With mixed feelings, he read on.
Seraphina Lewis, as it turned out, was the new college administrator tasked with tracking down and reaching out to old House members. Christ Church was a bit like the SAS: once you were in, you were in for life. Even if you left there under the darkest of clouds. Even if you had almost set fire to the place on at least one occasion, and in a separate incident hurled down three flights of stairs a fridge containing a roast pheasant and a bottle of expensive champagne belonging to the son of the Italian president, almost causing an international flap in the process. Such trifling matters seemingly were omitted from House records, in a spirit of forgive and forget.
The invitation read:
Dear Old Member,
This is to remind you that you are cordially invited to attend a special Easter reunion for all Christ Church Alumni, to be held on Wednesday, 12 April. The event will include refreshments in the Deanery Garden and a celebration dinner in the Great Hall (gowns to be worn). In addition, this year we are delighted to invite you to a private recital in the college chapel by Old Member and former Christ Church Organ Scholar Nicholas Hawthorne, who since leaving the House has gone on to become an internationally acclaimed classical recording artist. Nicholas will be performing works by William Byrd, Olivier Messiaen and Johann Sebastian Bach on the cathedral’s magnificent Rieger organ. I hope you will be able to attend, and warmly look forward to welcoming you back in person to Christ Church for this very special event. Accommodation will be available within college at no extra cost for Old Members and spouses.
Warmly, Seraphina Lewis, Christ Church (1993)
Development and Alumni Office
R.S.V.P. to [email protected]
Ben stubbed out his cigarette, lit a fresh one, and leaned back from the desk to think. The date of the event was only three days from now, the email having sat ignored in the spam folder all these weeks. His automatic inclination was to dismiss the matter without a second thought and not even bother replying. He hadn’t been back to Oxford since the brief time he and his then-fiancée Brooke Marcel had rented a house in Jericho, in the west of the city. Much had happened since then. Too much.
But then Ben thought about it some more, and felt himself slowly softening to the idea of attending the reunion. Not all his memories were bad ones. He remembered a moonlit summer’s night many years ago, sitting under the ancient cloister arches near Old Library with Michaela, the two of them listening to the strains of one of Nick Hawthorne’s late-night organ practice sessions emanating from where the cathedral nave adjoined the far corner of the cloister.
Though Nick had been the eldest by some margin, he’d been a key member of the ‘gang of four’: him, Ben, Michaela and Simeon. They’d all met during Ben’s second year at Christ Church, which would turn out to be his last, and become good friends. When you could drag Nick away from his music, he was fun company, knew the wickedest jokes and could drink real ale like it was going out of style.
Simeon Arundel had been a very different personality. Like Ben, he’d studied theology. Unlike Ben, he’d been heavily committed long-term to the subject and would go on to see it through to the end by being ordained as a vicar. Michaela Ward had been a first-year student of PPE, Oxford’s abbreviation for Philosophy, Politics and Economics. And she’d been Ben’s first serious girlfriend, though the relationship hadn’t lasted long. Following their break-up, Ben’s life had reached an unhappy point where he terminated his studies and left university. Then, in the wake of Ben’s dramatic departure, the friendship that had always existed between Michaela and Simeon suddenly deepened and they’d got together, married and settled in a village not too far from Oxford. As it turned out, those two had been meant for each other.
Ben would never forget either of them. Or the way they’d died, many years later.
With Simeon and Michaela gone, the original gang of four had been halved. Which might have impelled the survivors to keep in touch – but Ben and Nick never had. Ben was aware that it was his fault, since keeping in touch had never been his forte. Now after all these years, the thought of seeing Nick again filled him with a bittersweet feeling. Maybe it was time to rebuild the contact between them. The date of the reunion fitted right in with his planned trip to Surrey. Bisley was only an hour’s drive away from Oxford, and it would save him having to find a hotel in nearby Guildford.
It was a spur of the moment thing. A snap decision. Ben thought fuck it, leaned forward, hit reply and started typing his response to Seraphina Lewis.
Two days later, he was slinging his old green bag on the front seat of his shiny silver BMW D3 Alpina Bi-Turbo, a replacement for the blue one he’d ditched at the bottom of the River Arno in Florence before Christmas, speeding off up Le Val’s bumpy track, past the gatehouse and away.
If he’d known how things were about to turn out, Ben would have stayed at home. Or maybe not. Because trouble seemed to draw him like a magnet. And trouble was coming, just as it always seemed to. Especially when your name was Ben Hope.
‘I still can’t believe it’s you,’ Nick Hawthorne said. ‘Feels like such a blast from the past.’
‘Feels strange for me too,’ Ben replied. ‘Being back here after all these years. Time seems to have stood still.’
They’d finished breakfast and were walking down the stone staircase from the Great Hall. Sunlight shone from the archway that led to the south-east corner of Tom Quad.
‘Speaking of time,’ Nick said, ‘do you have any plans for the rest of the morning, or lunch?’
‘None in particular.’
‘Only, I’m having a few people over at my place for drinks and a bit of a buffet this lunchtime. Nothing formal, you know. It’s a way for me to loosen up with a few laughs and a couple of glasses of wine before tonight’s performance. Why don’t you come?’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Ben said.
Nick looked pleased. He glanced up at the clock that adorned the massive Tom Tower, which straddled the college’s entrance and loomed over St Aldate’s. ‘There are still a couple of hours before the first guests will start to turn up,’ Nick said. ‘If you like, we could head over there now. Give us a chance to catch up a bit on old times. And if you don’t mind, you can help me set up the buffet while we’re chatting.’
‘On one condition,’ Ben said.
‘What’s that?’
‘You make me a cup of real coffee.’
‘Done. You ready? Let’s go and grab a bus. I live up in north Oxford, going towards Summertown.’
‘No car?’
‘I bought one last year, an Aston Martin,’ Nick said with a casual wave. ‘Total white elephant. I never even use the damn thing.’
‘Business must be good if you can afford a car like that,’ Ben said. He was still hurting from the cost of his new BMW.
‘I get by,’ Nick replied with a grin. ‘You must tell me all about yours.’
Ben had so far avoided divulging much about what he was