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At that early hour, the library was almost deserted. Charles and I had agreed to meet there to study together, but—predictably—we fell into conversation, and the first hour passed in idle talk, our books lying open and untouched before us.
Eventually, the conversation turned to Francis. He’d shown up to see Julian the day before, looking spectacularly hungover, and Charles explained it was the aftermath of a night at the club.
I nodded politely. The nature of such clubs was familiar enough to me, and I had no desire to rake over someone else’s indulgences.
But Charles, it seemed, was in a gossipy mood.
“François rang us. In the middle of the night,” he said cheerfully, flipping through his book to the contents page. “Camilla picked up and stayed on with him for the better part of an hour.”
“What was he on about?”
“Oh, the usual. Complained everyone there was rude, then claimed he smashed a bong over some biker’s head.”
We laughed, then lapsed into a brief attempt at productivity. More students had begun to drift in, and the air was starting to grow close.
Charles spun his pencil between his fingers.
“Does he unsettle you?” he asked suddenly.
I was always quietly grateful for the way Charles went out of his way to make me feel part of things.
“Not really,” I said. “We sorted it. I told him no.”
Charles gave a little snort, and I realised that was the last reaction I’d expected.
“Why? Did I miss out on something?” I asked, half-joking, trying to brush away the faint unease.
He paused, then said very quietly, “Not especially.”
“Not especially?”
“Not especially.”
The conversation began to falter, and Charles, sensing I was growing uncomfortable, offered up a companionable joke.
“Forget it. I’ve heard Francis makes his suitors wash their hands and buy flowers first.”
I smiled.
Charles turned the page of his book, jotted something down in his notebook in that neat hand of his.
“And he smokes during sex,” he added, and immediately regretted it.
I was so stunned it took me a minute or two to manage the most obvious question.
“And how exactly do you know that?”
“Camilla! Camilla!” Charles, realising just how cornered he was, all but shouted across the room.
I turned—amidst a sea of pretentious black turtlenecks, a milk-white jumper bobbed into view. Camilla saw her brother, then me, and smiled. She made her way over, holding her skirt neatly at the side and clutching a few books under one arm.
Everything looked good on her, even though she had more or less the same build as Charles. Had he put on the skirt, he’d have looked much the same.
“Hello,” said Camilla.
“Didn’t we have plans to, um, go to the greenhouse just now?” Charles was hastily stuffing books into his bag, as if trying to beam her a message through sheer desperation.
She blinked at him.
“Don’t remem— Oh. Yes,” she amended, catching sight of his bug-eyed expression. “Of course.”
I tried again.
“So how do you know?”
“Know what?” Charles feigned innocence, already half out of his seat.
“About Francis.”
Camilla froze mid-turn, her interest piqued.
“It is nothing,” Charles muttered. “People talk.”
“People?”
“Yes. Loads of rumours go round this place. That’s one of them. Look, we’ve got to go. See you.”
At the library doors, Camilla raised an eyebrow in question. Charles dropped his shoulders in defeat. They whispered something to each other; Camilla laughed lightly, and Charles shook his head in mock disapproval.
I remained behind, trying once again to focus on my work—but Charles’s words kept circling.
It struck me as unlikely that that would be the rumour someone spread after sleeping with Francis. I’d have understood hearsay about his performance, or the size of certain things—but smoking? And that’s when I realised: Charles had been teasing me.
I needed to investigate.
Francis was outside, feeding the already-chubby campus cat on the steps by the car park. He’d clearly seen me lingering, had even cast a few questioning glances over his pince-nez, but I still couldn’t bring myself to approach.
How on earth does one begin that conversation?
Hello, I heard you smoke during sex—is that true?
Why did I even want to know?
“If you’re wondering, I saw you,” Francis called out, finally taking pity on me. I shuffled forward sheepishly. The cat bolted under the nearest car.
“There, you’ve scared him,” he said.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “She didn’t look especially underfed.”
“He’s just fluffy,” Francis defended the cat. “I call him Mr Mittens.”
“I think it’s a she,” I said. The cat, now cowering under the car, was definitely a tortoiseshell.
“Did you come here to be clever?” Francis smiled, lighting a cigarette.
The gesture was far too evocative. I immediately pictured him astride some lover, lighting a cigarette just so, inhaling with that same cool detachment while never missing a beat.
I wanted to kill Charles. Now I’d be cursed with that image every time Francis smoked.
Which was often. Painfully often.
“Charlessaidyousmokeduringsex.”
“Pardon?” Francis replied in the tone of someone who’d heard every word and simply couldn’t believe them.
I don’t know what compelled me to say it out loud, but it was too late now.
Francis’s ears turned faintly pink, but otherwise his expression remained unchanged.
“Well,” he said slowly, “why would Charles say such a thing?”
“I thought the same,” I admitted. “I figured he was winding me up.”
Francis narrowed his eyes dangerously. I didn’t like it.
“Maybe it’s true,” he said coolly. “Though it’s a pity Charles didn’t mention—I only do it when I’m bored.”
My mouth opened. Then shut.
“When the sex is bad,” Francis clarified, and I, overwhelmed with shame, mumbled a goodbye and fled.
The next morning found us again in the library. Again, predictably, we were talking instead of working.
I decided to tell Charles about the encounter. He was sipping water from a thick-cut glass.
“Francis says he only smokes when the sex is dull,” I said, rather pleased with the juicy counter-gossip.
The water in the glass had long since gone, yet Charles still held it pressed to his lips.
“When he’s bored,” I added helpfully.
The silence dragged. Charles set the glass down—just missing the coaster.
“He said that?” he asked.
“Well… yes,” I replied, less confidently.
For the next half hour, Charles took furious notes and made no effort at all to speak.
“That word—Ἐχάρην—can be used when you want to say something pleased you,” Julian explained later that day. “It’s the aorist of χαίρω. Francis, would you try? Say you enjoyed a meal, for example.”
Before Francis could answer, Charles raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“And how does one specify that something was really and truly liked?”
Francis shifted in his seat.
“What do you mean?”
“Say someone said the meal was enjoyable. The meal I made,” said Charles. “Even though I didn’t have much experience with that particular dish… I mean, I’d only made it a couple of times before. But each time, I was told it was excellent.”
I could see Francis roll his eyes.
“Right…” Julian was starting to lose the thread.
“And if they said it was wonderful again, I’d want to know if they were lying.”
Francis noisily rifled through his notes. I turned to catch Camilla’s long-suffering look, Henry’s faint disapproval, and Bunny’s complete and utter indifference.
“Perhaps the particle Ἄρα γε,” I offered, hoping to put the whole thing to rest. “It conveys doubt or emphasis.”