Julia Whelan - My Oxford Year

Peripherally, I sense them settle in at a booth near the door as Simon comes back around. I take another mouthful of the perfectly prepared fish and this time am not so successful at stifling my moan. Simon, tending to the fryer, throws me a grin over his shoulder.

I hear the woman behind me murmur, “I thought you were taking me to the best place in Oxford.”

“And so I have,” the man says.

Pulling another chip out of the cone, I’m absorbed in trying to read pieces of the paper’s stories and advertisements, but the fog keeps rolling in. A few minutes later, Simon pops the countertop once more and lumbers over to the couple, delivering their meals. “Cheers,” the man says, then, as Simon comes back through the counter, “Behold the potato! Divine tuber. Staple of the gods. How we adore thee!”

“They give you a fat arse,” the woman replies.

“No, no,” the man argues, “The oil does. The oil! Yet the potato takes the blame. It’s a bloody outrage, I tell you.” He laughs. She doesn’t.

Simon catches my eye and rolls his. I roll mine back and we smile, comrades-in-arms. He nods toward the condiment station, whispering, “Really, give ’em a go.”

“Oh, right! I forgot.” I pick up my plate and walk to the counter to survey the many options.

I hear the man continue, “Now, the Irish! They knew the value of the potato. Did you know that when the Irish were deprived of the potato for just a few years, a million people died?”

There’s a pause. “Why didn’t they just eat something else?”

My hand punches the tarter sauce pump and the thick paste overshoots my plate, splattering onto the counter.

“What, like cake?” the man asks dryly.

“Sure,” she answers, immune to sarcasm.

I pick up a bottle labeled Brown Sauce (not exactly descriptive) and pour that onto my plate, too. Then I take a squeeze of mustard, a dollop of mayonnaise, something that looks like chutney but I’m not sure. I feel obligated to take a little of everything, not wanting to disappoint Simon. The plate looks like a painter’s palette.

I hear Golden Voice get out of the booth. “Why didn’t they just eat something else? Excellent question! Let them eat cake! But, see, they’d run out. Not a slice of cake in the entire country. Bloody awful. What was the Empire coming to, eh?” Dry British wit on full display. Always entertaining and yet somehow thoroughly obnoxious. “Now,” he continues, “there’s a home-cooked meal in it for you—”

She cuts him off, using a low, come-hither voice. “I’d rather those earrings we saw earlier.”

“You’ll have to do a bit more than trivia for diamonds, love,” he says offhandedly. The jerk. “A home-cooked meal if you can tell me the year the Potato Famine occurred. You have ten seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight—”

I realize I’m just standing there in my encroaching fog, listening to this ridiculous conversation, letting my fish and chips get cold. Snapping out of it, I turn around to head back to my seat and crash spectacularly into Golden Voice. Two planets colliding. The entire plate of condiments flips backward into my chest and I teeter, about to go down. A knightly hand reaches out and clutches my forearm, steadying me. My other hand grabs his shoulder.

Maybe he’s not a jerk, after all.

Righting myself, I catch sight of the woman he’s been talking with. Long blond hair. Windswept. Mouth open wide in a shocked laugh.

My gaze whips back to him, just as his head pops up, brown hair mussed.

Our eyes lock.

The fog lifts and I blurt, “You!”

He sits in a beautiful parlor,

With hundreds of books on the wall;

He drinks a great deal of Marsala,

But never gets tipsy at all.

Edward Lear, “How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear!,” 1871

Me?” he inquires, a deer-in-headlights look in his eyes.

“You!” I repeat.

We’re still facing each other. He’s still grasping my forearm, I’m still clutching his shoulder. We’re right up against each other, face to face, eye to eye, plate to breasts.

His stare activates. He comes to life. “Right, okay, here’s what we do. Simon?” he calls, but Simon’s already tossing the towel from his shoulder and You deftly snatches it out of the air. “Lean forward,” he encourages. I bend at the waist and he peels the plate away. I watch the myriad sauces plop from my chest to the linoleum floor, a poor man’s Jackson Pollock.

The blonde laughs.

I stand upright as the man sets the plate on the counter, then moves toward me with the towel, heading for my chest.

My hand shoots out. “Don’t. I got it.” With my bare hands, I rub at my shirt like a finger-painting toddler, making it ten times worse. The clamminess is starting to seep through the fabric onto my skin. I feel him staring at me. “What?” I ask, all contained calm.

“Do we know each other?”

“You almost hit me with your car!”

“Was that you?”

I grind my jaw, keeping my mouth shut.

“May I … assist?” the man lilts with a tone that only ever means one thing.

I freeze.

He can’t be.

I look up at him.

He is.

He’s flirting with me. Holding the towel poised and ready, all dashing smile and twinkling eyes.

My head explodes. “Are you kidding me?”

“I would never dare kid about such matters,” he charms.

“You’re flirting? You should be apologizing!”

“For flirting?”

“For nearly running me over!”

“You’re suggesting I apologize for something I didn’t intentionally do? I’d rather apologize for the flirting.” He’s smiling.

“Y-you … you posh prat!”

“Ooh. Posh prat. Nice choice of alliterative spondee.” He’s still smiling. “So you’re American. Right, here’s the one thing I know about Americans: they tend to get themselves run over in this country by stepping directly into oncoming traffic.”

“So it’s my fault?!” I shout.

“Another thing I know about Americans: they tend to shout. Here.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a brightly colored wad of money. He peels off a bill. He holds it out to me.

“What is that?” I seethe. Quietly.

“Specifically? It’s a fifty-pound note.”

“I don’t want your money! I want … I want—” What do I want? The fog is thickening again.

“Oh, don’t look so outraged. Take it. You said it yourself. I’m the posh prat.” He holds the money out again. “The unemotional cad who—absent any genuine remorse or feeling—can but only buy the regard of others.”

I jerk my head to the blonde. “So I see.”

This strikes him. His face changes. The open, breezy, devil-may-care smile drops away and a curtain closes behind his eyes. The show is over. He actually looks hurt. Good. “Keep your money,” I say, capitalizing on this moment of clarity, of the tables having turned, seizing a parting shot. “Buy the historian some carbs.”

Walking back to the counter, I pick up my book and coat, digging in the pocket for some cash. I plop down twenty pounds, grab what remains of my fish bouquet, catch Simon’s smiling eyes, and head for the door. “See you later, Simon!”

“Looking forward to it, Ella from Ohio!” He chuckles.

“Bonne chance,” the man calls dryly, clearly having rallied. Then, adopting an even plummier, more clichéd British accent, adds, “Keep calm and look right!”

Ignoring him, I open the door. The bell jingles and I pause at the threshold. I can’t resist. I turn back to him . “The Potato Famine was in 1845. Asshole.”

SO THAT WENT well.

Foggy, filthy, and suddenly exhausted, I hoof back to Magdalen, shoving fried fish into my mouth as I go. It’s not my imagination that people give me a wide berth.