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39
There are more of them than the pub can hold. Half of the students leave for pastures shinier, but the other half stays and squashes themselves into the already minimal space available. A group slides in at our table, occupying the remainder of the seats surrounding it. I peel my foot away from Danny, who gives a small pout. Rory swirls his wineglass by the stem, looking supremely disgruntled at the newcomers.
They’re loud. The warm, quiet talk of this old man’s pub has been overtaken by their noisy chatter and braying laughter. They order drinks at the bar, one of them snapping his fingers at the barman, before plonking themselves down next to us.
“Maybe we should leave,” I say quietly, not at all comfortable in the presence of more St. Camford students.
“Why should we?” Danny asks. “We got here first.”
The man sitting beside Rory has the curious ability to look sly when staring openly at Rory. As he unravels his wool scarf, his brows furrow, as if trying to pinpoint Rory’s familiarity. “Are you Oscar Munro’s son?”
Rory doesn’t even look up from his drink. “Who’s asking?”
A smirk quirks across the guy’s lips. “Well, if you are, and you’ve given no indication to the contrary, then I think you’re about to make someone’s day.” He half-raises himself from the table, whistling sharply at a woman still standing at the bar and gesturing like she’s harassed by it. “Pippa!”
Pippa flicks her head like an irritated horse. When she turns around, my jaw drops. She’sgorgeous. “Really, Seb, I’m not a border collie.”
Seb, the guy sitting next to Rory, grins brightly. “Worked though, didn’t it?”
With a large glass of rosé in her hand, Pippa glides across to our table. Her long copper-colored hair falls like a gleaming curtain across her front. Others in her group stand to let her sit beside Seb, and it reminds me of standing on ceremony for a queen.
“I’d have been served atleasttwelve times faster if that old goat hadn’t been too busy ogling my tits,” Pippa grumbles loudly, and several pairs of eyes, including mine, find themselves doing exactly that. To their credit, Danny stares studiously ahead, his eyes as wide as a startled rabbit, while Rory hasn’t even lifted his head in long minutes, his cheek slumped against his hand in boredom.
When she finally settles, Seb looks like he can’t contain himself any longer. “Guess who this handsome chap is,” he murmurs with a jerk of his head in Rory’s direction.
Pippa glances behind Seb, and in less than a second her sparkling eyes widen. She adjusts herself, crossing her legs daintily and correcting her posture.
“It’s Rory, isn’t it — Rory Munro? How do you do?” She thrusts her hand out past Seb and over to Rory. “Pippa Borthwick, PhD candidate in Contemporary British Political Science.”
Rory glances sidelong at her manicured hand with its gleaming gold nails. “I see,” he says blandly, and takes another swig of wine.
Nevertheless, she persists. “I’m, ah — I’m not sure if you’re aware of my work here at St. Camford, but I’m actually doing my thesis on your father.”
Rory seems to blanch. “Oh?”
“Yes, what a fascinating political figure. To rise into power and be responsible for the new era we’re in now.” Her red-lipped smile widens. “You must be very proud.”
If anything, Rory looks the opposite. “‘Proud’ is a word.”
Pippa’s gaze turns speculative. “Look, I know this is sudden, but would you mind me interviewing you? To get some quotes for my paper? I’m booked in to interview your father next month so having first-hand accounts from someone as close to him as you are would be incredible. It’d really go some way to creating a fully rounded figure.”
“A fully rounded figure. My father. Huh.” Rory seems to be losing the will to live. “You’re seeing my father, are you?”
“Yes,” Pippa says, beaming about this. “I have an appointment with him the last week of November.”
Rory nods. Without any kind of ceremony, he fires out, “He’ll fuck you. Or try to. It’s what he does. He has no concept of other people’s boundaries.”
Pippa stares at him, stunned. She clearly hadn’t been expecting such a direct comment. “Well, if he’s as handsome in the flesh as his son…” she jokes awkwardly, though she looks uncomfortable with Rory’s warning.
Taking another sip of wine, Rory shrugs. “More fool you.”
“She’s used to men perving over her, aren’t you, darling?” Seb interjects. “Before coming here, she was a contestant on—”
Pippa waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yes, yes, not everyone needs to know, Seb, thank you.”
“The Prime Minister, though?” Seb muses, as if the idea somehow applied to him instead, and as if Rory weren’t sitting right beside him, having to listen to the potential fuckability of his father. “Thatwouldbe a coup and a half.”
It makes me wonder if they thirst over the man or the job title. And then it makes me wonder the same.
