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did about his. She was keen to do well and worked harder than he, but his attempts to reassure her counted for nothing, and her worry increased. He attributed the tension to this, but
later suspected it was also because their affair had, without their realising it – or perhaps without only him realising it – reached a point of decision. The harbinger of what was to
come was, as usual, something fairly trivial, a sudden lurch, a single, unseen, sickening sea-swell that came from nowhere and passed as suddenly, leaving them becalmed for a while.
    Her birthday was approaching and he had booked dinner – not on the day but near enough – at the Restaurant Elizabeth, allegedly the best and certainly the most expensive in Oxford.
It would cost about a quarter of that term’s grant but he had money saved from his holiday job as a dustman and would make it up in the summer.
    Sarah was still seeing Nigel, who had meanwhile won the JCR election and embarked upon what he called ‘the political trajectory’. This had led him towards the Oxford Union which
offered, he said, a bigger stage and the prospect of office. With a general election approaching, an Oxford Union debate featuring a Treasury minister and his opposition shadow attracted national
press attention. Nigel had invited Sarah to the debate, in which he was to speak. She told Charles she had accepted.
    ‘But that’s the night I’ve booked dinner at the Elizabeth.’
    ‘You didn’t tell me.’
    ‘I said I was going to.’
    ‘But you didn’t say when.’
    ‘I’m sure I did.’ He wasn’t, but he thought he probably had. ‘Sorry if I didn’t.’ He knew he sounded insincere.
    ‘Can’t you change it?’
    ‘It’s difficult. They get very booked up. Probably not for ages.’ He wasn’t sure of that either, but he was irritated. What he had meant as a celebration to ease things
had already made them worse. They parted with the issue unresolved.
    Back in his college, checking for mail in the porter’s lodge, Charles ran into Nigel doing the same. Had he not met him at that moment he might never have said anything, or might have said
it differently. But he was still irritated when he said: ‘Your debate date with Sarah. I’m afraid she can’t make it. We’re going to the Elizabeth. She didn’t realise
I’d booked it.’
    Hostility showed briefly in Nigel’s eyes, like the flank of a fish turning beneath the surface. ‘Fine,’ he said.
    Charles immediately felt guilty. ‘Sorry, but I didn’t realise she’d said she’d go to the debate.’
    ‘That’s fine, Charles, just fine.’ Nigel walked away.
    Charles sent a note to Sarah saying that Nigel was fine about it. They had arranged to go for a walk after her tutorial the following afternoon. In the morning he looked fearfully for a
cancelling note but when he called on her that afternoon her door was locked. They met in the quad as he was leaving.
    ‘Dr Philpot overran,’ she said. ‘Then she brought out the sherry. She always does.’
    ‘You got my note about Nigel?’
    ‘Yes, I did.’ She turned towards her room. ‘You might have asked me before refusing on my behalf. I don’t like letting people down.’
    ‘I thought you’d decided not to go.’
    ‘You assumed it, you mean.’
    The walk was short, because she was cold, but it eased things. She told him she would rather have dinner with him than go to a debate with Nigel, though she didn’t want him in her room
that night, pleading tiredness and work. After dining in her college he walked back to his own in a penetrating wind and a few erratic, unseasonal snowflakes.
    It snowed much more on the day of the debate, provoking national wonderment. Charles rose early, partly because of the unaccustomed brightness and partly to enjoy the pristine quads and
backstreets before boots and tyres turned them to slush. At breakfast in hall someone said the debate had been cancelled; more snow was forecast and both main speakers had