Free My Grape Escape by Laura Bradbury Page A

above us, then a Citroën Deux Chevaux, and then…
    A shrill ring shattered the peace. Annoyance reared up in my chest, but it was quickly overtaken by the urge to throw up. I gave myself a shake and picked up the receiver.
    “ Bonjour .”
    I must have sounded convincing as Mr. Partridge paused for a few seconds, then tried to ask for me in French. Thinking of the Père Bard , I listened to my suave tutor butcher the French language with unholy appreciation.
    “This is Laura,” I admitted, after he was done. “Hello.”
    Franck blew me a kiss and ducked out the doorway.
    “It was you ” The starch had already returned to Mr. Partridge’s voice. “I just returned from the Examination Schools.” He waited. I had forgotten how the British could be sadists, or maybe this was revenge for the French thing. Was he going to make me beg for them?
    My heart pounded in my chest but I waited.
    “There is some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?” Bad news. It must have been that Criminal Law paper. How bad was bad? Had it wrecked my chances of getting into the Master’s program? “Where do you want me to start?”
    “Good news,” I said.
    “You were awarded a 2:1 overall.” My shoulders dropped down a notch. There! I had done it – acquitted myself well with a 2:1, a perfectly honorable grade. It also meant I was in for the Master’s program . I waited for a swoop of relief, but it didn’t come right away. Where was the room for the bad news?
    “But?” I prompted.
    “There was a fairly disappointing mark on your Criminal paper. A beta minus. What happened?”
    It all came rushing back. Criminal Law had been my last paper. I had pushed myself as far as I could be pushed. What happened was that my stomach was so upset from the stress that I vomited blood on the morning of that final exam. What had happened was that I felt dizzy, as thoughI was on the verge of passing out. What had happened was that I couldn’t seem to get enough air in my lungs no matter how much I gasped. That is what had happened , but I couldn’t say any of that to Mr. Partridge.
    “It was my last paper,” I said, simply. I had been well trained not to complain to an Oxford tutor about the stress of finals. They saw it every year and I deserved no different treatment than the rest. If everyone else could cope, I should be able to as well. We were all expected to suck it up and soldier on.
    “Luckily, most people won’t have to know about your Criminal Law paper.”
    He meant it was shameful, something to be ferreted away at all costs because marks were the religion of Oxford. It was a race and just like that single asphalt lane in front of a sprinter, the world narrowed down so that the only reality you could comprehend was that one tunnel that lay out in front of you.
    “Okay,” I said. I felt the queasy lie settle in my stomach.
    “Now for the bad news.”
    “I thought the Criminal paper was the bad news?”
    “Not exactly. It’s about the Master’s program.”
    “But the cut off is a 2:1. You just told me I received a 2:1…”
    Mr. Partridge cleared his throat. “There are an unusually high number of candidates for next year. As a consequence, they’re changing the entrance requirements.”
    “But I’ve already been offered a provisional acceptance based on getting a 2:1,” my voice came out shrill. I had pretty much sold my soul to complete my end of the bargain, how dare they renege on the deal?
    “True. They do, however, have the right to change the requirements even after a provisional acceptance has been offered. It’s in the small print. Remember that you are dealing with lawyers. They are very good at small print.”  He laughed at his own joke.
    I didn’t join in. “So they won’t let me in now? Is that it?”
    “Don’t jump to conclusions yet. I have thought out a plan of attack. We may have to fight for it, but I believe our chances are excellent. I will write a letter supporting your