Black Diamond

Grace screeched to a halt as she spotted a spare bit of railing to which she locked her bike before rushing through the grand arch that marked the entrance to Newman College. In a city renowned the world over for its beauty and architecture, a city known for its pomp and grandeur, Newman was without a doubt the grandest college of them all. Grace entered the college through the main entrance, walking quickly across the vast intimidating quad towards her destination – the College kitchens. She dashed up the service entrance stairs to the kitchens and hoped fervently that Nessa would not be on duty.

“Cutting it fine, aren’t you?” Grace’s prayers were not to be answered and she turned to face Nessa Hughes, her supervisor.

“Sorry I’m late, Nessa,” Grace said, curbing her impulse to roll her eyes. She needed this job, needed every penny of her meagre wage to maintain herself at Oxford. The job had seemed a godsend at first, a job at another college working as a server. But Grace had naively failed to consider what it would be like to serve students, peers, whom she might encounter in the lecture halls the very next day.

“Always one excuse after another with you,” Nessa grated, watching as Grace pulled off her coat and quickly donned a crisp blue apron over her skirt. “You watch yourself,” she continued and then strode away disappearing with a click of heels. Grace sighed. Things had not always been bad with Nessa. At first they’d bonded, talking about London and exchanging stories about the city. One day, Grace had mentioned her heavy course load at Hennies and from that moment everything had changed. She hadn’t intentionally misled Nessa about her student status, she had assumed that Nessa, like everyone else, knew she was also a student at Oxford but from that moment Nessa had reserved for her a cutting coldness, always ready to pounce on any misdeed by Grace, real or imagined. It seemed that Nessa was determined to remind her to know her place. In the kitchen, the other servers were already lined up and Grace risked a small wave at Vicky, her only real friend there, who like her was also a student at the university.

“Vicky, Melissa, Jack and Liam on mains. Grace, Janet and Martin – veg and sides.” Grace bit back on a groan. She hated being on veg, everybody did. With main courses at least all you had to do was set down the plate but with veg and sides, discourse with the students was always required. “Potatoes or salad, broccoli or spinach.” Grace nodded at the sympathetic look that Vicky had thrown her way and then, lest she give Nessa any cause to dock her wages or pull her up again, she grabbed the serving tray of sides and made her way towards the dining hall.

Newman’s Dining Hall was exquisite, a long oak-panelled room that dated back to the 14th century with ornate stained-glass windows and walls lined with portraits of dons and alumni of note. Long, heavy, wooden tables illuminated by small orange lamps stretched the length of the room and newcomers were always stopped short by the beauty of it, by the sense of history that one was assailed with on entering this hall.

Grace had learned to ignore the impulse to stare around the Hall and instead get her serving duty over as soon as possible because even as Newman was known to be the grandest of all the colleges, its undergrads were also acknowledged to be some of the most obnoxious in the whole university. Grace was never more aware of being other than when she stepped into this Hall to serve these students. Her uniform always felt too tight, the spills of fat above her waistband always felt even more visible, her myopic eyes and her thick glasses felt even more of a burden. At Newman, Grace was never more aware of being black.

“Potatoes or salad?” she asked.

“Both, please.” Grace was grateful that at least this student was one of the ones who actually noticed her and answered. Often the students would be so engrossed in their conversations, so wrapped up in their laughs that she would stand there seemingly invisible. Grace moved on to the next group, deftly serving up the potatoes or veg as required. Her platter was almost empty, she would have to return to the kitchen soon. As she started towards the exit, Grace’s eyes were drawn to a young blond man at the centre of a group of laughing students. She watched the young man gesticulate, as his blond hair flopped over his forehead, while he regaled the table with a story that had them laughing again. Something about their carefree laughter held Grace and then she looked up and froze as she found a pair of blue-grey eyes staring intently at her. Someone at the table had noticed her scrutiny.

The din of the Hall died down as she found herself staring at the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He sat casually on the periphery of the laughing group and Grace felt her mind go blank and then suddenly the link was broken, the man with the jet-black hair and piercing eyes had turned his attention back to his friends. Grace’s gaze drifted back to the dark-haired man and then her gaze took in the whole table.

“Grace, what are you doing?” Grace spun around to see Vicky staring at her. Grace felt her cheeks grow warm; she’d been standing in the middle of Hall mooning over a hot boy. “Nessa will kill you if she sees you hanging around with an empty platter.” Grace nodded and she quickly headed back to the kitchen to refill.

Later that night, exhausted after three hours on her feet, Grace sat by the dim light of her lamp and completed her essay on the law of theft, yawning all the way through it. Though she was exhausted, as always sleep eluded her and she lay for a long time in the dark, running through the list of essays she had to do and jobs she’d need to apply for in time for the summer break. As she finally fell asleep, the last thing she thought of was the piercing blue eyes and the look that she had shared with the nameless boy in Hall.

CHAPTER 6

“Lola! Smile!”

Lola watched the look of derision that Amber shot at the lone photographer that greeted their arrival at the Chateau Marmont. Lola could practically read her friend’s mind. Paris would have twenty photographers; this lone snapper was an insult. Lola and Amber linked arms and together they walked into the infamous Hollywood landmark. It was a scorching Los Angeles afternoon and Lola pursed her lips, hardly bothering to hide her irritation.

“We should be by a pool,” she muttered. She tensed as she noted Amber’s frown. Too often, in the last few months, she’d seen her best friend frown at her. Lola was starting to worry that having her best friend as her manager was quickly going to become a buzz kill.

“Tyler wanted to meet,” Amber replied as they stepped into the ornate dimly lit lift that would take them down to the Chateau’s garden dining area.

“We could have met at his office, at least that’s by the beach,” Lola replied. Amber sighed and once again Lola felt that she was somehow failing to live up to expectations.

“What good would that have done?” Amber snapped. “The point is to be seen, to raise your profile.”

“I’m seen everywhere, I’m out every night,” Lola snapped back and she felt a dart of anger as she saw Amber roll her eyes. When did Amber start rolling her eyes at me? It used to be the two of them against the world. Silently, they stepped out of the lift and Amber waved across the dining area at Tyler who was seated at a prominent table at the centre of the garden. As they walked towards him, Lola was aware of a few surreptitious glances thrown their way. She recognised a famous Swedish actor that her mother had once worked with and an award-winning screenwriter who was tapping away into a laptop. As they approached Tyler, Lola took a moment to appraise him. In his pressed jeans, button-down shirt and sun-streaked blond hair, Tyler looked like every wannabe surfer dude that had ever walked the Thirty Mile Zone with a dream. By rights, like every one of those dreamers, Tyler should have wound up doing porn or working as a pool boy in Brentwood, while flirting with the co-ed daughter of the house. And yet, somehow, Tyler had shaken off the shackles of low expectations. He’d hustled his way up from runner to reporter at a cable entertainment station. He had tenaciously made the jump from reporter to presenter and, displaying the kind of smarts that no one would ever have suspected, given the artfully highlighted hair, he’d parlayed his way into producing. The Cable Network where he’d once been the go-to guy for coffees, now counted his production company and the revenue from his shows as the sole reason for its continued existence.

“Lola, Amber. Goddesses, as always.” Tyler stood as they approached, smiling with a flash of his blinding white teeth. “So how have you been?” Tyler directed his question at Lola as they took their seats.

“Good, we’ve gone out a whole lot,” she admitted. “And I checked, we were on one of those live blog things after the benefit last week. That’s good, right?” Lola asked. Tyler gave a non-committal nod.

“It’s a start,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and for just a moment Lola caught a flash in his eyes, a flash of the shark that must lurk beneath the laid-back, Californian beach boy exterior. “But the thing is, we’re not even in the ball park yet, babe. We want you to be everywhere, not just on blogs. We want you on TV, on magazines, on red carpets, at the Super Bowl and maybe eventually on movie screens.” Lola stared in dismay at Tyler. She thought her renewed push had been good. For someone who’d partied since she was thirteen, she hadn’t imagined that it could ever become a chore but in the last two weeks she and Amber had been to everything. What more could they do?

“How do we do that?” she asked quietly. Tyler nodded at Amber.

“Amber and I have been talking and we think what you need is a boyfriend. A celebrity boyfriend.”

Whatever Lola had expected to hear, this wasn’t it and she stared open-mouthed at Tyler.

CHAPTER 7

“His name is Nico.”

Grace looked up at Vicky’s words as they strolled through the University Parks on another sunny day. Across the field, a rowdy group of cricketers were engaged in a nets session, whooping loudly as one of their number was caught out. Several joggers had lapped them several times making Grace feel exhausted. Even as she relished the feeling of the warm sunshine on her skin, with the thought of the impending summer also came other fears, not least that she would have to abandon her thick sweats and hoodies for clothes that might reveal more of her far too ample body. Once again her healthy eating regime had failed to take, just last night as she waded through the Law of Property Statutes, she’d chomped down on an 18-inch pizza all by herself.

“His name is Nico,” Vicky repeated.

“Whose name is Nico?” Grace asked though she knew she wasn’t fooling her friend. Vicky gave a low laugh and Grace felt her face warm.

“Old Steamy eyes,” Vicky replied punctuating her words with a long smooching sound.

“Stop it,” Grace hissed, her eyes darting quickly around. Grace allowed herself to think about the boy whose blue-grey eyes had stopped her in her tracks at Newman. She had seen him several times during her shifts and every time he’d been in the company of the same group of beautiful people. Grace’s eyes darted around to make sure no one had heard Vicky’s comment. Not that it was likely that Nico or indeed any of The Gatsbies would ever make it this far out of town.

The Gatsbies, that is what they were called, Grace had learned. And she understood the nickname absolutely, evoking as it did the decadence and wealth and glamorous luxury of the book The Great Gatsby. Nico and his friends were modern-day Gatsbys with their reputed millions and their country homes and yachts and glamorous star-studded parties. Since that day when she had met eyes with Nico Andreou, her serving stints at Newman had been tinged with a charged frisson of something. What that thing was, Grace had avoided putting a name to. By design she’d always ended up serving on the other side of Hall from where The Gatsbies always sat and so there had been no chance for any more eye contact. Not that it was likely to happen again, Grace told herself sternly, for Nico Andreou was not merely out of her league, he was utterly out of her stratosphere; in another universe altogether. Once, when she’d been flicking through the magazines at a local bookstore, she had stopped shocked as she’d caught sight of Nico within the pages of a glossy celebrity magazine. On his arm had been a famous European pop star and next to him a dashing older couple that could only be his parents. Grace had devoured the article. Nico’s mother was a former Brazilian swimwear model and his father a billionaire Greek industrialist whose business influence reached all over the world. Grace had set the magazine back down on the shelf and walked quietly home, more aware than ever that she’d stepped into a world where she didn’t belong.

By now, she and Vicky had emerged from the Parks and they snaked their way past the Museums and the Science Buildings towards Cornmarket, where they parted company.

“Have fun at home,” Grace called and was rewarded with a wave from her friend. For a moment, Grace watched as her friend disappeared down the road towards the train station. Vicky was going home to Birmingham and Grace felt a pang of guilt. All term she had avoided going home. Her last visit had been fraught and she’d sworn to avoid The Pastor for as long as she could. But now she thought about her mother, who’d seemed even more frail and tired when she’d last seen her. Grace thought about her mother’s voice on the phone, when they’d spoken the week before. Her mother, always quiet, had seemed even more withdrawn, lifeless almost. And yet, Grace could not bring herself to go home, not till term was over. For as long as possible she wanted to keep The Pastor at bay.

Grace walked into Newman, glancing at the ornate clock-tower at the far end of the quad. She smiled; for once she was early. As she entered the kitchens, Grace gave Nessa a winning smile. Her essay for the week was done and with her tutorial the next day re-scheduled, Grace would have time to do her favourite things – mooch around Oxford, catch a film, borrow fiction books; not even Nessa would dampen her spirits today.

“Grace, did you hear me?” Grace was thrown from her sunny imaginings by Nessa’s harsh voice. “You take High Table and the right corner today.” Grace felt her stomach sink. Today, like it or not, she would be serving The Gatsbies.

The lights in Hall were their usual dim orange and yet Grace felt as though a heavy spotlight was blinding her. Totally belying her name, she had never been graceful, anything but, and tonight her feet felt comically heavy. With every step into Hall, Grace felt nerves unsettle her. Perhaps they wouldn’t be here tonight. Grace gave a fervent prayer to whoever was up there but as her eyes darted to the far right corner of Hall, she saw her prayers would not be answered. They were there. All of them.

The Gatsbies always commanded attention. Even in a University the size of Oxford, with the disparate colleges, somehow their moniker preceded them. Once, while sitting at lunch in her College, Grace had listened intently as another Fresher had breathlessly recounted every detail of her encounter with The Gatsbies at a ball.

“There was Nico. Greek, billionaire dad, hot as fuck, mainly shags Poppy when he’s between pop stars and supermodels. Then The Right Honourable Poppy Hewson-Chambers, total aristocrat, everyone calls her The Right Hon – blonde, goddess, number one on Tatler’s most eligible list. JoJo De Vere, South African, diamond heiress, knows the royals, lots of skulduggery and white mischief shenanigans. Then there’s Matt Downing, wealthy London parents in hotels or something and his girlfriend Laura Sugar-Naylor, old money, sugar plantations, very yah!”

Long after she’d finished her sandwich, Grace had continued to sit, eavesdropping shamelessly on the tales about The Gatsbies and their exploits, the balls they went to, the suites they hired at The Randolph for weekend drinking parties, the holidays at a moment’s notice to their private islands, the hampers from Fortnum & Mason…

As she sidled over towards their table, Grace felt like a stone was weighted in her stomach.

“Potatoes?” she asked and blushed, realising that her word had emerged croaky and probably incomprehensible. “Potatoes,” she tried again and winced. This time her voice had come out sharply, far too loud. Conversation stopped and The Gatsbies turned as one to face her. Could one be blinded by beauty? Wasn’t there a Greek myth about that, Grace wondered as she stared at the most beautiful group of people she had ever seen. Up close, they looked like a pre-posed spread straight out of Vanity Fair. Grace swallowed and tried to focus on the task at hand. She focused on the girl closest to her, Poppy, who looked every inch “The Right Hon” that the boys called her. Her regal blonde head angled towards Grace, Poppy nodded as Grace carefully scooped the potato onto her plate. Perhaps it was her nerves but Grace gasped in horror as somehow the potato slipped from within the spoon and bounced across the table to land in Poppy’s lap. There was a scandalised gasp.

“You clumsy oaf,” Poppy squealed. Grace stood frozen as her worst nightmare was made manifest; everybody was staring at her.

“Don’t they train you people?” Laura gasped, shaking a napkin open and passing it to Poppy. By now Nico, who’d been in conversation with JoJo, had turned to stare at her too.

“I’m so sorry,” Grace stuttered and blanched as she met Poppy’s hard stare.

“You should be,” the girl slammed back at her.

“Oh bloody hell, it’s a potato not a grenade.” Grace turned and sought out the face of her defender. She found herself staring at the other boy, the one who was always cracking jokes, the one who must be Matt. He gave her a small smile. “We’ll be fine.”

Grace watched as Matt reached for the renegade potato and put it into his mouth whole.

“I promise I won’t hurt you,” Matt mimed and within moments Poppy and the other girls were laughing. Grace turned and fled, uncaring of what an ungainly sight she must make, her heavy feet thudding on the wooden floors of the great hall.

Grace shook off the groggy feeling that had dogged her all morning, she had only one lecture that day, after which she planned to take the afternoon off to enjoy the warm weather. As the students spilled out of the lecture theatres, Grace moved to the side of the stairs to tuck her folder into her rucksack. As she zipped up the bag, she felt a shadow fall across her. Grace looked up and her stomach plummeted. Poppy, Laura and JoJo stared at her with a look of surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Poppy didn’t hide the incredulity in her voice and Grace felt a wave of mortification.

“I’m a student here. I’m studying...”

Before Grace could finish her sentence, a peal of laughter rang out from Laura.

“Seriously?” Laura asked, a look of astonishment on her face and Grace felt another warm wash of embarrassment.

“Laura...” JoJo spoke up, a warning in her voice.

“Look…” Grace said, weighing her options when she felt a presence behind her. She turned, surprised to see that it was the same boy from the night before. Matt, her defender.

“You can be a real bitch, you know that,” Matt said, his cold gaze directed at Poppy and Laura.

“What?” Laura cried. Poppy shook her head with a smirk.

“Let’s leave Matt and his new friend alone.”

Grace watched as they spun around, descending the stairs like women who knew that the world was their catwalk. She turned back to her rucksack and wrestled it onto her back. Grace began to walk, her head firmly down, staring at her worn, faded trainers. She felt Matt fall into step beside her.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said.

“You didn’t do anything,” Grace snapped and winced inwardly; she sounded like a sulky child.

“I know that, but they can be shits,” Matt said and Grace felt a wave of gratitude that one of these beautiful people was actually seeing things from her perspective. “You’re a student here?” Matt asked. Grace nodded wondering why he was still speaking to her. “Law?”

“Yes,” she replied quietly. They had reached the edge of the road; turning left would take her out towards Hennies and right was the path back towards Newman. Grace looked up at him and was struck by his handsome, open face. She watched as he pushed his overlong blond hair away from his face and a well of gratitude rose up in her. In those brief moments as the three girls had stared at her, she’d felt like an insect. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Matt waved her thanks away and instead he raised his hand towards her.

“Matt.” Grace stared at the long fingers of his hand and his golden, tanned skin. She raised her own small hand and shook it. For a moment, she was thrown by the rough sensation of calluses on his palm and then she smiled at him.

“Grace.”

Matt nodded.

“See you around, Grace,” he said and then he turned and walked towards a bike stand. Grace watched him unlock his bike and mount it. She watched until he’d disappeared around the bend in the road. And then finally, she began the walk towards Hennies. All the way home, she thought not of the fallen potato humiliation nor of the scathing looks from The Gatsbies, instead she was filled with an unexpected lightness.

CHAPTER 8

They were a match made in PR heaven.

Lola stifled a yawn and let her eyes drift around Valhalla, the hottest new restaurant opening in West Hollywood. Across the room, she noticed a group of yuppie agent types laughing and joking at a prestigious corner table. Standing at the bar behind them were a group of young men in sports coats, who looked like they were out past their bedtime. Lola’s eyes lingered on the group as she caught a glimpse of Lucas at the centre of the group. As their eyes met, Lola looked quickly away; she wasn’t in the mood for Lucas’s superior attitude. Finally, she turned back to her dinner date Brody Evans, who was still regaling her with a tale about an incredible play he’d made during the big game the night before.

“You were amazing,” Lola said, knowing that this would be enough contribution from her to keep Brody satisfied. In the aftermath of their lunch at the Chateau Marmont, Tyler and Amber had moved quickly and this show-mance had been borne out of what Tyler called their mutual needs. Brody had spent two seasons on the bench because of a knee injury and needed to broaden his profile if he was to hold on to his endorsement deals and for Lola the romance would accelerate the perfume deals and up her Personal Appearance fees.

“What do I actually have to do?” Lola had asked. And Tyler had given an amused smile.

“You’re hot, he’s hot, do what beautiful people do and I’ll make sure the photographers are there to capture every beautiful moment.”

Lola took a sip from her glass of sparkling water and stared at Brody again, watching as he chomped down on a piece of steak and stared at his cell phone. When he wasn’t talking about football, Brody tended to fall silent. Lola saw that he was texting on his phone, occasionally guffawing at a text message. This was the pattern their dates had taken – stilted conversation, awkward smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes and then silence. Brody had that Midwest gentleman thing going for him, but to Lola he seemed almost childlike and there was zero spark between them.

“Do you want to hit a club?” Lola asked, the words spilling out before she could think them through. She’d been on her best behaviour for months now, but slowly Lola had started to feel the old restlessness creep back. She was bored, this scene bored her, the new power-driven Amber bored her; she needed to scratch an itch. Brody looked up startled. And Lola concealed another sigh. This was another problem. Brody didn’t like to go out. What kind of NFL player was he? It was practically un-American and yet their every date had ended with a chaste kiss and then Brody had driven off into the night. Perhaps he was gay, Lola mused, that would explain why he needed to be fixed up on a faux-mance.