CHAPTER ONE

When I arrived last night, after a small kerfuffle with the rooms – about which more later – I dumped my bags on the uneven mattress of the single bed I had been allocated, and without unpacking, stepped out into the brisk country air. The Arvon Creative Writing Centre is arranged around a tiny quadrangle of grass and stone, a little-known centre of creative gravity in the rolling hills of Devon. I was immediately attracted to a spot on the northern side of the quadrangle, just behind the “pigsty block” where I am staying – yes, it is actually called that – which hosts a bench overlooking a pleasant rural vista. A little dappled shadow was being cast upon it by a young apple tree bearing hard, nut-like fruit, and a small, blue chair, like a child’s chair, was nestling up to the bench as if the spot had been freshly vacated by lovers. Needless to say I am here alone, and I sat on the bench by myself. But, for once, I didn’t mind. It was late afternoon, and it is summer, and the world had taken on that lovely English goldenness that one almost forgets when living in London. As soon as I sat down, despite the rumbling feeling that yet pervaded my body on account of the several hours of travelling that had been necessary to carry me to this spot, I felt my roots fingering their way down into the earth and starting to draw upon its energy. Not that I have any roots whatsoever in Devon, you understand, in terms of family connections and suchlike, but what I mean to say is that, metaphorically speaking, I immediately felt that sense of spiritual connection to this globe that is the birthright of each and every human. So.

I lit a cigarette (fully aware of the violation this entailed), listened to the batting of the freshest of winds in my ears, and settled down. What happened next was rather strange. One of the reasons for my being here, you understand, is the absence of mobile phone signal in these parts. It’s not that I lack discipline as such, but if I am to complete a proper, full-blooded novel in just three days there will be absolutely no room for even the briefest of telephone conversations. So it was with some surprise, and more than a little consternation, that I heard my Blackberry ring, and felt it vibrate in my pocket. A withheld number. I took a drag on my Marlboro to see me through whatever conversation was bearing down upon me, and answered.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Julian, it’s Toby,” came a voice.

“Ah, Toby. How nice of you to call.”

“I just wanted to wish you luck. Are you there yet?”

“I am. I’ve just arrived and I’m sitting here savouring the view.”

“Lucky thing. London’s grim. I just wanted to wish you luck.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t forget to write in the third person. That’s an absolutely vital part of the process.”

“I won’t. I mean, I will. You know what I mean. You’ve told me that before.”

“Very good. Are you stocked up on supplies and everything?”

“A Waitrose delivery should be coming tomorrow.”

“Very good. I do think this will be good for you. And you’ve left those bloody cigarettes at home?”

“Of course.”

“Well, good luck. You know where I am if you need me.”

“Thanks, Toby.”“This will really help you to move on.”

“I hope so.”

“Well, bye then.”

“Bye, Toby.”

“Good luck.”

I hung up the phone and returned to the remainder of my Marlboro and the rural vista. To my relief, the conversation hadn’t shattered my newfound sense of delight in solitude. It had reminded me of the reasons for my being here, which aren’t exactly pleasant to dwell upon, but it had also reminded me of the support that Toby offers. I felt happy. That phone call was beyond the call of duty, there was no reason for Toby to do it, he isn’t being paid for it. Unless he’s going to invoice me for the conversation on a time-cost basis. Which, come to think of it, is a real possibility. Ha.

Just as I was wondering if the surprising phone call had been a sort of omen – and before I had fully cognised that now I was to have no respite from that benign torturer, my Blackberry – another surprising event occurred that lent itself even more overtly to being recognised as an omen. I was sitting with my legs crossed, not one-over-the-other like a woman (my girth has always made that uncomfortable), but with my left ankle resting on my right knee, in (what I imagine must be) the style of the Marlboro Man. At that point I happened to glance down and see a streak of colour on the leg of my trousers. On closer inspection I found it to be a black-and-yellow caterpillar – a caterpillar! – with brown hairs almost three centimetres long sprouting from its back and a strange black protuberance just behind the head. A most unusual species, I thought (though of course I know next to nothing about caterpillars), and a most unusual occurrence. That very morning, as I was beginning my long journey to Devon on the London Underground, overladen with bags and feeling pretty disconsolate, I had noticed an article in the Metro about a migration of caterpillars in Africa, which was accompanied by a photograph of a long green line of them spanning a baked-mud road. Certainly an omen. A small thing, but it lifted my spirits, which I have to say needed some lifting after the kerfuffle about the room.

Ah, the kerfuffle about the room. This might be the right time to relate it. Now, I am not paying for my board and lodging this weekend and it is very kind of Emily and Reuben not to demand recompense. Though, of course, we have been friends for many years and it would have been most unreasonable of them to charge me. Nevertheless, when I arrived, after the initial embraces and exchange of compliments about how well we all looked – they did look well, as it happened, as they abandoned the London life several years ago to come and run this lovely place – they showed me to my room, and my buoyant mood took a turn for the worse. Emily and Reuben had decided to lodge me in the old farmhouse, which in itself is no bad thing. But although the centre was deserted and I could have had the pick of the rooms, they were intending to put me in the euphemistically named “guest room,” a tiny, irregular-floored little niche just off the kitchen. Off the kitchen! This was perhaps the least restful, most uncomfortable bedroom going! Clearly, they were trying to make a point. Emily led me up there, stooping to avoid the low-hanging lintel – I had forgotten how tall she was – and Reuben returned to the quadrangle to retrieve my bags, which had been abandoned there by the taxi driver.

“Is this the only room there is?” I asked (not unreasonably).

“We thought you’d be comfortable here,” said Emily, plumping the pillow to highlight her point (and in all likelihood as an alternative to eye contact).

“The only thing is,” I began, choosing my words carefully, “what I am embarking on over these next three days is going to be pretty demanding. It’s, well, a feat of concentration. Do you know, I’ll be writing full pelt for fifteen hours each day. So I’d really prefer to be somewhere a little more out of the action.”

By this time Reuben could be heard coming up the short flight of stairs from the kitchen, and Emily called down that he should leave the bags downstairs for a moment. His head appeared, slightly out of breath, above the top step.

“Julian’s not sure about his room,” said Emily nonchalantly.

“Oh? Why not?” Reuben replied, looking at me.

“Well, you know, I was just saying,” I said.

“Not enough of a hermitage for you?” said Reuben, smiling.

“That’s it. That’s just it,” I replied.

“I quite understand,” he said with the smallest of sighs. “Perhaps we could put you in the pigsty block.”

I helped him carry the bags, of course, and they gave me a choice of two other rooms, of which I took room four, on account of the fact that the window faces south, meaning more sunlight, more serotonin, more concentration, and better writing. They left me to unpack, offered me a cup of tea (I declined), and went off to lick their wounds. For several minutes I brooded on the fact that they hadn’t given me the choice of every room in the place (there are some rather nice rooms, with double beds, upstairs in the farmhouse proper). Then, to snap myself out of it, I went out for a cigarette. That’s when I found that bench.

Now, to most people this may not qualify as a kerfuffle. However, it is important to recognise that both Reuben and Emily are Buddhists. This means that it is nigh on impossible to engage them in a full-blooded confrontation. On this more subtle scale, then, the brief interchange that I have described certainly qualifies as a kerfuffle, and I suspect it has produced a simmering tension between the three of us that may well worsen significantly over the coming days. I shall have to be careful.

All this took place, as I mentioned, yesterday afternoon. Now it is 6am, and I have been writing for an hour. I didn’t sleep last night. Maybe it was something to do with being in the countryside, the strange energy coming from the earth. At three in the morning I gave up, went outside and lay on my back in the centre of the quadrangle. The stars spread out in intricate strings above me, and a low roll of dew started to unfurl. I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out into the universe. I told myself that I was lucky to be alive. That I was going to thoroughly enjoy these three days, for how often do I ordinarily get uninterrupted time to write? The occasional snatched thousand words is usually all I can manage at the moment, what with all my teaching duties and so on. I told myself all this, and for a moment considered sticking two fingers up at Toby’s project and working instead on my novel, on the book I’ve been writing for years. But then, I am ashamed to say, out of fear of how he might react, I decided to continue with the task he set me. It might be painful and unpleasant, but if it works as he said it will, and I finally manage to move on, well. It will have been worth it.
So. I should begin.

* * *

When Julian arrived at Oxford, he was as nervous as everyone else. More nervous, actually; he didn’t feel that he deserved to be there, as he had cheated to get in. The interviews, he thought, had gone badly, and when he got home he didn’t think he had even the slightest chance of being accepted. So instead of sending in one of his A-Level essays as he was supposed to, he copied out something about John Donne from the Norton Anthology, sent it in and forgot about it. So when he received the letter of acceptance, it took him wholly by surprise. But ill-gotten gains are never straightforward, and as the Vauxhall approached Oxford, over the Magdalen bridge and into the Byzantine one-way system that loops around and around the ancient, sand-coloured buildings, he felt less and less of a person, and began to worry that by the time he arrived he wouldn’t be able to string a sentence together at all.

The Vauxhall was under the command of Julian’s father, Paul, a little mound of a man who worked in insurance and wished he’d become a playwright (Julian’s mother had died when he was small). Julian could tell that his father was getting increasingly frustrated as the Vauxhall followed the same circuit again and again, like a hamster unable to escape its wheel. He made a comment about needing to fill up again with petrol if this went on much longer, and gave a small laugh, which Julian knew to be a sign that the pressure was beginning to get to him. Julian, like a tiny homunculus, peered out of the vast puppet of his body and tried to catch a glimpse of genuine Oxford students through the glass. Paul guided the vehicle carefully past a pretty blonde girl in a beret riding a bicycle, and Julian craned his neck; but he lost sight of her quickly as the rear window was obscured by his belongings, all nested together in the boot and packed in a wall across the back seat, in bags and boxes and carrier bags. Julian realised that he had an erection, and was reminded of the fact that men, when they are hanged, become aroused (an aspect of biology immortalised in Waiting for Godot, which he had been feverishly reading in anticipation of the commencement of his studies).

Eventually they arrived at New Inn Hall Street, and Paul went into the College lodge, leaving the engine running, to get a temporary parking permit to be used while they unloaded. A small Japanese girl walked past and into the lodge, carrying a standing lamp; she was followed by what could only have been her father, humping a suitcase on his thigh. The college itself, Julian was relieved to note, looked less intimidating following the impromptu tour of Oxford that he had just been (repeatedly) subjected to. Images of Christchurch, St John’s and Trinity were stamped into his mind, with their turrets, gates and gargoyles; St Peter’s was modest by comparison, lying like a vast slab of Georgian butter by the side of a road that was cramped between two shopping centres and mainly used as a rat-run down to the bus station at Gloucester Green.

Paul emerged with the temporary permit and backed the car neatly up to a pair of gates surrounded by bicycles. They got out – to his relief, Julian’s legs didn’t give way – and began to decant his belongings, which had the appearance of an Oxfam collection (and indeed, in some cases, with good reason), into the college.

Julian had been assigned a room in the unimaginatively titled New Block, which had been built out of sight of the more distinguished main quad. It was an ugly, functional cuboid with an echoing spiral staircase at one end, encased in a frosted glass tube. It smelled strongly of cleaning fluid. Apparently, a senior English fellow at the college, Dr Francis Warner, had wanted to build an underground theatre instead, dedicated to his friend Samuel Beckett. His proposals had evidently been overlooked in favour of practical considerations. The room itself was all right; Paul said it was nothing to write home about, so when you do write, as I’m sure you’ll do soon and frequently, don’t mention it, will you. He was trying to be clever. Nobody from his family had been to university for generations, and he himself had attended a down-at-heel Polytechnic in London which he left before completing his degree; he had much to compensate for.

It took the best part of an hour to fill the room with Julian’s possessions, and when the task was accomplished the place looked even less like a home than it had initially. Paul made a half-hearted attempt to help Julian unpack, but they both knew this was a token effort. Presently Paul said he had to be on his way, since he was meeting Vera for dinner. Vera was his new girlfriend. Julian knew she was his girlfriend, and Paul knew Julian knew, and Julian knew Paul knew that he knew, but, in accordance with their unwritten code, neither of them had mentioned it; soon, Julian understood, when the time was deemed to be right, Paul would sit him down and explain that Vera was about to enter their lives on a longer term basis (unless he tired of her first, which happened quite a lot, and moved onto the next). But Julian was confident that this would not affect him too much. It was highly unlikely that his father would allow her to move in, since the toothbrush holder only had a limited number of spaces, and the council tax was high enough as it was, and having Vera at home would give her access to his father’s secrets; a little absence makes the heart grow fonder, as he would say, and familiarity breeds contempt. Anyway, Julian was at Oxford now. He didn’t care.

When Paul left, he gave Julian a hug that lasted for an unusually long time and said to him “chin up”. Julian felt suddenly rather exposed, embarrassed that his father had noticed his nervousness. Yet as the door clicked behind his father and Julian was left alone, surrounded by half-disembowelled bags of clothes, he had a vivid sensation of being loved. He sat on the bed and waited for it to subside.

Some time later, when much of the unpacking had been done and his most embarrassing possessions squirreled away behind the laminated doors of the built-in wardrobe, Julian changed his shirt – he had planned to wear a retro one, with a William Morris floral print and a wide collar when he first met people – and put on his 1970s three-quarter-length brown leather jacket that he’d bought second-hand in Camden market. Then, shaking his head vigorously and steeling himself, he opened his bedroom door.

His foot struck something soft, and he stumbled. There was a loaf of bread lying on the floor, to which was attached a note. He picked it up; it was from the Christian Union, inviting him to join their society and attend their prayer-and-coffee meetings. The bread was white and seemed fairly cheap, as if it was from the value range at Tesco. He looked up and down the corridor and saw that identical loaves were lying outside all the other doors as well. Then the door opposite opened, and an elegant-looking girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and an immaculate black jumper stepped out. Julian wondered if she had been the girl with the beret on the bike.

“I’m Laura Guy,” she said, reaching across to shake his hand as if it were a business meeting.

“Julian.”

“Got your bread, then?”

“It was left outside my door. You’ve got one, too.”

She looked down and picked up her loaf.

“Christians,” she said, “got to love them. What are you reading?”

“I’ve almost finished Waiting for Godot actually,” said Julian, impressed by the question. This was Oxford, it really was Oxford.

“No, I mean what are you reading? You know, studying? Your course?”

“Ah. Er, English.” He felt the blood rushing to his face, and regretted putting on the leather jacket.

“I’m doing PPE.”

“Ah.”

“You know, Politics, Philosophy and Economics.”

“I know.”

She tossed the loaf of bread onto her desk and picked up a piece of paper.

“Right, English, English,” she said, running her finger down it. “Oh, that’s good. You’ve got formal hall tonight, same as us. Look here, it says English and PPE.” She showed him the piece of paper too quickly for him to see.

“Where did you get that?” he said.

“We’ve all got one. Come on, we’ll be late. Get your gown.”

In a daze, Julian returned to his room and dug out the creased gown that his father had bought him the week before via mail order. He had been surprised when he first saw it. He had been expecting a proper, flapping wizard’s cape, not this flimsy vest with tails hanging off the shoulders. He took off his jacket, put on his gown, then put his jacket on over it. He looked in the mirror and changed his mind, putting his gown on over his jacket. Then he changed his mind again, put his jacket back in the wardrobe, and went to join Laura wearing just his gown and shirtsleeves. They left New Block, into the gathering darkness.

As it turned out, formal hall meant a three-course dinner, preceded by a Latin grace, which one must attend in a gown. They were held twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and were entirely optional – apart from this one, which was an opportunity to meet the other people on your course, and, unless it could be avoided, the tutors. Julian and Laura joined the queue of students and they filed up the stone steps to the dining hall, then up the spiralling wooden ones and into the hall itself: a rectangular room with dark wood panelling, long oak tables and benches, a stage at the far end for the Master and senior tutors, and paintings of past Masters ranked on the walls, gazing disapprovingly at the brightly-clad students of the modern age. As they were in the queue they met two other students called Zoë and Ed, Freshers like themselves; Ed was saying that he had chosen PPE over medicine, and wasn’t completely sure of his decision, but he seemed lighthearted about it, and Zoë was saying that she had encountered the same dilemma. Julian initially thought they had known each other before Oxford, and was surprised to hear they had only just met. He was trying to come up with something to contribute to the conversation, and was beginning to feel a little awkward, when they got to the dining hall and were separated, PPE students being directed to the table on the left, and English students to the right; Julian felt at once relieved and anxious to be parted, and prepared himself for another fresh start.

As the students took their places at random around the table, awkwardly hoisting their legs over the hard, wooden benches, a serendipity came into play. This was the first meeting of the English set – who would encounter whom first? Who would become friends, who enemies? What hive of relationships, loves and anxieties was waiting to be constructed out of this raw material? Nobody could know, but whether it was the hand of fate, or the hand of God, or just chance and randomness, Julian found himself sitting next to a girl by the name of Pandora. And his life was about to change.

Pandora looked like a quiet person, but surprised you with the strength of her voice, the animation of her expression, and the energy of her smile. She had flaxen, almost white hair which coiled in ringlets down to the middle of her back, and skin the colour of wax from which a pair of dark brown eyes gazed like the coally eyes of a snowman. Beneath her gown she was wearing a long jacket made of red velvet, which stretched down to her knees; apart from this, she was clad in black.

“Happy Freshers’ Week,” she said as they sat down. “I’m Pandora Longman. You’re Julian, right?”

“How did you know?”

“I overheard you talking to that girl. What’s your last name?”

“Stevens. With a V.”

“Are you going to the bop tonight, Julian Stevens-with-a-V?”

“Bop?”

“You know, party. In the JCR.”

“JCR?”

“Junior Common Room.”

“I just don’t know how everyone knows these things. Everyone seems to know these things but me.”

“Come on, it’s not rocket science. A bop’s a bop, isn’t it?”

Julian laughed self-consciously.

“What are you reading?” he said.

“English, same as you,” Pandora replied, “this is the English table, remember? Though I’m doing English and Italian. My mum is Italian. From Florence.”

Julian felt himself beginning to flush again, but before he could reply there was the sound of a gavel being beaten on the table and, with some confusion occasioned by the difficulties involved in getting back over the benches, everyone rose for grace. Julian felt himself becoming a homunculus again, embedded within his body, sinking down within it; then he caught eyes with Pandora and for the briefest of moments one of her coal-black eyes flickered closed and open again – a wink – and she smiled. And nothing seemed to matter any more.

“Isn’t it great?” said Pandora above the hubbub, as they struggled back onto the bench once grace had been concluded, “In just three months it will be a new millennium. What a fabulous time to be at Oxford, don’t you think? It will be the year 2000. We live in historic times, Julian Stevens.”

“Yes, great. I mean, of course. It’s great.”

There was a pause and Julian glanced around the room. Everyone seemed so confident, talking away as if they had known each other for years. Sullen-looking waiting staff were stringing their way along the tables, bearing plates of asparagus and butter.

“Have you given much thought to what you’ll be studying this term?” said Pandora suddenly.

“Oh yes,” Julian replied, “I’m planning on starting with Samuel Beckett. I’m in the middle of Waiting for Godot. Have you read it? Or seen it?”

“You’re not doing Beckett this term, though, are you?”

“Why not?”

“We’re not doing twentieth century until Trinity.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. This term we’re doing the Victorians, and you will have to do Old English as well.”

“Oh God. I’m not looking forward to that. Old English is so banal.”

Pandora laughed out loud, drawing glances from around the table.

“What’s so funny?” said Julian touchily.

“For one thing, it’s the wrong word. For another, you don’t pronounce it like that.”

“Like what?”

She leant over and whispered to him so that the other people at the table couldn’t overhear.

“Banal doesn’t rhyme with anal, you know,” she hissed. “You pronounce it ba-nal.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” She was laughing uncontrollably now. Julian felt his face glow with embarrassment, and looked down at the table.

“Oh, don’t worry old Julian Stevens-with-an-V,” said Pandora, patting his arm and wiping her eyes, “you’ve probably only ever read the word, haven’t you? Never used it in conversation? We’ve all done it, we’ve all done it. I won’t tell anybody.”

Eventually she managed to compose herself and Julian, to avoid becoming completely disabled by embarrassment, forced himself to reopen the conversation.

“What about you?” he said falteringly, “are you looking forward to Old English?”

“I’m doing English and Italian, so I don’t have to do it.”

“I see.”

The asparagus arrived and Julian caught the eye of the waiter, a florid, irritated-looking man. Julian felt profoundly guilty, without really knowing why.

“Fancy some wine, Mr Banal?” said Pandora, and before Julian could answer, his glass was full. He noticed that the bottle had the St Peter’s College crest on the label. He took a long draught.

“Bit of a drinker, eh?” said Pandora. “Anyway, what were we saying? Oh yes, Old English. You’ll have to do it. Have you started looking at it yet?”

“I thought we didn’t have to do it until Hilary.”

“Oh poor Julian, you’re completely mixed up.” She took a sip of wine and sliced into her asparagus. “In Hilary you’re doing Middle English. You know, Chaucer.” She leant closer. “I like you,” she said. “You’re a misfit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be offended.”

“I’m not offended.”

“Good. I’m a misfit too. Takes one to know one.”

“I suppose so.”

There was a pause while they finished their food, and Julian glanced furtively at the people around him, hoping to engage someone else in conversation; but they were all talking to each other. He felt like he’d arrived late at a party, and wondered how it was that these people seemed to know each other so well.

“Where are you from, Julian?” said Pandora.

“London.”

“I’m from Winchester. What did you do over the summer?”

“I worked, actually.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, just a sandwich shop. Nothing special. What about you?”

“I did work experience at a publishers.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Oh, my dad arranged it. It was pretty cool, though.”

“You don’t write, do you?”

“Not really. A few short stories sometimes.”

“I’m half-way through a novel,” said Julian, trying to make up for lost ground.

“Really?” Pandora moved towards him, allowing the waiter to reach over her shoulder for her plate, and her hair brushed against his face. “What’s it about?”

“Well, I’m keeping the idea secret. But I’ll tell you anyway.”

“You’re not much good at keeping secrets, are you?” She laughed again, loudly, but by this time the bottles of St Peter’s Claret were emptier and nobody seemed to notice. The wine was going to Julian’s head as well; Pandora refilled his glass.

“The idea is all about dreams,” Julian began as his plate was removed from before him. His fork slid to the floor but he didn’t notice; voices were loud enough to obscure the clatter. The florid waiter bent down impatiently to retrieve it. “Basically it’s about lucid dreaming. Have you ever heard of that?”

“Yes, that’s where you control your dreams or something, isn’t it?”

“Sort of. In a lucid dream you actually wake up in your dream, you become fully conscious, and you can do whatever you want.”

“Do you have lucid dreams then, Julian?”

“Not really.”

“So long as those are the only dreams you have,” she said enigmatically, drinking from her wineglass. Julian tried briefly to interpret her remark, then decided to disregard it.

“The character starts to control his dreams and constructs a perfect world,” said Julian, warming to his theme. “Then he tries to sleep all the time so that he never has to experience imperfection.”

“Then what happens?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Julian admitted, “I suppose I thought it would become obvious when I get there. I’ve written about twenty thousand words.”

“I know exactly what happens,” said Pandora, “or at least I know what should happen.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s obvious. I can’t believe you haven’t realised it.”

“Go on, then.”

“You’ll have to pay me.”

“Bugger off.”

Pandora shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said casually. “More wine?”

*

By the time dinner was over, night had fallen and the small windows high up in the dark-panelled walls of the dining room showed nothing but blackness. The students were in high spirits as they spilled down the stone steps and out into the quad, warmed by the wine and intoxicated with excitement. The night was cloudy; there were no stars. Already the sound of music could be heard from the direction of the Junior Common Room; Julian noticed that all around were brightly coloured posters advertising the bop, which apparently was on the theme of “vicars and tarts.” The energy in the air was tangible, you could drink it in, Julian felt that he wouldn’t need to sleep for a week. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, but by no means properly drunk. Pandora was still beside him; it was as if they were in a bubble, nobody else was speaking to them. They had only just met but already they were a world unto themselves.

“Look,” said Pandora, “I’m not going to the bop. You go on and have a good time.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to the bop?”

“I can’t,” she said, and leaned in towards him. “I could never afford to let my tarty side out.” She tipped her head back and laughed, and he laughed along with her, though he wasn’t entirely sure what was funny.

“Come on,” he said, “you can always go as a vicar.”

“I’ll go as a vicar if you go as a tart.”

“I think that would be one step too far.”

“Well, then.”

“Ok, so where’s your room? I’ll walk you back, at least.”

“What a gentleman. And they say that the age of manners is dead.”

She was living in the Matthews Block – a 1970s monstrosity on the other side of college, again set back from the main quad, out of sight. They walked slowly past the ivy-clad chapel, giggling together, as students milled about them. When they reached the perfectly clipped square of grass in the main quad, Pandora stopped.

“You go on ahead,” she said. “Go round the quad. I want to show you something.” She was smiling and waving him off, so he did as she asked, following the path around the quad. When he reached the other side of the grass, he stopped, waiting for her, watching expectantly. She gave him the thumbs-up. Then she turned her palms outwards, keeping them at her sides, and stepped onto the grass, walking slowly across it, a beatific smile on her face, like Jesus walking across the water. Julian’s mouth fell open; students all around the quad stopped and stared, and a silence seemed to descend. One foot after the other she approached, crossing the hallowed grass without leaving a footprint. Never had the grass been walked on, never. Julian glanced around for a sign of a tutor, a porter, or the Dean, but Pandora’s luck was in – none of them were anywhere to be seen. She stepped daintily off the grass and onto the path, and fell against him, giggling. Somewhere, a group of boys cheered.

“That was fun,” she said, “come on.” She led him, dumbfounded, in the direction of Matthews.

When they arrived, the music from the Junior Common Room was loud; Matthews was directly opposite.

“Very nice to meet you, Julian,” said Pandora above the din.

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Goodnight.”

“Wait,” said Julian, “you still haven’t told me.”

“Told you what?”

“How my novel should end. You could be damaging a great work of literature.”

“But it’s so obvious.”

“Not to me it’s not.”

She stopped, thought, and walked back over to him.

“I’ll tell you, Julian Stevens, but you’ll need to pay me.”

“What, money?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Do something for me, I don’t know.”

“Like what?”

She thought for a moment.

“Carry me up to my room.”

“You’re joking.”

“No I’m not. Those stairs are a nightmare.”

“What floor are you on?”

“Second.”

“Surely you can walk up two flights of stairs.”

“Surely you can carry me up two flights of stairs.”

Julian smiled in disbelief, shook his head, then threw caution to the winds. He hoisted her into his arms and pushed his way into Matthews.

“God, it stinks in here doesn’t it?” said Pandora as Julian began to climb the stairs. “People piss in the stairwell, I think.”

She directed Julian to her room as if commanding a taxi driver. Finally they arrived and he set her on her feet.

“Now,” he said, straightening his shirt and trying to catch his breath. “Out with it.”

“Well…”

“You don’t know, do you? You’ve just been taking the piss.”

“Of course I know.”

“Well, then?”

She leaned in close to him.

“First your man creates a perfect world in his dreams,” she says, “and spends all his time asleep. But then it starts to go wrong. He loses control, and the dream turns into a nightmare. Then he starts trying to stay awake all the time, so that he doesn’t have to enter the horrible world of his own creation.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know,” she said lightly, “you’re the author.” She touched him lightly on the arm and grinned. “Night.” The door clicked shut, and Julian was left alone in the corridor with nothing but the muffled music from the Junior Common Room for company.