“And you don’t want to be that?”
“Look, I wasn’t even meant to be here this year. I wanted to be sailing the world, far away from—” He waved a hand at the building, where writhing shapes pressed against the windows. “My yacht was all ready.”
“And they’d let you take the year off?” Emma asked.
“People do it all the time. And m’mother’s good friends with the University chancellor, so they’d got it sorted between them. But my father put an end to that.” Jasper’s face had darkened. “He’s got my life all planned out. Economics now, then straight into a job in finance, like him. I’ll never get to live the way I want.” He kicked at the bench. “So here I am, back in my box. My roommate wanted to throw this party. Richard. But when it all kicked off, I came out here. I couldn’t face it.”
“Why not?”
“The same fake stories and jokes and peoplewantingthings. When I could be at sea right now, the spray on my face, whereI’m—my real self.” He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Or whatever. That sounded lame.”
“Not lame,” said Emma, reaching out. His forearm was warm, the scars rough under her fingers. “That’s why the photos, right? When I was looking at them in your room, I thought they were like… windows. To somewhere different. An escape.”
Strong tan fingers closed over her own. She felt a jolt in her chest.
“You do get it.”
His gaze was piercing. Emma had the strange sensation that he was looking right through her, to everything that lay behind. His eyes were the most devastating blue.
“Of course.” Emma feigned cool, though her heart was fluttering like a bat caught in a bell jar. “I know what it’s like. To feel out of place, at parties like this. That’s why I was in your bedroom in the first place.”
“Oh yes.” He smiled in a way that made Emma wonder where her insides had gone. “So you were.”
“It was nice, seeing your photos of Tasmania,” she said softly. “Like a piece of home. I miss it.”
“Must’ve been amazing, growing up there.”
“I grew up all over, really. But Tasmania was special. I got to stay there longer than anywhere else. Four years, nearly. Same school, same friends. And there was this beach right near our house—you could see penguins there. Can you imagine? Fairy penguins, they called them.” Emma smiled and sighed. “I cried every day when we moved. The next place was the middle of Mexico somewhere. I remember refusing to learn Spanish, thinking it would force my mum to take me back to Australia. Eleven-year-old logic.”
“Didn’t work?”
“Not at all. In fact, after that we were on to the Philippines. Then Toronto,” she continued, counting on her fingers. “The Côte d’Ivoire. Hertfordshire, strangest of all. My mum’s work took us a lot of places.”
“And your dad was okay with that?”
“They’re not together. He—he was never really involved. With me. Phone calls now and then, that’s it. So it was just her and me, and a few suitcases.”
Jasper looked entranced. “What an incredible way to live. Country to country, taking only what you need. Living for the experience of it, not the material stuff. That’s the life for me.”
“As long as it comes with breakfast at Le Meurice,” Emma teased, thinking of Julia’s stories.
“Now, who told you that? No, I don’t want to know.” He laughed, eyes dancing. “I don’t want to imagine what other stories you’ve heard. They’re all probably true. Look, what penguin beaches are to you, fine pastries are to me.”
The door above banged open once more.
“Jasper,” bellowed the voice again. “Where the bloody hell are you? Come up for some port before I drag you up.”
“Well.” Jasper rose from the bench. “I don’t think we can hide for much longer. Shall we?”
The moment they entered the main room, Jasper was mobbed. The press of people was overwhelming. Antonia Viacelli, luscious hair spilling from her bun, winked as they passed. Imogen danced barefoot at the center of a group of roaring boys, red hair flying. It was dizzying. Jasper caught Emma’s hand and plunged them through an opening in the capering circle.
He steered her to a figure leaning against the fireplace.
“Emma,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Richard, my roommate.”
“Andbestmate,” the figure corrected.
He was similar to Jasper, in that they both had blond hair and blue eyes. But if Jasper was an Aston Martin, Richard was a Land Rover. He was solidly built, shorter than she was. His hair was fine and light as a duckling’s down, ruffled into an artfully tousled nest. A pale imitation, Emma thought, next to Jasper’s naturally springy dark gold mane. Although he wore the same eveningwear as the others, Richard gave off a strong scent of corduroy, soon to become pinstripe.
