Chapter 11
It is to Mebel’s uttersurprise and delight that the following evening, the youths, as she refers to them in her head, take her not to Cowley Road but to the actual city of Oxford. How funny, Mebel thinks as she walks down High Street, that she’s been in Oxfordshire for two weeks, but it is only now that she’s left Cowley and come into Oxford proper. And despite Cowley’s vicinity to Oxford, it is like entering a different universe altogether.
While Cowley is full of squat, humble houses that look like they were built in haste in the seventies, Oxford itself is a city straight out of a fairy tale. The university, made up of several different colleges, looks like a collection of little castles, each one with its own distinct architecture. Mebel drinks in the gorgeous sights around her hungrily, she’s been so starved of beauty down in Cowley. There’s All Souls College, which has the most intricate wrought iron gates she has ever seen, paintedin gold. There’s the Radcliffe Camera, a round building that is part of the Bodleian Library and built in a Baroque style. As they walk past the Sheldonian Theatre, Mebel can hear the beautiful sound of orchestral music spilling from the building. Everywhere Mebel turns, Oxford is ready to remind her that it is a city of culture, of art and philosophy and music and brilliance. How is it possible that this place is only a ten-minute car ride from where Mebel has been staying this whole time?
“You all right, Mebs?” Gemma says.
Mebel nods, still speechless. They’re now walking past a small bridge that arches between two buildings. Though it is small, it’s somehow the most beautiful bridge that Mebel has ever seen.
“That’s the Bridge of Sighs,” Gemma says, following Mebel’s gaze. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Why is called the Bridge of Sighs?”
“Not sure,” Gemma says, “but I like it. I like to think it’s because Oxford students are probably so stressed that they sigh all the time.”
Mebel smiles, her mind going back to her college days at USC. She had been under a lot of pressure back then with her studies, but at the same time, it had been pleasant in its own way. A strong purpose in mind, goals with clear guidelines—study hard, get decent grades, and get your degree. And, beyond that, the long-term goal of any self-respecting CHIP—get a good husband with a stable paycheck. Mebel sighs. Things had been so straightforward back then.
“Mebs,” Bruce says, catching up with her. “When we get to Le Provençal, maybe you might want to stay behind us.”
Gemma glares at him. “And why would she need to do that?”
Bruce ignores Gemma, keeping his eyes on Mebel. “It’s justthat they might wonder if you’re actually with us because—you know.” He gestures to himself, then to Mebel.
“Because I am so better dressed than you?” Mebel says innocently.
Bella and Adam, walking a step behind them, giggle. Bruce rolls his eyes.
“I hope I am not rude,” Mebel continues, “but you pair that newsboy cap with that tweed jacket, is somewhat…old-fashioned?”
Red splotches bloom on Bruce’s cheeks while the others hide their laughter behind their hands. “It’s English fashion,” Bruce cries. “You can’t talk, you’re wearing—” He gestures wildly at Mebel.
Mebel looks down at her outfit. For tonight’s exciting dinner, she has chosen to wear a black embroidered wool Chanel dress with gold detailing. She has paired it with a Macrocannage cropped jacket from Dior and finished the look with a pair of the iconic J’Adior slingback pumps in transparent, embroidered mesh. Now she is beginning to wonder if the shoes are a touch over the top.
“Bruce,” Gemma says to Bruce, “what are you talking about? Mebs looks like a total baddie.”
“Yeah,” Adam says. He waves his hands over Mebel. “I love your look, Mebs. I would describe it as elegant, with a hint of hussy.”
Mebel can’t decide whether to be horrified or delighted by Adam’s description, but since it makes Bruce look like he is questioning his existence, she decides she likes it.
Le Provençal is the newest French restaurant on Saint Giles’. On the outside, it is understated, its facade clean and simple,the words “Le Provençal” hanging on a swinging sign above the door in a straightforward black font. But its doors are open, patrons crowded outside, chatting with one another while waiting and hoping for a table. Mebel scans the crowd; there are at least thirty people out here, all of them dressed in tasteful dinner attire. Despite herself, she is impressed by Bruce for being able to secure a reservation here.
“Come on,” Bruce says to the group. “I’ll let the hostess know we’re all here.” He jogs up the stone steps into the restaurant, and the rest of them follow.
Mebel catches a few stares as she slips through the crowd and hugs her jacket tightly around herself, feeling self-conscious. It’s an older crowd than undergrads, thank god, but they are still massively younger than her, and she is really beginning to question the wisdom of her shoes. They are so coquettish, clearly meant for a woman below thirty, maybe forty at a push.
“Come on, Mebs!” Gemma calls out, and Mebel hurries toward her, feeling grateful that Gemma has thought to wait for her.
Inside, the restaurant is gorgeous. The walls are painted a soft dusty blue and are lined with wainscotting, with black-and-white pictures of iconic French stars hung here and there. The lighting is warm and comfortable, and soft piano music plays in the background. Everyone in here, from the guests to the servers, looks like they have just stepped out of a movie set. Mebel spots black Prada dresses and red-soled Louboutins. The men are wearing Pateks and the women are adorned with Franck Muller.Well, well, she thinks.Toto, we are not in Cowley anymore.
She turns around to see that Bruce is in an animatedconversation at the reception desk, with Bella and Adam looking confused and worried next to him. Sharing a look with Gemma, Mebel goes up to Bruce.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
Bruce holds up a hand in front of Mebel’s face and continues berating the hostess. “—last Tuesday. I spoke to—well, my assistant spoke to—well, I don’t know who exactly she spoke to, but there’s got to be a reservation, it’s under Bruce MacLeod.”
The hostess, a red-haired woman who looks somewhere in her late twenties, gives Bruce an apologetic half smile and says, “I’m really sorry, Mr. MacLeod, but I don’t see a reservation under that name here.”
“But that’s impossible. Look, I’m calling my assistant right now, and she’ll sort this out.”
