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glanced at Oscar, raising his eyebrows. ‘And who do we have here?’
    Iris made the introductions. She explained how she’d met Oscar at the chapel and Marcus stood there, nodding courteously as she talked. He hardly seemed interested in what she was telling him until she mentioned Cedarbrook, then his grey face brightened. ‘The place with the wisteria?’ Marcus asked. ‘Oh, how lovely. Did you know about this, Eden?’
    Eden blinked a few times. ‘Of course.’
    The four of them small-talked for a while. Marcus was in the final year of a music degree and writing a dissertation on the death of J. S. Bach. He was quick to make sure Oscar knew how little shame he felt for being at Downing College: ‘It isn’t one of the glamour colleges, but so what? Back in Germany, in my parents’ little mountain town where people still churn their own milk, they treat me like royalty. I should really go home moreoften, come to think of it.’ Marcus took a large swig of wine, so big he had to pool it in his cheeks before gulping it down.
    ‘It’s still not a real college like King’s, though, is it?’ Eden said.
    ‘You keep out of it. I’m chatting with your friend here.’
    Eden laughed. ‘Did you say
vitt
? Chatting
vitt
?’
    ‘Oh, stop it.’ Marcus turned to Oscar. ‘They’re always making fun of my accent. If they had the balls to go to Germany and talk German they’d get a rude awakening.’
    ‘Excuse me,’ Eden said, ‘you’re only half German. And I didn’t hear anyone laughing at my accent when I was in Heidelberg with you.’
    ‘That’s because we don’t laugh in people’s faces. It’s funnier to do it behind their backs.’ Marcus smiled. ‘Do you know what they call Oxbridge students in Germany?’ He moved a step closer to Oscar, lowering his voice. ‘Pretzels.’ He let the word hang a moment. ‘All that dough leaves a bad taste in the mouth.’ He giggled wildly at his own joke. ‘Actually, I heard somebody say that at a formal dinner. Or it might have been Alistair Cooke on the radio. But it’s true, don’t you think?’ He raised his glass and dredged the last trickle of wine from it.
    Somebody took the opportunity to change the music. The first bar of ‘Can’t Stand Losing You’ blared from the speakers, and Iris looked over to the stereo. ‘Oh, I just a
dore
this song,’ she said, and held out her hand, willing Oscar to take it. ‘Will you dance with me?’
    Oscar looked at her expectant face, dewy with sweat. There was no way he could refuse her.
    ‘I warn you,’ Eden said. ‘She doesn’t dance very often. It might put you off her for good.’ He leaned an arm on Marcus’s shoulder and whispered into his ear. Marcus responded with a squint of his eyes, as if measuring something on Oscar’s face. ‘Yeah,’ Marcus said, giggling. ‘That’s what I assumed.’
    Oscar felt Iris take his hand, her soft fingers closing around his wrist. She led him into the small crowd of dancers in the middle ofthe room. When she let go, he felt her absence on his skin like a draught. She closed her eyes, dropping her shoulders to the beat of The Police, dipping her hips, shifting her pale bare feet and lifting the long hair away from the back of her neck, her fingers steepled at the base of her skull. Her lips moved silently around every lyric—she knew them by heart.
    The longer they danced, the less conscious Oscar felt of himself and his surroundings. He lost sight of Eden and Marcus, and stopped wondering what they were thinking about him, what they were saying to each other. The beat of the music seemed to lock itself to the beat of his heart. He hoped that he could stay there with Iris on the makeshift dancefloor, a couple forever heel-stepping to a perpetual rhythm. When the first song died out, another one kicked in, then another. They danced closer to each other, Iris turning her back, rolling her hips, sinking. He tried to follow her movements, placing his fingers gently around