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referred to the encounter, they began to see more of each other and became friendlier, though still without quite being friends. Nigel lingered to talk after
the tutorials they shared, sometimes sat on the bench next to Charles at meals in hall; Charles reciprocated in the JCR bar or in the White Horse, the narrow pub on Broad Street. There was no
awkwardness; Nigel was a stimulating companion who normally made no demands on his audience other than that they should share his humour, which was sharp and playful. He neither offered nor sought
intimacy. They never discussed Sarah, but Charles would mention her in passing, trying to show that she wasn’t an issue between them. In fact, just hearing himself say her name was a constant
and secret pleasure.
    Once, Nigel came to his room late at night, grinning, his eyes shining. ‘Sorry, bloody rude of me, bloody late. I’m a bit pissed, boozing in the JCR since dinner. Got an essay
crisis, too. Have to be up all night; but got to sober up first. Couldn’t give me a coffee, could you?’
    He sat heavily in Charles’s armchair, an ancient sliding wooden structure that creaked loudly. ‘Hume and causation. Or Hume and something. You’ve done that one, haven’t
you?’
    ‘I’ve written it. Haven’t had my tutorial yet.’ The essay was on his desk. ‘Here.’
    Nigel took it. ‘They want me to run for president of the JCR. Nicholson, Richards and the others. They hate the thought of Miles getting it.’
    ‘Do you want to?’
    ‘Don’t know.’ He watched Charles plug in the kettle and spoon the instant coffee. ‘Surprised you don’t make real coffee. You seem the sort of person who
would.’
    ‘Do I? Perhaps I should then. But it takes longer.’
    ‘Thing is, Miles is such an egregious shit. One of those people whose face is always in front of you, you can’t get away from him. There’ll be even more of him if he’s
running the JCR.’
    ‘Do it, then. I’ll vote for you.’
    ‘But is it really me, Charles?’
    ‘I don’t know. Never seen you look so solemn about anything.’ Except for that morning by the Cherwell, he thought.
    ‘I mean, this could be the start of my political career. It’s truly a life-changing decision. Don’t you think?’
    ‘I’d never thought of the JCR like that.’
    ‘It is, though. It’s a question of whether to enter the public arena, to wield the broadsword, or whether to exercise power from behind the scenes, as I imagine you would.’
    ‘Do you?’ Charles had never thought of himself like that. ‘Do you seek power?’
    ‘Not yet. But if I do it changes everything. I become a different person. My life will be completely different. Who I marry, what I do, everything.’
    ‘Milk?’
    ‘No, thanks.’
    Nigel talked about himself for an hour. At the end, when he stood to go, his eyes were duller and he looked tired. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t marry Sarah,
if she wanted me, even if I did seek power. I’d still marry her.’ He spoke as if reassuring Charles. ‘I would. I wouldn’t abandon her.’
    ‘I don’t blame you.’
    ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
    ‘Good luck with the essay.’
    ‘I’ll drop it back when I’ve finished.’
    He did, but afterwards, reading it aloud in his own tutorial, Charles discovered that Nigel had done the same and passed it off as his own, without telling him. His tutor all but accused him of
plagiarising. It was a minor dishonesty but indicative, he later concluded. He was going to tax Nigel with it, but by then so much else had happened that it seemed of no account.
    In retrospect there were early signs of his and Sarah’s shipwreck, but at the time he was aware only of an unspoken tension, something unacknowledged, an edginess, a wariness, as if each
were expecting to resist some unreasonable demand from the other, though none was made. It was by then the term before Schools – their final examinations – and she worried more about
hers than he