Free My Grape Escape by Laura Bradbury Page B

candidature, and let it be known that you were taught Criminal Law by an inexperienced teacher-”
    “My mark wasn’t my teacher’s fault. I was the one who bombed that exam.”
    “That approach won’t serve us,” Mr. Partridge replied. “I will explain that your teacher’s lack of competency is the reason for that atypically low mark.” Mr. Partridge made a funny little sound of satisfaction, a sound someone would make without realizing it as they preened themselves in the mirror. “With that and my recommendation , I am sure they will find a place for you.”
    The phone line went silent. I couldn’t believe how quickly he would torpedo my teacher’s reputation just for the glory of getting one more student into the Master’s program . He was waiting for a thank you, I reali z ed , and my reiteration that, as any sane Oxford student would say, I wanted a spot in the coveted Master’s program more than life itself. I opened my mouth but no words came out.
    “They will want to interview you,” he added. “You must return to Oxford immediately.”
    I twisted the black phone cord around my wrist. Back to Oxford? Now?
    “Are you still on the line Laura?”
    Stone walls flashed through my mind beside polished flagstones and a centuries old wooden statue of the Virgin Mary.
    “ Non ,” I whispered.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “ Non .” It came out in French again, louder this time, and sounded like the response of an impetuous five-year-old who had just been ordered to give back the bonbon she had stolen from her brother.
    “But I can hear you. You must still be on the line.”
    “I meant the Master’s program.”
    A pause of disbelief. “You mustn’t worry about it not being fair tactics, you know. That is simply the way - ”
    “No!” It came out in clear English this time and louder still. We were both stunned into silence for a few seconds. He spoke first.
    “I simply don’t understand,” he admitted, peevish.
    “I…I appreciate your offer,” I stumbled over my words. “I really do. It’s just that…maybe that Criminal paper is a sign that I’m not meant to do the Master’s program after all.”
    “Nonsense! You mustn’t undersell yourself. You must know by now that one thing we value above all at Oxford is self-confidence. It is imperative that you believe in yourself , Laura. You will never get ahead otherwise.”
    Did I still want to get ahead, Oxford style? That was the question. What I really wanted was to watch the clouds float by and make toilet paper roll dolls and wake up in my own little house in France.
    “I’m not certain I want to get ahead anymore,” I said.
    I knew that in his Oxford office Mr. Partridge was shaking his head in disbelief.
    “Laura,” he began, his voice soothing now. “I believe that perhaps the pressure has affected your judgment. I suggest that you take a day or two to think things over. Not any longer than that, mind. If we are to be successful we must start campaigning as soon as possible.”
    Telling an Oxford student that the pressure had got to them was just about the worst form of insult. A month ago I would have done almost anything to prove Mr. Partridge wrong, but now…
    “Thank you for the offer,” I said. “I appreciate your efforts. Truly. But I believe I’m coming to the conclusion that perhaps law isn’t for me after all.”
    “Did you get accepted to a Master’s program somewhere else?” he demanded.
    “I didn’t even apply anywhere else.”
    “Then what on earth are you going to do?”
    I turned this question over in my mind for a good while. “I have no idea,” I said, at last. Part of me vibrated in panic while the other half soared with relief.
    Mr. Partridge didn’t say anything for a moment. I knew how bizarre my answer sounded to someone inside the Oxford universe, a place where every step up was minutely planned and anticipated, where a choice that turned its back on academic or professional achievement was