Fourteen

Daisy opened the door to her tiny flat and sighed with satisfaction.

It was located down St. Aldate’s, in a modern building. She hated everything modern, being strictly a country girl whose idea of perfection was anything which looked like it belonged in a Beatrix Potter book. But once you rode up in the lift—her flat was on the sixth floor—there was an incredible view. She had windows on two sides, flooding the place with light and looking over Tom Tower in Christ Church in one direction, and the green meadows leading down to the Isis in the other. It was autumn, and there was a pleasant crispness in the air, with the trees turning gold and red, and white mist creeping up over the fields in the morning.

Daisy adored her place. It even had a tiny balcony with a wrought-iron chair and table, so she could take her morning cup of real coffee, brewed up in a Bodum’s pot, and sit out there in her white toweling bathrobe and just watch the beauty of Oxford. From a height, even traffic was romantic. She loved watching the students zip around on their bicycles, like so many ants, in jeans and sweaters, occasionally wearing some delightfully clichéd college scarf. It was the start of the academic year, and that meant the new crop of Britain’s brightest, attending the University, were going through a bunch of ceremonies. They whirred past her in tasseled black caps and all sorts of gowns, like something out of an Anthony Trollope novel. Even her envy couldn’t dampen her delight.

Daisy was only cynical about herself. This might have an air of Disneyland-England about it if you were a Guardian reader, she conceded. But not to her. To her it was pageantry, and she loved it.

This was her first week up and she still wasn’t used to anything. Not the city, with its glorious old piles of Elizabethan beauty around every corner, not her own little college with its lectures and classes, and not this flat. Mummy and Daddy had rented it for her fully furnished. It was by far the most luxurious place she’d ever lived in. Almost all Rackham students were crammed into dingy flat-shares on the Woodstock road, or thereabouts.

“We don’t have to pay those school fees anymore,” Quentin Markham told his daughter, solemnly. “Budgeting is very important. You realize that, Daisy.”

“Of course I do, Dad.”

When had it ever not been important in their house? Daisy sometimes felt guilty about her hatred for school, knowing what a stretch it was for her parents to afford it. They went without holidays and her mother often secretly bought clothes at the Oxfam shop. But her mother was a clever cook and decorator and gardener, and kept an attractive house on a minute budget.

Being a teacher just did not pay well, and her father’s job, editing a line of translations of the classics, brought in even less. Academia may have been fascinating, Daisy thought, but it certainly wasn’t lucrative. And yet, having adopted her as a child—endometriosis having left Sally Markham infertile—her parents had been determined to bring her up as a lady, as a member of the upper classes. And that meant public school.

If only she’d been scholarship material! They barely made it even with the shameful bursary Daisy received for being her mother’s daughter.

But now the school fees monkey was off the Markhams’ back, and Quentin Markham wanted his daughter to have the best possible time at university. He sometimes wondered if Daisy had really enjoyed her schooldays as much as she protested she did. He himself was lanky and small-boned and had been beaten up as a boy. But Quentin Markham did not allow himself to think like that. Daisy had survived, and even made her way to university. He wanted her to have the best. Or something like it.

So no faded wallpaper or shares with drunken freshmen for Daisy Markham. He rented this tiny jewel of a studio flat, with the view and the gated development, nice and safe, at five hundred pounds a month. And if Quentin Markham had seen how happy his daughter was to be there, he’d have thought it money well spent.

Daisy loved all the furniture. Everything was from IKEA, clean Swedish lines, lots of stripped pine. She had a sofa bed, which saved space, and which she pulled out at night, shoved a fitted sheet and a duvet on to it, and then was able to sleep like a queen. There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a real sheepskin rug in which she loved to rub her toes. The bathroom had brand-new tiling and shiny fixtures with a stand-alone shower as well as a bath, and the kitchenette even had a microwave. Perfect for baked potatoes.

For once in her life, Daisy had just about everything she wanted. She was filled with a wild, heady optimism. Oxford was gorgeous, her flat was gorgeous, and all she had to do now was go to a few boring lectures on Titian and Rembrandt!

I can’t wait for Isobel to see this, Daisy thought.

Then she remembered. Isobel hadn’t made it through the rigorous Oxonian entrance procedure. She’d been “desummonsed,” a horrible way of telling candidates “don’t call us, we’ll call you.” She hadn’t even made it to interview stage, and Daisy for once had had to comfort her friend, letting Isobel cry all over her shoulder and passing wads of Andrex tissue over to her.

“Wait a year and reapply,” Daisy had urged, but Isobel wouldn’t hear of it. She took a place at Edinburgh and promised she’d stay in touch.

Deep down they both knew that it was unlikely. University was where people made the friends that stayed with them for life. But they hugged and cried as though it were a certainty.

Daisy anticipated starting out with a few acquaintances. There were six others on her particular History of Art course, though she’d only seen them a couple of times. And, of course, there was Edward Powers.

Daisy walked into her neat little kitchenette and put the kettle on. She got out the Tetley and her packet of milk-chocolate Hob-Nobs and made a small pot of tea, considering Edward and what to do about him. He was so nice, and she enjoyed his company so much. But he seemed to be so into her, and she wasn’t interested. Was it cruel to be friends with him? Leading him on?

Oh come on, now, she told herself. Edward’s rich and sort-of titled and this is Oxford. There are hundreds of gorgeous, intelligent girls just in his own college. He’d soon forget all about her. He could do so much better. And meanwhile, he was the only person that she knew at Oxford University.

Edward could be a window into that whole glittering life. Besides, she liked him. So why not?

Daisy ate three Hob-Nobs and started on a fourth before deciding that perhaps she’d better not. She was meant to lose some weight. At St. Mary’s it had been too hard, but here it should be easier. She could control her own diet. What did the skinny girls eat? Fruit.

Blergh, fruit. Daisy had never seen the point of apples and oranges when God made Buttons, Flakes, and Hob-Nobs. But …

She looked down at her soft thighs, spreading out under her ample 501s. There were plenty of amazing-looking men here, and she still wanted to meet somebody. A new Marks & Spencer had opened in Cornmarket. She could buy some peaches there, maybe. And then walk round to Merton and see Edward.

*   *   *

Daisy picked up some healthy, taste-free options for supper—diet sandwiches and masses of fruit; vegetables was going a bit too far—then walked back down the High Street toward Queen’s. There was a turning off to the left that took you down an ancient, cobbled road toward Merton. It ended in a little square by a back gate to Christ Church and the unimpressive frontage of Oriel College. To her left was Merton, apparently the only college in Oxford that served edible food. It was small and well-regarded. A bit like Edward, Daisy thought.

She went nervously inside the college gates. There was a sign directing tourists to pay an entrance fee. But nobody stopped her. She looked like any other undergraduate, Daisy realized.

Inside the porter’s lodge were pigeonholes with names stenciled above them. She found Edward’s in a second. Daisy didn’t quite dare approach the frock-coated porter in the bowler hat to ask where Edward’s rooms were. She dug a biro pen out of her handbag and scribbled a note to Edward on the back of a scrap of paper.

“Hey.”

Daisy jumped out of her skin. There was a tall American boy standing right behind her. He was gorgeous, with black hair, dark eyes, a tan, and muscles. A rower, Daisy thought instantly.

“Sending a note to Powers? I’ll give it to him, if you like. I’m his roommate.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He was so good-looking that it came out as a high-pitched squeal, like a dying mouse. Daisy loathed herself, but giggled nervously. “I’m a friend of his from school. Daisy Markham.”

He shook her hand warmly and gave her a little bow.

“Brad Evans,” he said.