Peter had watched this over his pint. Typical. Annoying. Everything was so easy for Julian because he was born looking like a Greek god. He had talent as well—a good singing voice, a decent guitarist, and a perfectly acceptable actor. If Julian wanted to go into acting professionally, he could do it in a heartbeat. Agents had already been sniffing around. But Julian was going into law and politics, where he would also succeed on looks and charm.
Peter did want to go into television and comedy. It was all he ever wanted. It was his life, and he worked for it. He wrote obsessively, studied every show, crafted every joke. He was going to the Edinburgh Festival with Yash and then to London. He knew it would be hard graft, and that they’d be broke. They couldn’t afford a flat—they were looking at getting a spare room in a house to share.
As he sipped his pint and watched, his anger grew, his awareness that they were days from going out into the world and that people like Julian would be everywhere. Someone needed to give Julian a kick up the arse.
Peter had had it. He drained his pint and left the pub, claiming exhaustion, which was fair enough. He walked home along the river, his resentment increasing with every step. At the house, he found Rosie furiously revising for her last exam. It was a bad night to tell her this news, but Peter did it anyway. He told her gently, with an apologetic tone—and he did feel bad for her—but he was also pleased by the steely look in Rosie’s eyes, even as they filled with tears. She wasn’t surprised, but the confirmation hit hard. She didn’t cry, really; she turned into a fierce and tiny ball of Irish rage. She thanked Peter, wiped a stray tear away, and then waited in the garden with a bottle of Coke, which she poured over Julian’s head on his arrival.
Peter saw this from the upstairs window. It was very satisfying to watch.
“Did you tell her?” Yash asked as they sat in their room that night, listening to the yelling coming from the garden below. “She knew by the time we got home. You must have?”
“I thought she should know,” Peter replied.
“Bad timing with her exam, but fair enough, I suppose. Anyway, Noel’s been circling for ages. I’ve seen them slipping off together. I expect that’s how this ends.”
Yash was right. Rosie spent the night folded in Noel’s long arms, sobbing. Probably doing other things too, but Peter wasn’t privy to that and didn’t really care.
The American was back at the pub the next night, and Peter was feeling better about things. Julian was sulking in the corner and didn’t want company. She was pretty, the American. Maybe he should have a go and try to talk to her. But before he could approach her, Yash was there, telling her a joke. And she was laughing. Laughing and laughing and laughing. With Julian, they had simply attached themselves to each other’s faces and dispensed with the niceties, but it was clear that Yash and this girl were connecting, getting along. Yash was leaning in, pulling faces, trying so hard to entertain, and the girl was giving as good as she got, gesturing and joking back.
Peter watched this over his pint as well. This was less typical, and somehow more annoying.
He was so sick of being with these people all the time. He loved them, sure, but he was finished with it all. The drama. The competition. The never-ending need to impress, to entertain.
The next night, Peter was not at the pub; he was walking home from a long revision session for his last exam. That’s when he saw her, wobbling down the slender dirt path along the river. He knew where she was going, of course. No one would have walked this far in the dark from the center of town toward Grantchester Meadows unless they lived there or were visiting someone. The girl was going to their house, to see Yash. Peter caught up with her, introduced himself. She only sort of remembered that he existed, that he had been there with the others.
Of course.
The American was drunk and in a happy mood. It was her last night there, she explained. She wanted to give Yash his CDs back. Maybe, she suggested to Peter, they should steal a boat. Row down the river toward home. It was a stupid idea, but the girl seemed to be flirting with him. Maybe things were turning in his direction after all. So he went along with her to one of the many tiny docks along the river where punts were tied up.
What happened was not his fault. It was a misunderstanding. He honestly couldn’t remember all the details anymore—it was fear and confusion. She jumped up and away from him and the boat rocked. He saw her smack her head and she went over into the water. Suddenly she was screaming and saying something about the police, but he hadn’t done this, hadn’t hurt her—she fell and everything was vanishing in this instant, his whole life if he didn’t do something.
It takes very little effort or time to hold someone under. That was where it started—an ill-fated walk home.
Rosie knew something.
The morning after, she’d watched him from the kitchen table, asked when he’d come in. Why did she want to know that? He’d lied, of course. But now he knew—Rosie knew something. Rosie was a strong, passionate person. Once she got into something, she did not let go.
There was no news of the American. Why was there no news? The Cam was maybe six or seven feet deep—it wasn’t the ocean. How could she not have been found? Surely bodies floated? Maybe she was stuck on something. The Cam was full of shopping trolleys and other things. You heard of people getting their foot stuck when they fell in. The American was in that water somewhere. Days passed, and with each one, it seemed less real. Maybe it had never happened at all.
But of course it did.
Rosie was watching him. He saw her doing it. Peter could see so many things now, things barely visible to him before. He could see everyone’s traits and movements and tics. Sooz’s attention-seeking. Julian’s indecisiveness. Yash’s need to be the funniest. Theo’s fussy overbearingness. Angela’s compulsive apologizing. Sebastian’s sham-glam and jokes about being lord of the manor that weren’t really jokes. Noel’s slyness.
Rosie’s stubbornness.
Rosie’s willingness to walk into any argument.
Rosie’s unwillingness to back down.
Who cared anymore? In a week he would be rid of most of them. All he had to do was get through this last week and they could all move on. They were going to Merryweather, which was good. He needed to get away from Cambridge.
And then, on the morning they were to leave, it was on the front of the newspaper. Her photo and the headline: BODY OF MISSING AMERICAN STUDENT FOUND. Peter read the article at a furious speed and was relieved at what he saw. That was when he discovered she was American, that her name was Samantha Gravis, and that the police were certain she had fallen off a punt while drunk. Relief washed over him. He destroyed the newspaper, then he threw up. They just needed to go, get out of this house, finish packing and leave and the whole thing would be over. But everyone was taking so much time. Then Rosie went into town for something before they left and came back quiet and strange. Rosie never went silent.
She must have seen the paper and started to put it together.
That’s when he knew for certain that something needed to be done. He’d been mulling it over all week in a distant way, but now it came into sharp focus.
Given her behavior over the past week, Peter was sure Rosie would go for Noel’s car, so he headed that way. But as he did so, Rosie turned and joined the group that was going in Sebastian’s car. He didn’t change what he was doing. He’d already put his bag into the small boot of Noel’s car. He had to go with it. He got in with Julian, Noel, and Angela.