There’s a whole set of pictures depicting this morning’s debacle.
1. Harry holding out his hand to me, beckoning me towards his horse
2. Me and Mum by the front door
3. Me with my arms crossed, glaring at him
4. Him galloping away
I WhatsApp Frankie. I am going to KILL you.
She’s already got over 100 likes and comments. I know, from Frankie’s experience, that it’s best not to look at them. I can already imagine it:
What kind of girl turns down a knight?
Is she stupid? He’s gorgeous.
Doesn’t she like horses, what is she, feral?
I throw my phone on the desk and run my hands across my hair in exasperation.
“I take it you didn’t know she’d put that on Instagram?” Patrick says.
“What do you think, Patrick?” I snap. “Of course I didn’t.” Because I cannot imagine anything worse than everyone seeing my business, hanging it out there for public consumption. And seriously? With what Frankie’s been through recently with Insta posts? Yeah, good one Frankie.
But its sooooo good. U telling Harry to get lost!!!! Fx
No Frankie, not cool. I’m still killing you.
“Skirt looks nice though.” Patrick says, contemplating his phone. Can he not see how angry I am? How tightly wound I am? Does he really think that cranking my inner ballista even tighter is the best thing to do at this moment in time? Because I can guarantee that it isn’t. Not one little bit.
My jaw hurts from clenching so hard, and I swear that my finger nails are drawing blood as I dig them into my palms. But he’s sat there, stroking his phone through the Insta photos. I will kill him.
A noise escapes my throat, and it’s a growl. I growled at him. I’m a rabid dog, a cornered fox, a hippopotamus that has been disturbed (they’re very vicious) and I’m looking to kill the nearest living being.
“Did you just growl at me?” Patrick says, and he’s amused. I’ll scratch his eyes out, I’ll rip his hair from his scalp, I’ll force his knees to bend the other way. “I could have sworn that I heard a growl, and I’m pretty certain it came from you.” He can’t keep the smile off his face.
“Patrick.” I warn.
“Quinn.” He says back.
“Why do you do this? Why are you so annoying?” I’m a hissing venomous snake because Lisa is in her office and I don’t want her to hear me shouting at Patrick. I lean forward and I know the veins in my neck are sticking out, but I’m so angry I don’t care.
And he laughs. He can’t hold it in any more. He gives a tiny little laugh. It’s more like an extended hiccup that he attempts to cover with a cough. In other circumstances, I would have collected that laugh, dedicated a page to it in my Journal (maybe), had a section cleared for it in my satchel. But not today. Today, it makes me want to rip his throat out.
“You know what, Patrick,” I spit. “I hate you. I do. I hate you. I hate you so much I could die from it.” In that moment I really, really could die from hatred and he’s poked the wasps nest, kicked the sleeping dog, cornered the pacifist and now I’m fighting back.
But he doesn’t recoil like I thought he would. He frowns at me, confused, instead. “Have you seen that film?”
“Oh my god, Patrick, what are you talking about? What film?” I throw my hands in the air.
“Gilda. That’s a line from Gilda.”
“What is wrong with you? Why are you like this? This is just like when your stupid poem got picked for that stupid anthology.” It isn’t at all like that, but I’m annoyed now and everything is coming out. “You were insufferable then, and you’re insufferable now. You are the Piers Gaveston of Clariton. Nobody liked Piers Gaveston.”
“Edward II liked Piers Gaveston.” Patrick is challenging me. Patrick. Challenging. Me.
“Yeah, but he was literally the worst king and got kicked off the goddamn throne! Do you want to die how he allegedly did? I can arrange it.” His annoyingly perfect lips curl into a smirk and I could stab him, but he turns back to his computer and continues tapping at his keyboard.
I pretend to work until lunch, but I am trying desperately to remember that stupid film. Have I seen it? I must have watched it with Frankie. Come to think of it, she mentioned something like that a few weeks ago. Unless he’s lying to me, which he could be, but I don’t think he is. I can’t Google it on my computer because if he sees he will be unbearable, and he will know what I’m doing if I check my phone. So I sit and stew instead.
However, Quinn isn’t the only one to be working in Archives this summer; Quinn’s academic rival, Patrick, is sharing her office in Muniments. They’re competing for the Letter of Recommendation (singular) from the research historian that Quinn needs to get her dream future placement.
Their emotionally-loaded and competitive rivalry turns into a reluctant friendship, as they spend every day working together in silence (and sharing the occasional Twix). Until the Re-Enactors arrive. Between Patrick and Harry – the Golden Knight of the jousting team – Quinn’s carefully planned summer is thrown into complete disarray. Meanwhile, her best friend’s relationship may look perfect on the outside, but Quinn is starting to realise that there’s more going on than there seems.
Although Quinn is determined and single minded about planning every detail of her sparkling future, she comes to discover that the best things in life are the spontaneous ones – and that some people are more important than any Letter of Recommendation (singular) could ever be.
When not writing, Jen can often be found pointing out historical inaccuracies in period dramas, being a Lady that Lunches with close friends and playing board games with her family. Note: her handbags are always heavy due to multiple books (just in case she needs them).
@jensmith950 Twitter
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