Starter For Ten (7 page)

I laugh, then check to see if he's joking, but he isn't. 'I have science A-levels!' I say, defensively.

'Really? What in?'

'Physics and Chemistry.'

'Well there you go then! A Renaissance Man! What's Newton's Third Law of Motion?'

Oh, my friend, you're going to have to try a lot harder than that ...

'Reaction is equal and opposite to action,' I say.

Patrick's reaction is pretty equal and opposite too; a brief, begrudging raising of the eyebrows, before he goes back to his notepad.

'School?'

'Pardon?'

'I said "school"? Big building, made of bricks, teachers in it . . .'

'I understood the question, I just wondered why you wanted to know?'

'Alright then, Trotsky, you've made your point. You've got a pen? Good. Here's your paper, and I'll be with you in a minute.' I take a seat near the back of the room as two more people arrive behind me. 'Ah, the cavalry!' says Patrick.

The first potential team-mate, a Chinese girl, causes a bit of a stir, because she seems to have a panda bear clinging to her back. Closer scrutiny reveals this not to be a real-life panda, but an ingeniously designed rucksack! It shows a quirky sense of humour I suppose, but doesn't bode well for her chances on a serious, advanced general knowledge qui/. Anyway, from her conversation with Patrick I hear that she's called Lucy Chang, that she's a second year, reading Medicine, and so may possibly have an edge on me with some of those science questions. Her English seems pretty fluent, though she speaks incredibly quietly, with a slight American accent. What do the rules say about foreign nationals?

The next contestant is a big, loud-voiced Mancunian, dressed in olive-green army surplus, big heavy boots and with a little blue RAF knapsack at his hip with, somewhat inconsistently, a CND sign magic-markered onto it. Patrick interviews him with a kind of begrudging civility, NCO to corporal, and it transpires that he's a third-year Politics student from Rochdale called Colin Pagett. He glances round the room, nods, and then we wait in silence and fiddle with our pens, all sitting as far away from each other as the laws of geometry will allow, waiting ten, fifteen minutes, until it's absolutely clear that no one else is going to turn up. Where is she? She said she'd be here. What if something's happened to her?

Finally Patrick the Astronaut sighs, stands up behind his desk and says, 'Right, well let's begin shall we? My name's Patrick Watts from Ashton-Under-Lyme, reading Economics, and I'm the captain of this year's University Challenge team' ...hang on, who says? ...'Regular viewers of the show may recognise me from last year's tournament.'

That's it, that's where I know him from. I remember watching the episode extra carefully because I'd been filling out my UCCA form, and I'd wanted to know what the standard was like. I remember thinking then that they were a pretty poor team, and this Patrick obviously still carries the emotional scars with him, because he looks at the floor, shame-faced, at the mention of it. 'Obviously, it wasn't a flawless performance' - they were knocked out in the first round if I remember rightly, against soft opponents too - 'but we're very hopeful about our chances this year, especially with so much ...promising ...raw material.'

The three of us look around the room, at each other, and at the rows of empty desks.

'Right! Well, without further ado, let's get cracking on the test. It's in written form, forty questions, and covers a diverse range of subjects, similar to those we'll be facing on the programme. Last year we were particularly weak in the science area' - he glances at me - 'and I want to make sure we're not too arts-orientated this time . . .'

'And it's a four-person team, yeah?' the Mancunian pipes up.

'That is correct.'

'Well if that's the case, then surely ... we are the team.'

'Well, yes, but we need to make sure we're up to an appropriate standard.'

But Colin's not letting go. 'Why?'

'Well, because if we're not ...we'll lose again.'

'And?'

'Well, if we lose again ... if we lose again . . .' and Patrick's mouth is working wordlessly now, opening and closing like a dying mackerel. It's the same face he had on national television last year, trying and failing to answer a perfectly simple question on the East African lakes: the same haunted look, with every single member of the audience knowing the answer, willing it to him; Lake Tanganyika, Tanganyika, you idiot.

Then he's distracted by a noise at the door - a cluster of grinning female faces briefly pressed against the glass, a muffled burst of laughter, a scuffle, and she's shoved into the room by unseen hands, and just stands there, giggling, trying to regain her composure, looking round the room at the four of us.

I swear, for a moment I think everyone's going to stand up.

'Whoops! Sorry, everyone!'

She's slurring a bit, and seems a little unsteady on her feet. She's not thinking of taking an exam pissed, is she?

'I'm sorry, am I too late?'

Patrick runs his hands over his astronaut's hair, licks his lips, and says, 'Not at all. Glad to have you on board ...urn ...?'

'Alice. Alice Harbinson.'

Alice. Alice. Of course, she's an Alice. What else could she be?

'Okay, Alice. Please - take a seat. . .' And she looks around, smiles at me, and comes over and sits at the desk directly behind mine.

The first few questions are pretty easy; basic geometry and some stuff about the Plantagenets, just there to soften us up really, but it's hard to concentrate because Alice is making this snuffling noise over my shoulder. I turn and glance at her, and sure enough she's hunched forwards over her exam paper red-faced, shaking with suppressed laughter. I go back to the test paper.

Question 4. What was ancient Istanbul known as, before it was called Constantinople?

Easy. Byzantium.

Question 5. Helium, neon, argon and xenon make up four of the so-called 'noble gases'. What are the other two?

No idea. Krypton and hydrogen maybe? Krypton and hydrogen.

Question 6. What is the precise composition of the aroma emanating from Alice Harbinson, and why is it so delightful?

Something expensive, flowery but light. Is it perhaps Chanel No 5? Mixed with a tiny hint of Pears soap, and Silk Cut, and lager ...

That's enough now. Concentrate.

Question 6. Where is Mrs Thatcher's parliamentary seat?

Easy. I know this one, but there's the noise again. I turn, and look and catch her eye this time, and she pulls a face, mouths 'sorry . . .' and seals her lips with a little imaginary zip. I smile laconically down one side of my face, as if to say, hey, phew, don't mind me, I'm not taking this seriously either, then go back to the test. Must concentrate. I pop a Tic-Tac into my mouth, and press my fingers against my forehead. Concentrate, concentrate.

Question 7. The colour of Alice Harbinson's lips might best be described as ...?

Not sure, can't see. Something from that Shakespearean sonnet. Damask'd hue or coral or something like that? Maybe I'll have another look. No. Don't. Don't look. Just concentrate. Head down.

8, 9 and 10 are fine, but then there's a long stretch of ridiculously hard maths and physics questions, and I start to flounder a little, skip two or three that I just don't understand but have a stab at the one about mitochondrion.

'Pssst . . .'

Question 15. The energy liberated by the oxidization of the products of cytoplasmic metabolism is converted into adenosine triphosphate ...

'Psssssssst . . .'

She's leaning forward over her desk, eyes wide, trying to pass me something in her clenched fist. I check that Patrick's not looking, and then reach behind me, and feel her press the little scrap of paper into my cupped hand. Patrick looks up, and I quickly turn the motion into a stretch, arms up over my head, and when the coast is clear, I unwrap the note. It says, 'Your strange, unnatural beauty intrigues me. How soon till I can feel your lips against mine ...?'

Or, more accurately, 'Hey swot! Help me! Am very STOOPID and also PISSED. Please save me from COMPLETE humiliation. What are the answers to 6, 11, 18 and 22? And 4 is Byzantium, right? Cheers mate, in anticipation, da thicko behind yuu xxx. p.s. Split on me to the teacher, and I'll have you afterwards.'

She's asking me to share my general knowledge with her, and if that's not a come-on, then I don't know what is. Of course cheating in an exam is a terrible thing, and if it was anyone else I wouldn't get involved, but these are exceptional circumstances so I quickly check the questions, then turn the piece of paper over and write: 'No. 6 is Finchley, 11 is Ruskin's Stones of Venice maybe, 18 is Schrodiger's Cat maybe, and 22 I don't know either; Diaghilev? And yes, 4 is Byzantium.'

I read and re-read this several times. It's pretty dry, as love letters go, and I want to say something more tantalising and provocative, without actually just writing 'you're lovely', so I think for a minute, take a deep breath, then put: 'By the way, you owe me! Coffee afterwards? Best wishes, the Swot!' ...then before I can change my mind, I spin around in my seat and place it on her desk.

Question 23. Whales of the sub-order Mysteciti have a specialised feeding structure called ...?

Baleen.

Question 24. Which French verse form, utilised by Corneille and Racine, consists of a line of twelve syllables, with major stresses on the sixth and last syllable?

The Alexandrine.

Question 25. Increased heart rate, cold sweat and a feeling of elation are usually a symptom of which emotional condition?

Come on, head down, concentrate, this is The Challenge, remember?

Question 25. How many vertices has a dodecahedron?

Well, dodec- is twelve, so that's twelve plane faces, which means 12 times four if you separated it all out, which is 48, but then you have to minus the number of shared corners which would be, what, 24? Why 24? Because each vertex is the junction of three plane faces? Threes into 48 are 16.

16 vertices? Isn't there a formula lor this? What il 1 were to draw it?

And I'm trying to draw a deconstructed dodecahedron when the little ball of paper is lobbed over my head and skitters across my desk. I catch it before it rolls off the edge, open it and read 'Okay. But you have to promise not to dance.'

I smile to myself, and play it cool by not turning round, because after all, that's what I am, a pretty cool guy, and I go back to deconstructing my dodecahedron.

QUESTION: If incandescence is light emitted by a hot material, what is the term for light emitted from a relatively cool material?

ANSWER: Luminescence.

'I expect you didn't recognise me without my dog-collar on!'

'What? Oh, no. I didn't to begin with,' she says. 'So - Alice!'

'That's right.'

'As in Wonderland?'

'Uh-huh,' she says, glancing longingly towards the exit.

We're sat at a little marble table in Le Paris Match, a cafe that's straining very hard to be French; all 'authentic' wooden chairs and Ricard ashtrays and reproduction ToulouseLautrec posters, and 'croque monsieur' on the menu instead of 'ham and-cheese toastie'. It's full of students in black polo-necks and 501s leaning forward in intense conversations over their pommes frites, and jabbing the air with their fags, wishing they were Gitanes rather than Silk Cut. I've never been to France, but is it really like this?

'And is that who you're named after, Alice in Wonderland?'

'So I'm told.' Pause. 'How about you, why did they call you Gary?'

I think for a moment, and actually try to come up with an interesting and amusing anecdote as to why I'm called Gary, before deciding that it's probably easier to come clean.

'Actually, my name's Brian.'

'Of course. Sorry, I meant Brian.'

'Not sure. I don't think there are any Brians in literature. Or Garys, come to that. Except isn't there a Gary in The Brothers Karamazov'? Gary, Keith and . . .'

'...and Brian! Brian Karamazov!' she says and laughs, and I laugh too.

Today's turning out to be quite a big day for me actually, because not only am I sat here with Alice Harbinson, laughing at my own name, but I'm also enjoying my very first ever cappuccino. Do they drink cappuccinos in France? Anyway, it's okay; a bit like the milky coffees they do in the caff on Southend pier for 35p, except instead of little, bitter globules of undissolved instant coffee on the top, this has a grey musky scum of cinnamon. My fault; I overdid it a little, thinking it was chocolate powder, so it smells a bit like a hot, milky armpit. But then I expect that cappuccinos are a little bit like sex in that I'll probably enjoy it much more the second time. Though at 85p a throw, I'm not sure if there'll be a second time. Again, a little bit like sex.

There it is again. Sex and Money. Stop thinking about sex and money. Especially money, it's awful, you're here with this amazing woman, and all you can think about is the price of a cup of coffee. And sex.

'I'm starving,' she says. 'Shall we have some lunch? Some french fries or something?'

'Absolutely!' I say, and look at the menu. Ł1.25 for a lousy bowl of chips? '...though I'm actually not that hungry, but you get some.'

So she waves to the waiter, a whippet-thin guy with a Morrissey quiff, a student by the looks of it, and he comes over and talks over my head, greeting her with a big, friendly 'Hiya!'

'Hello, how are you today?' she says.

'Oh, fine. Except I'd rather not be here. Double shift!'

'Oh, God. Poor you!' she says, rubbing his arm in sympathy.

'How are you, anyway?' he says.

'Very good, thank you.'

'You're looking lovely today, if I may say so.'

'Aw, gee,' says Alice, and puts her hands over her face.

Zut alors.

'So what can I get you?' he says, finally remembering what he's here for.

'Could we just get a bowl of pommes frites, d'you think?'

'Absolument!' says the garcon, and more or less sprints off to the kitchen to commence the preparation of the precious, gold-plated chips.

'How do you know him?' I ask when he's gone.