Page 44 of Save Me (Maxton Hall #1)

Ruby

For a moment when I wake up the next morning, I’m confused by the stark white bedcovers lying over me. The mattress feels weird too as I turn over in bed. And it smells very different from my room.

You’re at St. Hilda’s.

I sit bolt upright and look around. Then I give a quiet squeal.

I snatch my phone off the bedside table and skim through my notifications.

Mum and Dad are reminding me to eat a good breakfast, because they know that nerves sometimes take my appetite away, and Ember has sent me a motivational quote that I’d love to copy straight into my journal.

Kieran is wishing me luck and says he’s sure I’ve got this.

The last message is from Lin. She’s taken a photo of her room at St. John’s, which doesn’t look very different from mine.

I text back that I’m looking forward to seeing her in the pub this evening—that’s one of the dates on the timetable the office emailed me in advance—and wishing her good luck for her own interviews.

After that, I get up and slowly get ready. My hands are shaking with excitement as I do my makeup and slip into my clothes.

I picked out the cognac-colored cord skirt and white blouse embroidered with subtle flowers months ago and hung them up in my wardrobe, waiting for this day. I’ve also got my burgundy bag, and I put on the plaited leather bracelet that Ember gave me too.

It doesn’t go with the rest of the outfit, but you can hardly see it under my long sleeves, and the moment I fasten it, I feel like there’s a part of my sister and my family here with me.

In the breakfast room, you can tell at a glance who the real students are and who’s only here for the interviews.

The former group head straight for the serving hatch, laughing and chatting casually, and I feel a burning desire to be like them this time next year.

I want to get my coffee without going twice round in a circle because I can’t find the machine, to sit at a table with my friends and talk about the weekend with them.

And I want to give the sixth-formers here for interviews an encouraging smile in the hope that it’ll make them feel better.

Yesterday evening, this all felt so unreal.

Now, Oxford is becoming a reality. I listen to the two girls next to me as they talk about a seminar, and at first, I don’t even notice that they’ve caught me eavesdropping.

I hastily lower my head and stare at my toast; I’ve only taken two bites, but it feels like a lump of lead in my stomach.

According to my schedule, I should go to the common room after breakfast. When I open the door, I’m surprised by how loud it is in there until I see that there are older students here too, lounging around on the battered sofas and talking at top volume, clearly trying to lighten the mood a little.

I find a free chair next to one of the sofas and sit down on it.

There’s a boy my age beside me, a book and a pile of flash cards in his lap.

He smiles at me, but it strikes me as more of a grimace.

He looks as tense as I feel. My fingers tremble as I pull out my own notes and start to look through them one last time.

Suddenly, I feel pins and needles in the back of my neck, spreading over my whole body. I lift my head and look over to the door. The next moment, I wish I hadn’t. James is standing there, hands deep in his pockets, an impenetrable expression on his face.

Please don’t see me, please don’t see me, please don’t see me…

He spots me on the chair. His eyes stray slowly over my face, take in my outfit, and land on the cards in my hand. The corners of his lips twitch almost imperceptibly, but then, as if he’s reminded himself not to smile, his face hardens again, and he looks around the common room for an empty seat.

“Ruby Bell?” says a voice I don’t know. One of the older students has got up from the sofa.

He’s huge—must be at least six-foot-three—has wavy brown hair, slicked back slightly with gel, and a beaming white smile.

He’s one of the guys who was trying to cheer things up just now, and that makes me like him right away.

“That’s me,” I croak, getting up. My hands are cold and clammy. I wipe them on the hem of my skirt to warm them up—I want to be able to shake hands with him without it being unpleasant. I put the flash cards back in my bag and stand up to walk to the door where he’s waiting for me.

As I pass James, I straighten my chin, determined just to ignore him. But he takes my hand. His warm fingers wrap gently around my wrist. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there.

“Good luck,” he whispers. Then he lets me go and walks to the chair that I just vacated.

It takes me a few seconds to pull myself together again. My heart is racing, and this time it’s got nothing to do with my excitement.

The boy who called my name smiles at me and beckons me over.

“Hi. I’m Jude Sherington. I’ll show you where to go for your interview,” he says, nodding toward a corridor.

I walk out of the common room without looking back.

A few minutes to determine everything. In a few minutes, I might know whether or not I get to study here.

I touch the spot where James’s thumb stroked my wrist. I should focus, but I can’t forget the feeling of his fingers on my skin, all the way to my interview.

I wish I could pace up and down to get rid of the nerves.

But Jude is still there, smiling at me every minute or two.

He led me through a maze of corridors and is now leaning silently against the wall while I sit on a chair opposite the professor’s office, waiting for her to open it. Any second now, surely.

I exhale audibly.

“Nervous?” asks Jude.

What a question. “So nervous. How did you feel when you did it?”

“Kind of like this.” He lifts a hand and shakes it exaggeratedly. I love how honest he is.

“But you got through it.”

“Yep.” He smiles encouragingly again. “It’s not rocket science. You’ll be fine.”

I nod, shrug, and shake my head, all at once.

Jude laughs, and I pull a face. At that moment, the door opens, and a girl walks out of the office.

Her cheeks are red and her lips are bloodless.

Apparently, I’m not the only person to be eaten up by nerves.

Unfortunately, I don’t get a chance to ask her what it was like as she disappears without a word.

The office door shuts again, and I look questioningly at Jude, who still has that reassuring look on his face.

“Don’t worry, she’ll tell you when to go in.”

So now the waiting starts again. By this point, it feels as though I’ve used up all my jitters on just sitting here this long.

After five more minutes, my left foot has fallen asleep, and I move it unobtrusively to stop the pins and needles.

It feels like there’s a whole anthill dancing around in my ankle boot.

I shake my foot out again—and at that exact moment, the door creaks open.

The professor comes into sight, and I freeze, my foot hanging in the air at a funny angle.

“Ruby, come in please.” She has a pleasant, calm voice, which acts like a fire blanket on my anxious nerves.

I hear Jude behind me say, “Good luck,” but I don’t have the head space to thank him.

She holds the door for me, and, as we walk together into the room where my interview will take place, she introduces herself to me as Prudence.

The office is about the size of our living room, but it’s so cluttered that it seems kind of cozy.

The furniture looks antique, like it’s been there since the college was founded, and the air smells of old books.

The walls are lined with shelves, stacked high with towers of books.

There’s another professor sitting at a writing desk on the other side of the room.

She’s busily making notes and only looks up when Prudence leads me to a table.

I smooth my skirt again and sit up straight on the chair.

The two women settle down across the desk from me, open their notebooks, and then lean back.

My heart is pounding in my throat, but I try not to let that show, to look confident. I’m certain that I can do well here. I’m prepared, and I’ve done everything I could to be ready.

I take a deep breath and let the air out again slowly.

“We’re very pleased to meet you, Ruby.” The second academic opens proceedings.

“My name is Ada Jenson, and, like Prudence, I teach politics here at St. Hilda’s.

” Her voice also has a soothing effect on me, and I wonder how it’s possible for some of the cleverest women in the country also to have the skill of making people feel at ease in a situation like this.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I answer, then clear my throat. My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed something sticky that’s got caught on the way down.

“We’ll get started right away,” Prudence continues. “Can you tell me why you’d like to study here?”

I stare at her. I wasn’t expecting that.

Everything I’ve read about these interviews suggested that the opening question would be directly related to the course.

I can’t help myself—a grin spreads over my face.

So I tell them. Everything. I tell them how I got interested in politics when I was little and that I’ve dreamed of studying at Oxford since I was seven.

I tell them that my twelfth birthday present from my dad was subscriptions to The Spectator and The New Statesman and that he spent hours watching televised debates in parliament with me.

I tell them about my passion for organization and debating and my longing to change things for the better.

I try not to suck up too much while emphasizing that Oxford is the best university for me, the place I can learn what I need to get to my goals.

I’m almost out of breath when I finish, and I can’t tell whether or not they’re satisfied with my answer.

I wasn’t exactly expecting them to high-five me or whatever, so that doesn’t worry me.

After that, they do ask me questions about politics.

I try to make good arguments and not be fazed by their follow-up questions.

The whole interview is over in no more than about fifteen minutes.

“Thank you for the conversation,” I say, but Ada is already deep in her notes and doesn’t hear me. Prudence brings me to the door and smiles again as she says goodbye. I follow suit, then walk outside. The door closes behind me, and, all of a sudden, I feel utterly exhausted.

Sitting on the chair opposite me is the same boy who smiled at me in the common room earlier on.

I remember the girl with pale lips who vanished before I could even speak to her.

I’d have loved a few encouraging words from her, but now I understand why she fled so fast. Now that the adrenaline is ebbing away, I just want to get out of this building, into the fresh air.

Even so, I force myself to speak. “You’ve got this, good luck,” I say honestly, then head outside, trying to find my way back to my room.