know what she's like.”

He smiled wryly. “Perhaps I should be glad that Luc has distracted her.”

“I think she'd given up on you before this semester even started.”

“Hmm.” He perched on the edge of the little stone bridge over the Kinnessburn. “Just as well. We may not be able to rely on Luc to distract her for much longer.” 

“What do you mean?” 

He lifted an eyebrow, and his smile grew serene. “If you haven't worked it out then I'm not going to tell you.”

I folded my arms. “You can be completely infuriating; has anyone ever told you that?”

He put a hand to his chest and blinked wide, wounded eyes.

“Oh, stop,” I laughed, and sat down next to him. The stone was cool and damp through my jeans; I wriggled a little so I was sitting on my coat instead. “Come on. What do you know that I don't?”

The silky waters of the burn slipped and hissed over the rocks beneath us. “You mean you have no idea why Luc has been so anxious to befriend Theo?”

“Well, I assume it's because Theo's made it pretty clear he doesn't like him. Nobody wants to think that someone feels that way about them.”

Mark shrugged, still looking smug. “That's partly it. But it doesn't explain why he goes out of his way to talk to you.”

“Should he not want to talk to me?”

Mirth sparkled in his eyes. I sighed, thinking of the Hobbits' complaints about Elves not speaking plainly. “What?”

“You can't think of any reason why Luc might want to be on good terms with the two people in St Andrews that Harrison is closest to?”

I thought of Harrison and Luc at the last rehearsal, swapping vocal tips and techniques, of Harrison's admiration, his uncharacteristic blushes. “Oh.” Heat crept across my cheekbones. “Well. Now I feel like an idiot. How long has that been going on?” And why didn't Harrison tell me? I wondered.

“There's nothing going on at the moment, I don't think. I'm not even sure that Harrison's realised – certainly not that it's mutual.”

I smiled slowly, remembering our conversation on South Street. “He was asking me about Luc the other day, and how serious Rosie was – oh, shit.” I put my hands into my hair. “Rosie...”

“Indeed.”

I groaned. “'O time, thou must untangle this, not I...'”

“'It is too hard a knot for me t'untie,'” Mark finished. “Very apt.”

“Good grief.” I shook my head – and then looked at him sharply, remembering what else Harrison had said as we'd wandered through town in search of birthday presents. “Anyway, speaking of knots, we might have a problem.”

His face sobered. “Oh?”

I relayed the conversation. “Of course I didn't tell him anything he hadn't worked out for himself,” I added. “But...well.”

“Indeed.” He drew up one knee and gazed thoughtfully along the burn, where a heron was swooping close to the water. “What do you suggest?”

I combed my fingers through my hair, gently unravelling the tangles knotted in by the wind. “I'm not sure. I've been saying for weeks that we should tell them something, but I have no idea what.”

“Neither do I.” He quirked his mouth humourlessly. “I can't even tell them as much as I told you, before you realised the whole truth.”

“No.” I could imagine how the others would react to that – the wary, closed-down look in Harrison's eyes, Rosie hurt and disappointed. Theo...Theo, like me, had wondered if Mark might be ex-Secret Intelligence, and then there was his grandfather's friend. If we made that our cover story, then oddly, out of all of them, he might understand – but I'd also assured Harrison that the secret I was keeping wasn't dangerous. It was probably too late now to try and pass Mark off as a deep cover operative. Not that it would be very believable anyway; I doubted that field agents, active or retired, made a habit of telling their stories to second year undergraduates.

“Do you see now why I don't let people get too close?”

He still smiled, but it was a light, brittle thing. I slipped my hand into his and rested my cheek on his shoulder. “Don't. Please. We'll come up with something.”

“Ever the optimist.”

“I try.” I squeezed his hand, and hesitated. “You will come on Saturday, won't you?”

“Yes.” There was a flash of mischief in his smile. “I've heard Rosie's plans. Don't worry, I'm not going to abandon you.”

I nudged him gently in the ribs. “You'd better not.”

***

On the day of the party I got Harrison and Theo to take Rosie out while I got the flat ready. Harrison found some online vouchers for half price student entry into Deep Sea World at Queensferry, so they were gone straight after breakfast and not due back until late afternoon.

Luckily, the flat was reasonably clean and tidy. We'd been better at keeping it that way since Mark started spending more time with us; the floors were hoovered regularly, laundry was no longer left draped over doors and bannisters, and mugs were emptied and transferred to the dishwasher instead of being left to gather lumps of fluffy mould in forgotten corners. I cleared down the surfaces, smiling a little when I came across a couple of Mark's Philosophy books that he'd left behind, and wiped everything over with a duster. The air tasted of furniture polish after that, so I opened the windows to let in the fresh sea air, set a couple of scented candles burning, and turned my attention to food. Nothing complicated here, either. Rosie had requested standard party food – chipolatas, sandwiches, pizza, crisps and dips. Most of it was ready to go, and just needed chopping into small pieces that could be easily picked up and nibbled.

The cake, though, Rosie didn't know about.

My Grandma had taught me to bake when I was younger, after reviewing the Home Economics curriculum on the school website and sniffing that it was joyless, unimaginative and Puritanical. 

“Vegetable gratin? Fruit salad? Coleslaw?” I remembered her asking incredulously. “Where's the skill? Where's the fun?”

And so, with a very young Harrison following us around licking bowls and getting underfoot, she had shown me how to cream butter and sugar, how to be sure a sponge was perfectly cooked, how to pipe icing, how to stop pastry from crumbling into dust, and (importantly for hungry children) how to make cake in the microwave in a mug. It wasn't a skill set I used much now; I'd fallen out of the habit in London, but I still had the battered collection of Be-Ro pamphlets she'd presented me with, bound together with a rubber band and tucked safely inside a plastic wallet on the bookshelf.

“Don't lose them,” she'd instructed me as I packed for university. “You can't get these any more.”

I sifted through them now, fingering their ripped, fuzzy edges and smiling affectionately at the line drawings of pristine housewives spooning batter into cake tins. I'd already decided what I was making; Rosie loved ginger-flavoured anything, so I was going to make a traditional Yorkshire parkin and cover it in buttercream icing. This, though, was where things had the potential to go awry. I wanted to swirl pink food colouring through the buttercream to create a ripple effect, and then pipe icing roses onto the cake – but I was worried I might be overestimating my artistic capabilities. 

The end result, though, wasn't half bad. It didn't look exactly like the Youtube tutorial, but it was recognisably a cake covered in pink buttercream flowers. I was happily admiring my handiwork and inhaling the sweet, spiced scent that hung in the air when the buzzer went off in the hall.

“It's open,” I called into the intercom, and unlatched the door.

While Mark made his way up, I carefully added a few extra swirls with the palette knife, keeping my hand steady as I heard the door click open.

“Very nice.”

I turned and grinned. Mark wore dark jeans and a crisp, expensive white shirt, and he carried a bouquet of tightly furled blush-pink roses. “Great minds.”

He smiled, and placed them carefully on the counter. “Twenty.”

“They're gorgeous. She'll love them.”

“I hope so.”

I unlaced my apron, and we headed through to the living room. Mark lifted his eyebrows at the sight of the bottles of luminous soda I'd bought from Jannetta's – red kola, Irn Bru, blue bubblegum, and limeade the colour of kryptonite. “Is Rosie taking a chemistry elective?”

“You know she isn't.” I grinned at his bemused expression. “You must have seen fizzy pop before. Even you're not that much of a hermit.”

“Of course I've seen it; I just don't understand why anyone would drink it.”

I resisted the temptation to make an age-related joke. “Well. Anyway. Rosie said she wanted the same kind of party we used to have when we were little, except with alcohol involved.” I gestured at the bottles of cheap supermarket spirits lined up alongside the soda, and then back at the kitchen. “Hence sausage roles, vodka jelly babies, and party games.”

He settled himself on the big sofa. “Sounds like a dangerous combination.” A lopsided smile. “Are you sure you don't need help with anything?”

“No, it's all done. We just need to bring it through before people start arriving.” I glanced at my watch. “And I need to get ready; once Rosie's back, I'll have no chance of getting near the bathroom...”

Finding something to wear proved unexpectedly challenging. I no longer fitted into a number of my cocktail dresses from London, and most of my day-to-day clothes were casual bordering on scruffy. I spread my erstwhile party attire out on the bed, feeling faintly regretful – and guilty at the amount of money I'd spent on them.

And on the shoes and bags to go with them, a malicious voice reminded me. And I knew there was more in my wardrobe back in Sheffield – designer suits, leather totes, silk scarves, a couple of expensive watches. It was a wonder I'd managed to save any money at all. I wondered whether it was worth putting the lot of it on eBay, or whether maybe I should try to lose weight and fit back into it – no. I stopped that train of thought firmly. Keeping skinny by starving myself and smoking was not a habit I was prepared to fall back into.

In the end I settled on a silky navy-blue slip dress that didn't cling too closely, and a pair of silver heels. Not very practical for the uneven streets of St Andrews, but they were pretty, and I didn't often have the excuse. I pinned half of my hair into a bun on top of my head, barrel-curled the rest, added a few dabs of makeup – and then the front door opened and I heard Harrison, Rosie and Theo tumble into the hallway.

“...ugh, it felt like cat sick...”

“It was sweet!”

“Oh my God, no, it was disgusting...”

“Rosie touched a starfish,” Harrison explained as I left the bathroom. He looked me up and down, and smiled. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” 

He squeezed my shoulders as Mark emerged from the living room and presented Rosie with the flowers; she squealed and flung her arms around him.

“Oh, these are beautiful, thank you so much!” 

Mark looked startled for a moment, and then hugged her back. “You're welcome. Happy birthday.”

She disentangled herself and turned to me, the roses cradled carefully in her arms. “Claire, do we have anywhere to put these?”

“The kettle?” Theo suggested.

I elbowed him. “Don't be such an idiot. There's a vase in the box room upstairs.” Which Mark would have known perfectly well, of course; he slept up there often enough.

Rosie smiled and headed off to put her flowers in water. When she came back, the rest of us had gathered in the living room. We'd placed our presents in a small pile next to the cake and laid the food out on trays on the dining table, which had been extended to its maximum length and pushed up against the far wall. Balloons in pink and white and silver were taped to the corners of the ceiling, and boxes of party poppers were stacked on the windowsill. We'd be cleaning up the mess for weeks, I knew, but it was worth it.

“Oh, guys.” Rosie put a hand to her mouth. “It's amazing. Thank you so much.” 

“It was mostly Claire,” Theo admitted. “Actually, to be honest, it was nearly all Claire.”

“Did you do all this while we were out?” she asked, hugging me.

“It didn't take me long.” I kissed her cheek. “And it was fun. Happy birthday.”

“Come on.” Theo took her hand and towed her to the armchair. “Presents.”

In the end, Harrison had bought a big picture frame and filled it with photographs. There were pictures from their first year – dinners in halls, Friday night Bops in the Union, snow in St Salvator's Quad – and from this year, including, I was surprised to see, one of Mark on stage during Pirates.

“Does he know you took that?” I asked quietly as Rosie exclaimed over the collage of memories.

“I wasn't the only one with my phone out at the end.” Harrison gave me a sharp look. “Does it matter?”

I glanced at Mark, who was smiling at a picture of Harrison giving Theo a piggyback down Market Street. “Maybe not.”

“Claire...”

But Rosie had turned her attention to my presents – a baby blue pashmina, and a book of beginner's knitting patterns. 

“It's beautiful.” She stroked the soft material. “I'm going to wear it tonight.”

“Don't spill your cocktails on it,” Theo grinned.

She folded it carefully back into the tissue paper. “Alright, maybe not.”

“Open mine.” He passed her a tall, slim gift bag. “I got you the traditional bottle of wine, of course.” His cheeks flushed as she drew out a bottle of pink Sancerre – her favourite. “But I also got you these.”

Her eyebrows crinkled as he passed her a small, emerald-green box. “What is it?”

“What does it look like?” His tone was light, but there was a nervous waver in his smile. 

Carefully she undid the catch and tipped the lid back. “Oh!” Her eyes lit – and then she looked up at him, the pink in her own cheeks deepening. “Theo, they're...wow.”

Theo's blush crept up to his temples. “Do you like them?”

“Yes.” She moved to hug him, then hesitated, as though suddenly shy. “Are you sure? It's a lot, for a birthday present.”

He shrugged. “I just thought they'd suit you.”

She laid the box to one side and slid her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” 

Curiously, I picked the green box up. It contained a tiny, perfect pair of pearl studs – vintage, I guessed, from their gently faded lustre. I tilted them towards Mark, who lifted an eyebrow, and Harrison, who mouthed a whistle.

For the record, Theo, probably too much, I thought. But Rosie didn't seem to mind. After a few moments she let him go; I passed her the earrings and she looked between them and Theo, her blue eyes thoughtful, as though working her way through one of her beloved equations.

“Come on.” Harrison nudged Theo. “We need to get ready; people will be here soon.”

“Yeah.” Theo sounded faintly dazed. “Yeah, you're right.”

“Hold on, you two had better not kidnap the bathroom,” Rosie objected.

“How long do you need in there?” teased Harrison.

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, hours and hours.”

They chattered away as they headed upstairs with the presents, and the atmosphere shifted back to something approaching normal.

“Well.” I bent to pick up the discarded wrapping paper.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you think the penny's dropped?”

Mark's smile was soft and amused. “I would say it's balancing precariously on the edge.” He passed me a tag that had been knocked half-under the sofa.

“Thanks.” I tipped the whole lot into the wastepaper basket. “I suppose the question is, what will she do when she does work it out?”

The smile faded, and he shook his head. “That, I can't say.”

“Mm.” I checked the time. “Drink?”

He flicked his eyes towards the bottles of Jannetta's soda, then folded his arms, his face the picture of elegant disdain.

“I've hidden the good stuff. There's some Islay gin in the kitchen.”

“That sounds more like it.”

Harrison and Theo soon rejoined us; Rosie, predictably, took longer, and emerged dressed in skin-tight white jeans and a strappy lace top, just as Harrison let Aaron and Luc into the flat. I watched Theo carefully as Luc kissed Rosie on both cheeks; his eyes darkened, but he gave a friendly smile when Luc turned to him, and shook his hand and went to get him a drink.

The flat was soon filled with members of the Les Mis cast and crew, Rosie's fellow physicists, and faces I vaguely recognised from St Salvator's Hall the year before. Rosie perched on a chair arm, carefully positioned so the lamplight gleamed on her bare shoulders and glossy blonde hair. Harrison played the part of host perfectly, making sure people had drinks and food, managing the background music, and chatting happily to everyone who stopped him. Every so often his gaze would stray to the big sofa, where Theo sat with Luc and Aaron and Xander. I caught Mark's eye; he smiled and gave a lazy wink.

I told you so.

Oh, stop showing off...

“Hello, beautiful.”

Ariana. I grinned and pulled her into a tight hug, breathing in the peach-and-jasmine smell of her perfume. “Hi.”

“Nice dress.” She stepped back, took one of my hands, and made me twirl. “Very nice – stand still.” I felt cool fingers on my back as she inspected the label. “Ooh...left from the London days?”

“How did you guess?” I laughed, turning back to her.

“Poor lowly postgraduates don't spend their money on Ghost silk.” Her brown eyes flashed. “I'm very jealous. Maybe I should rethink my career path.”

“You'd be mad to do anything but music,” I told her.

She smiled. “Oh, you are sweet.”

“She's also right.” Mark looped an arm around my waist. “And I don't say that lightly.”

“What? That I'm right?” I teased.

“No.” His mouth curled. “That someone should make music their career.”

She shrugged, rolling her empty wine glass between her fingertips. “It's what I'd like to do, but it's risky. I don't know that I'm good enough.”

“You are.” He glanced across the room. “And perhaps Harrison too, if he works at it.”

I looked up at him, startled and pleased to hear him confirm what I'd suspected since Harrison was in his early teens.

“Yes, you're teaching him now, aren't you?” Ariana narrowed her eyes. “I still can't understand why you don't sing professionally.”

Mark opened his mouth to reply – but Rosie chose that moment to announce games, and there was a chaotic flurry as people finished eating, refilled drinks and rearranged furniture, and he was saved the trouble of an explanation.

I joined in with charades and Pictionary, and was called into service as a referee for Stations, since I'd hidden the cards and it wouldn't be fair for me to take part. I nearly fell over with laughter as people went hunting through the strangest places in the flat for train timetables – although when Theo tried to scramble out of a window, I had to hastily reassure everyone that I hadn't stuck any to the outside of the building.

“Well, you never know,” said Theo sheepishly as he clambered back inside. 

When there were calls for Ratchet Screwdriver, though, I flatly refused to participate.

“What's this one?” Mark murmured in my ear.

“It's a bit like rugby – except with kissing, and fewer rules.” I watched warily as the others coupled themselves off. “You sit in a circle in pairs, one of you behind the other, and then there's one person in the middle. The person in the middle calls out a condition, like...I don't know...everyone with a pet goldfish. If anyone on the inside of the circle fills that condition, they have to try and get to whoever's in the middle and kiss them on the cheek, and their partner has to stop them.” I gave a wry smile. “Last time I played I had bruises up my ribs for a fortnight.”

“I see.” Mark settled himself beside me on the windowsill. “In that case, I think I'll watch.”

Harrison changed the soundtrack from Beyoncé to Metallica. Rosie protested, but I had to agree that the deep, warped guitar chords and thundering drumbeats suited the frenzy of the game. He'd paired off with Theo; Rosie sat on Xander's lap; Ariana was in the middle.

“Anyone with black or brown hair,” she called – and a lawless scramble ensued, from which Harrison emerged victorious.

“Is it possible to win this game?” Mark asked as Ariana took Harrison's place with Theo, the circle was reassembled and the pairs switched roles.

“I think the winner is the one with the fewest bruises.”

Harrison scanned the circle, clearly thinking. “Anyone who isn't British,” he announced.

Several bodies launched forward. Rosie seized Xander in a startlingly powerful grip; Theo wrestled with Ariana; two of Rosie's classmates shrieked and flailed about on the carpet. Luc, though, leapt clear of Rob's ineffectual attempts to hold onto his shirt, and instead of kissing Harrison on the cheek, he grazed his lips against the corner of his mouth. 

Harrison, who so rarely blushed at anything, turned red to the roots of his hair.

Theo was still playfighting on the floor with Ariana and hadn't seen the kiss, or Harrison's triumphant yet disbelieving expression, or the teasing, confident smile Luc flashed at Harrison as he took his place in the middle of the circle. 

Rosie, on the other hand, had seen everything.

Oh, dear. I looked at Mark, who shook his head and smiled helplessly.

After a few more rounds, I decided it was time to call a halt and shepherd everyone out of the flat before something got broken. Coats and jackets were retrieved from cupboards; I gathered as many glasses as possible and dumped them into the sink; there was a short debate about the merits of The Rule (nearer and cheaper) versus Ma Bell's (better cocktails, and an outside chance of spotting someone famous), but in the end it was Rosie's choice.

“It's my birthday,” she declared, “and we can go to The Rule whenever we like.”

“Ma Bell's it is, then,” Harrison nodded.

She gave him a slightly awkward smile.

In the noisy fuss of leaving, I managed to take Mark to one side.

“You don't have to come for this part if you don't want to,” I told him, knowing that his preference probably wouldn't be for spending the evening with a bunch of drunk, noisy undergraduates – but then again, neither would mine.

“What are your plans?” he asked, shrugging on his leather jacket.

I smiled and shook my head at the boisterous procession out of the door. “I'll go with them for one drink, and then leave them to it.” It wasn't far from Ma Bell's to The Jigger; I thought longingly of their small, quiet common room and cheerful open fire. “I think there might be a glass of whisky somewhere with my name on it.”

“Well, in that case...” He held the door open for me. “After you.”

As we headed across to The Scores, I kept an eye on the two of them – and on Theo, and Luc. Harrison and Rosie walked at the front of the group, talking quietly. Theo was on the phone – to Byrdie, I realised, and did my best to tamp down on my instinctive irritation. Luc walked with Xander, Aaron and some of the other theatre boys, laughing and joking and very carefully not looking in Harrison's direction. Harrison didn't make eye contact with him either, but he'd have had to turn round; it would have been rather obvious.

Eventually, Rosie slipped her arms around Harrison's waist and gave him a brief, sideways hug. I sighed with relief. No harm done there.

Ariana sidled up to me and linked our arms. “You look thoughtful, darling.” 

“Do I?” I smiled quickly, and lied, “I'm just worrying about work, that's all. It feels a lot scarier from this side of Christmas.”

She snorted. “That's what you're thinking about? Tonight?”

I shrugged and feigned a guilty grin. 

“Alright.” We were nearing Ma Bell's; she pulled off her gloves and began wriggling out of her coat. “Here's what's going to happen. When we get inside, you're going to find a table, and I'm going straight to the bar. We're getting a huge cocktail each, and by the time we've drunk them we'll have found your research topic. Then we move on to shots. Deal?”

I glanced at Mark, feeling bad for breaking my “one drink” promise – but he flickered an eyelid and smiled. “OK,” I agreed as the bouncer checked Rosie's ID and wished her a happy birthday. “Deal.”

I made a beeline for one of the booths at the back of the room, as far away from the DJ as possible. From the neon lettering on the A-board outside, I gathered that it was a seventies, eighties and nineties throwback night; the crowd on the dancefloor were currently bobbing and waving their arms to Toto's 'Africa.'

“Sorry about this,” I said to Mark as he slid in beside me. “You don't have to sit and listen to us talking in circles about modernist poetry and contemporary theatre.”

He looked at the dancefloor, and his lips curled in amusement at the sight of Harrison attempting a moonwalk. “I prefer it to the alternative.”

I laughed. “OK, fair.”

“Modernist poetry and contemporary theatre,” he repeated thoughtfully, leaning back. “Is that your starting point?”

“It might as well be – although it's far too broad for a dissertation topic. I'll still be here when I'm forty. Thanks,” I added as Ariana passed me a glass bucket of something sapphire-blue and sweet-smelling. “My tutor's given me some articles about mythology in contemporary literature, but I think I'd really like to do something on TS Eliot.”

“Eliot uses myth like it's going out of fashion,” Ariana pointed out as she arranged herself on the bench opposite.

“Mm.” I stirred my cocktail, stabbing at the ice with the little plastic straw balanced on its rim. “There just isn't a lot of room in Eliot, or so I'm told.”

“There's room in everything,” Mark assured me. “It's a question of approach.”

“The plays aren't as widely studied,” Ariana added.

I smiled wryly. “I know. I just don't like them much.” I remembered struggling through The Confidential Clerk as an undergraduate, trying desperately and failing completely to enjoy it. “Although maybe, if I took a performance focus...”

“Can you do that?” Mark asked, his eyes curious.

“Yes, actually.” Ariana answered for me. “There's an undergraduate module on Shakespeare in performance – although you're not marked on your acting abilities, exactly. It's more about articulating what you're trying to do and justifying it from a literary perspective; you study the adaptations of the plays as well as the plays themselves, it's really interesting...”

Something stirred in my brain, the first tentative threads of a connection – and then in a rush I had it. Maybe it was the alcohol that set my synapses firing, or maybe it was talking about work in an environment so utterly dissociated from it, but with a surge of glee I knew I'd hit on the answer. “Ariana, you're a genius!”

She blinked, and smiled demurely. “I am?”

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

Mark's smile widened. “I take it you have your research topic?”

“Sort of. It doesn't have to be a traditional essay, they told us that right at the start, but I didn't know what else to do until now.” I took a sip of my cocktail, and coughed. “Good grief, that's like petrol mixed with sugar syrup...what's in it?”

“Blue Curacao, Vodka, coconut...stuff.” Ariana looked amused too. “So? What's your big idea?”

I grinned. “I'm going to adapt The Waste Land for performance.”

Mark's eyebrows went up; Ariana shrieked.

“YES! Oh my God, yes, that's brilliant, it's drama and creative writing and critical theory all in one...”

“I'm sure it's been done before,” I said, taking a more careful sip of my drink. It still had a strange, plastic, sharp-sweet burn. I offered it to Mark, who folded his arms.

You have to be joking.

Ariana was undeterred. “It might have been done before, but not by you, and of course your version will be the best – oh, can I be in it? We should definitely put it on, you won't get the full effect of it if we don't...and we could do it as a double bill with Cats!”

“Good luck getting the boys to agree to wear lycra.”

She smiled naughtily, then drained her glass and planted her palms on the table. “OK. Time for shots.”

“It isn't even nine o'clock!” I protested.

“That hasn't stopped Theo.” 

I lifted my head and saw him at the bar with Seb and Byrdie. A nervous weight sank through my chest and into my stomach – and then the opening bars of 'Super Trouper' blared out from the speakers, and the crowd on the dancefloor shrieked.

“Isn't this a bit before their time?” laughed Mark as Rosie jumped up and down, clutching Harrison's hands.

“Oh, they'll dance to anything when they get going. Harrison loves Abba – although good luck getting him to admit it when he's sober.” Harrison and Rosie were waving wildly at me to come over and join them, their teeth glowing under the lights; I shook my head, and they pulled sad faces and widened their eyes.

“Go on.” Mark tilted his head. “We've solved your dissertation woes; what's your excuse now?”

Harrison and Rosie evidently agreed; they crossed the room and tugged at my hand, and at Ariana's.

“Alright, alright!” I slid out of the booth – and then glanced guiltily back at Mark.

“Go,” he grinned. “I'll keep the table.”

“No, you won't.” Ariana held out the hand that wasn't holding Rosie's. “Come on.”

“I don't dance.”

Her eyes gleamed. “I've seen you on stage. I know that's bullshit.”

“Mark, it's my birthday.” Rosie smiled sweetly at him, and batted long, mascara-coated lashes. “Please?”

The lights flashed red, blue and green in time with the twinkling chords, and their reflection shone softly in his eyes. “Alright.”

She bounced and squealed, and she and Ariana towed him across the room. Harrison and I followed; as we reached the dancefloor he twirled me around and sang loudly in my ear, “I was sick and tired of everything, when I called you last night from Glasgow...”

I laughed, put my hands on his shoulders and let him sway me from side to side. It was too long since I'd done this, I thought, my hair tickling my shoulders as I dipped and shimmied with the familiar music. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to my undergrad days, dancing in the Students' Union and drinking cheap mixers, fizzing with the excitement of being free, away from home – and yet even then I'd been afraid, acutely aware that this was temporary. A mad few years without boundaries or responsibilities, except for the vague shadow of the future I was working towards, sitting inside me like a tiny creature pressing sharp fists against the side of my belly...

“So I'll be there when you arrive;
The sight of you will prove to me I'm still alive...”

I pressed my cheek to Harrison's (I was just about tall enough, in my heels) and opened my eyes and looked at Rosie, at Ariana, and at Theo over by the bar, and wondered if they felt it too. It didn't seem like it, I thought, smiling as Rosie and Ariana put their arms around each other and tipped their heads back and belted out the chorus.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned, and smiled brightly at Luc.

“May I borrow your partner, please?” he asked, exaggerating his French accent to a ridiculous degree.

“You may, as long as you return him in good condition.” I slid out of Harrison's arms. “I'm getting a drink; any orders?”

It was partly an excuse to go and talk to Theo. He sat slightly apart from Seb and Byrdie, one hand on the bar for balance. Shot glasses were clustered in front of the three of them. I swallowed my disapproval and put a gentle hand on his arm. His skin was hot and damp through the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey."

“Hmm? Oh.” He blinked, eyes unnaturally bright, then put his arms around me and almost slid off the stool. “Oops...hey, Claire.”

I steadied him, and looked at Seb and Byrdie. The former was telling the latter a graphic (and probably invented) story about an encounter with a girl in his Modern History class, complete with illustrative gestures. They were guffawing almost loudly enough to drown out the music, but neither of them seemed as far gone as Theo. “How many have you had?” I sighed.

He cast his eyes over the shot glasses littering the bar, then smiled, sheepish and somehow still endearing. “A few.”

My mouth twitched. “Do you want to go home?”

“Not yet.” He straightened himself up. “Rosie OK?”

“She's fine. I think she's having a good night.”

He followed my gaze to where she was dancing with Ariana – next to Harrison and Luc, who had their arms around each other and were swaying to the easy, echoing piano chords of Journey. Theo blinked again. “Oh.”

I had to laugh. “It's OK. It took me a while to clock it.”

He frowned. “But Rosie...”

“Don't worry. I don't think she's too upset.”

“Good. That's good.” He looked back at me, a slow smile spreading across his features. “She's wearing my earrings; did you see?”

“I didn't,” I admitted.

“Well, she is.” He drew himself up proudly.

“I believe you,” I smiled. “Look, are you sure you don't want to go back? I can walk with you, I've had about enough anyway.”

“Where's Mark?”

I looked back at the dancefloor. He was nowhere to be seen – and I wasn't likely to miss him. Guilt prickled up the back of my neck. “Gone for air, probably.” I took his arm. “Come out and look with me?”

“No.” He clambered unsteadily down from the bar stool. “No, I'm going to see Rosie.”

“Theo, I don't think that's a good idea...”

But he shrugged off my hand and wove his way through the groups of tipsy students draped over each other and yelling tunelessly not to stop believing.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” I smiled at Mark, relieved. “Sorry – we can go soon if you like – I was thinking we could head across the green to The Jigger and see what they have in the way of single malts?”

“Why not?” He looked me over, and his eyebrows dipped. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine – although I think Theo might be about to make an idiot of himself.” He had found Rosie now, and they were dancing together, her arms around his neck. She didn't seem to notice that he was somewhat the worse for wear, but then again she'd had a fair few herself at the flat earlier – and she was giddy now, with the music and the attention and the silly joy of a Saturday night out. “Give me a minute; let me see what I can do.”

But I was too late. Theo slid his arms lower, cradling Rosie's waist, then bent and pressed his lips against hers. For a moment she stood unresponsive, like a deer caught in the golf course floodlights – and then she stepped back, pushing him gently away, her pretty features crinkled somewhere between confusion and embarrassment.

“Well, shit,” I heard Seb drawl behind me.

The urge to slap him shot through me like a tongue of fire. Byrdie, meanwhile, was snorting like an over-exerted pug.

“Bloody hell,” I heard him gasp out. “Poor bugger...”

Hurt settled in Theo's eyes like snow-dust. A flare of anger followed, and he turned and shouldered his way off the dancefloor towards the exit.

“Theo...” I started forwards, but Mark put his hand on my shoulder.

“Don't,” he murmured. “Leave him alone.”

“Are you sure?” My insides twisted at the thought of Theo's wounded expression, and in spite of everything the need to hug him and soothe him was like an empty ache in my stomach.

“Oh, yes. He won't want company, believe me.” Mark cast an icy glare at Seb and Byrdie, and then looked back at the dancefloor. Tears had welled up in Rosie's eyes; Harrison had his arm around her shoulder; Ariana was holding her hand; Luc stood nearby, one arm crossed awkwardly across his chest as though he lacked any idea what to say or do. “And I think we may need to postpone our outing to The Jigger.”

“Sadly, I agree.” I took a deep breath. “Come on, then. Let's get them home.”