Olly Kempe

ONE

I don’t want it to sound like I’m homophobic. I’m really not. It’s a shock when any friend – let alone a male one – confesses to using a mental image of you as a masturbation aid.

‘You’re joking,’ I responded, my mouth still full of the rather dry mashed potato that Baron’s College specialises in.

‘No,’ Jem replied with his trademark mischievous grin. The dirty bastard. ‘Does that freak you out?’

‘Yes! Of course it does. It’s a weird thing to say.’

‘Hugh asked me. All I did was be honest.’

In fairness, that was true. Hugh had provocatively asked Jem which guys in our year he fantasised about and Jem had answered with a degree of honesty that was socially unacceptable.

‘I didn’t expect you to say Callum,’ Hugh said, but he made no effort to hide his delight at the outcome.

‘It’s natural human behaviour,’ Jem argued. ‘Everybody jerks off. Monkeys jerk off.’

‘Yes, but they don’t think about me when they’re doing it.’

‘I don’t know why you’re being so prudish,’ Jem shrugged. ‘It’s not even the worst thing I’ve said today.’

That was also true, but somehow Jem could get away with saying things that others couldn’t. Being both gay and American, he was given leeway to be a bit outrageous, a harmless visitor from overseas rather than an internal threat to British society’s traditional morals. That his name was Jeremiah only made him more of a curiosity.

I don’t think I was being prudish. I can imagine someone else on the receiving end of a revelation like that immediately filing a complaint with the Senior Tutor. But I actually admired Jem’s ability to share such incredibly personal details about himself, even if these particular details weren’t ones I’d wanted to hear – certainly not over lunch in the college dining hall.

I glanced at the two dozen other students eating at the long tables in hall. I expected the ‘mathmos’ – that’s what everyone calls the mathematicians – were deep in discussion on the real-world applications of quadratic equations or, at the very least, the arguments as to why Babylon 5 is better than Star Trek: Deep Space Whatever. Regardless, it had to be more intellectual than what my circle of friends had ever managed in two whole years. At the alma mater of Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin where science, art and philosophy had been researched and debated for seven hundred and ninety-nine years, my friends and I were preoccupied with the wanking habits of primates. It wasn’t what I’d imagined when applying to Cambridge.

‘You should be flattered,’ Hugh said, echoing the excuse of wolf-whistling builders nationwide. ‘I’m just offended that he didn’t say me.’ He probably was, too. Hugh spent a lot of time on his personal appearance. His gym sessions outnumbered his lecture attendance four-to-one.

I smiled at Jem so he’d know we were still friends. He had some mash in his beard, which I neglected to point out.

I steered the conversation onto politics, which I’m not usually all that interested in, but it was something else to talk about. I thought Gordon Brown seemed to be fairly on top of the situation, but Hugh wanted David Cameron to take over. And Jem was clueless about both of them. ‘Brown is in the same party as Blair, right?’ was his contribution.

Inevitably, Hugh’s mind wandered onto what was right in front of him and he started flicking through the Freshers’ Week welcome pack he’d brought with him. The freshers weren’t due to arrive until the next Saturday, which meant seven glorious days of peaceful study before I’d be forced to go to parties, play humiliating games of Never Have I Ever (humiliating because I never ever have), and witness the feeding frenzy as the second- and third-years swooped in. As newly elected president of the Junior Combination Room, Hugh was responsible for greeting the newcomers and making sure they had everything they needed.

‘Does anyone actually use dental dams?’ he asked, looking up from the welcome pack.

‘Hugh,’ I protested, ‘I’ve just got us off the topic of sex.’

‘I wasn’t asking you. I’d be better off asking a mathmo.’

Jem raised a good point. ‘Don’t you think you should have read that before sleeping with half the girls in Cambridge?’ he asked.

‘Very funny,’ Hugh said. ‘I have to tell all the freshers to use dental dams and I don’t even use them. I don’t even know what they look like.’

Seeing Natalie approaching us with a tray of vegetable lasagne, I felt optimistic of returning us to the deteriorating economic situation. Natalie could usually be relied upon for a rant about wanker bankers. She plonked her tray down on the table next to Jem’s. Her sunglasses were perched on top of her blonde fringe where they sat year-round.

‘Natalie,’ Hugh said warmly, as she swung her legs over the bench to sit opposite him. ‘Dental dams.’

‘Good to see you too, Hugh,’ Natalie replied. ‘Didn’t take you long to start on the filth.’ She forked some carrots into her mouth.

Natalie was joking when she called it ‘filth’. She didn’t object to these conversations like I did, and she often took part, though she never appeared to take much pleasure in them – or anything else, for that matter.

‘You should have been here earlier,’ I sighed.

‘Jem thinks about Callum when he’s wanking,’ Hugh said, excitedly.

‘Charming,’ Natalie said as she shoved in some lasagne.

‘Can’t we talk about Natalie’s summer instead?’ I attempted. ‘Natalie, did you go anywhere?’

But Hugh ploughed on. ‘Jem, what do you do when you’re sucking dicks? Do you make them wear a condom?’

‘Guys,’ I intervened. ‘Do we have to discuss this over lunch?’

‘Not for a blow job,’ Jem answered. ‘Can you even feel anything? I mean, what’s the point of a dry blow job?’

‘What about herpes?’ Hugh followed up, one eye on the STI page of his pack.

‘Hugh,’ I said. ‘We’re in public.’

He flashed me a goofy, apologetic smile. It was infuriatingly charming.

I gave up and let my highly-educated, unusually-intelligent friends talk about putting phalluses in people’s mouths.

We walked around the oval lawn of so-called Old Court and into the part of the college which housed its hundred-odd undergraduates. Named Cockburn Court after its late benefactor Sir Simon Cockburn, the students had inevitably taken to calling it ‘Cock’s’ for short. It is probably architect Roger Summerfield’s best work, though Charles Thackary & Partners were the unsung heroes of the project, as engineers too often are. Yet, Jem often complained that students at older colleges like King’s or Corpus got to live in the same historic surrounds as the likes of EM Forster and Christopher Marlowe while our accommodation was more akin to a 1970s Travelodge. He didn’t appreciate how the listed buildings at those colleges lack proper toilet facilities and the students there resort to pissing in the sinks. If Christopher Marlowe were at Cambridge today, he’d want to stay in Cockburn Court. Third-year rooms are even ensuite.

Anyway, when we entered the courtyard, we split up. Jem was assigned to F staircase, Natalie to C, and Hugh and I were both on D.

Back in my newly-assigned room, I unpacked my clothes – jeans, boxers, an endless supply of nearly identical hoodies – and all the standard student rations, by which I mean Pot Noodles, Doritos and beer, the latter a parting gift from Dad. My textbooks all went on the windowsill. I dedicated a shelf to my albums – Bowie and Queen, of course, plus The Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev, as well as a Spice Girls CD I’d bought as a conversation starter. I had an iPod Nano too, from CEX, and I’d maxed out its 2 GB with all the alternative rock I could fit onto it.

I set up my prized possession – a brand-new, top-notch PC with an Intel Core 2 Duo processor and an Nvidia GeForce graphics card. It runs Windows Vista. It was my combined birthday and Christmas present, and I was pretty sure that if it ever received a single scratch, I would collapse and die. I plugged in a landline telephone beside it, needed for calling the parents at 7pm on Wednesdays and 5pm on Sundays.

The final task was to put up some posters. We weren’t allowed to use nails or Blu Tack, but I had some hooks for the picture rails along the walls. I rearranged everything a few times until I finally found the right locations for my photographic prints of the Hoover Dam and Battersea Power Station. I was just wondering where to put Alexandre Gustave Eiffel when Rosie appeared in my doorway.

‘Cool open-door policy,’ she said.

‘Oh hello. Hugh left it open when he was here. Come on in.’

‘Where’s Hugh now?’

‘In his room. Number 6.’

‘Mind if I close the door?’ she asked, already doing so.

‘You look well,’ I said, straightening my Tower of Pisa portrait.

‘“Well” means fat.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yeah, it means fat. You’ve just massively insulted me,’ she deadpanned. She made herself at home on my bed.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That’s obviously not what I meant.’ I sat down on my desk chair and swivelled it around to face her. ‘I meant you look nice.’

She was wearing a floral dress for a change instead of jeans that were two sizes too small. Her brown hair was tied up neatly, and she’d put on make-up, which she never usually bothered with. I’m not saying that girls have to wear make-up to look nice or anything, but it just so happens that she was wearing it and did look nice in it. Less nice was the tatty piece of white string she’d tied around her wrist for some reason.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You look very white. Did you go outside at all over the summer?’

‘Well, we went to Wales again this year.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

She then chronicled her family trip to Rome. I was quite envious of her Colosseum visit, but she seemed just as jealous of my outing to London’s Design Museum with Mum. I asked how her brother was getting on in Brazil and she asked me about mine, who wasn’t doing anything of note now that he’d discovered weed.

‘Look,’ Rosie said in a manner that signalled we were changing topic. ‘Can you do something for me? Can you…’ She trailed off, took a breath, and then said, ‘Can you find out…’ She stopped again. ‘I don’t want to say it. It’s embarrassing. Not that embarrassing. But you can’t tell anyone.’

‘Okay.’

‘Seriously, you have to promise.’

‘Yep, I promise. What is it?’

‘You know Hugh?’ she asked, and since we both knew that I did, she didn’t wait for me to answer. ‘I want to know if he’s… If he’s into girls that… look well.’

Rosie fancies Hugh!?

I was stunned.

‘Callum, you’re not saying anything. It’s scaring me.’

‘Sorry, I’m just processing.’

Rosie fancies Hugh!?

‘You realise “well” means fat, right?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. How long have you fancied him?’

She shrugged. ‘The whole time, I guess.’

‘You’ve fancied him for two years and you’re only telling me now?’

‘You never tell me about anyone you fancy.’

‘But this is Hugh! It’s one of our friends.’

‘Which made it harder to tell you.’

‘Does anyone else know?’

‘No. At least, I haven’t told anyone. I’d be too embarrassed to. I know I don’t stand a chance with him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because look at me.’

I understood what she was saying even if I didn’t agree that it was a disqualifier.

‘And I don’t blame him,’ she continued. ‘I don’t like overweight guys. Which makes me a total hypocrite, I know, but I just don’t.’

‘You’re not that big.’

She gave me a look that said, Nice try.

‘Well you’re not,’ I said. ‘Just look at Harriet.’

‘Harriet’s humungous.’

‘I know.’

‘Why are you even putting Harriet and me in the same conversation? Look, even if, by some miracle, weight wasn’t an issue for George, I know it’s a huge leap to then expect him to like me. But I want to at least know what hurdle I topple over at, you know? Though I also don’t want to be somebody’s kink. I don’t want him to be a weird chubby-chaser like you see in a Channel 4 documentary, you know what I mean?’

I didn’t.

‘So can you quietly find out for me?’ she asked. ‘Somehow? Without mentioning me or talking about me in any way. Unless you already know the answer?’

‘I don’t.’ Hugh had often displayed a positive attitude towards large breasts but, to my recollection, had never voiced an opinion on large waists either way.

‘He’s never said, “Oh look, here comes Rosie, that disgusting fatty?”’

I chuckled at how extreme her example was. ‘No. Definitely not.’

‘I know it’s a strange thing to ask you to do. You can say no.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Leave it with me.’

She jumped up from the bed to give me a hug, which was made slightly awkward by my seated position. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I really appreciate it.’ She released me from the hug and sat back down on the bed. ‘But you’re going to have to use some tact,’ she added.

‘What!? I’m very tactful. I’ll have a manly chat with him about hot chicks and tits and stuff. Then I’ll just slip the question in.’

‘Don’t talk to him about hot chicks and tits. I can’t compete with that.’

‘Well don’t sell yourself short. It’s not all about looks, anyway.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘I won’t.’

‘I feel so much better now,’ she said. ‘I’ve been worrying about this all week.’

‘Shouldn’t you have been worrying about your finals?’

Rosie scoffed. ‘Is that a joke?’

‘I’m worried about mine.’

‘You don’t even have finals this year. You love studying so much that you chose stupid engineering so you could work an extra year.’

I opted not to go into the many excellent reasons for studying engineering over useless history – or English, in Jem and Natalie’s case.

‘Are you going to the bar later?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got unpacking and stuff.’

‘You’re going to the library, I can tell.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You can’t work on the first day back.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s the first day. At least give yourself that off. Make the most of us being here. It’s going to be so dull without us next year. And there’ll be no one to help you out with your love life.’

‘I don’t need help.’

‘Why don’t we try to get you and Diane back together?’

‘Definitely not.’

I’d have preferred my night with Diane two years before to have remained a state secret, but an inaugural middle-of-the-night fire drill had forced me to emerge with her from G staircase. I neither confirmed nor denied that any sexual relations had taken place, but it somehow got out via Diane that we’d only kissed, which was true. I was extremely grateful that she’d never said why we’d only kissed, though I still lived in fear that she would. It was lucky for me that she studied Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic because it meant few people ever tried to speak with her anyway. I’d not been seen emerging from anyone else’s room since then – because I’d not been in any – but Hugh seemed to have a different companion at every drill, mostly girls we didn’t recognise from other colleges. And Jem’s whereabouts had led to some interesting revelations over the years.

‘I’m kind of jealous,’ Rosie said, ‘at just how problem-free and satisfied you are with everything. I don’t know why you’re satisfied, but you are. Are you sure you don’t want to do the charity blind date this year?’

‘I’m very, very sure. Anyway, lovely chatting with you but I do have things to do. Come back again soon.’

Rosie laughed. ‘Alright, I’m leaving.’ She got up off the bed. ‘Those posters are horrible, by the way.’

‘Thank you for your feedback.’

I led her towards the door. As I did so, I ran a finger along my CD collection in the hope that it might draw her attention to the Spice Girls album, but it didn’t.

‘You should get a plant,’ she suggested. ‘Next time you’re in the market, get one. It will make a big difference.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Will you be in the bar later, then?’

‘I’ll see you in the bar tonight, yes.’

When she was gone, I sat in the groove she’d made in my duvet and went over the revelations of the last few hours in my mind. With Rosie fancying Hugh and Jem’s declared interest in me, the group dynamic seemed a lot more complicated than it had on the car journey down.