One Perfect Summer

shoulder at the cyclist as I angrily rub my sore arm. I’m about to hurl abuse at the cyclist when the stranger puts his hands on my arms. I look up at him in surprise.
    He turns his head to the cyclist and says in a calm, foreign-accented voice: ‘You were going too fast. You should watch where you ’ re going.’
    ‘Piss off, you wanker!’ the cyclist snaps, mounting his bike and pedalling away from us.
    ‘Juvenile delinquent,’ the stranger mutters under his breath. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks me. His hands are still on my arms and he’s too close, way too close.
    ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’ I take a step backwards, out of his grasp. His hands fall to his sides. He’s young – early twenties, I think – and well turned out in a smart grey jacket and white shirt. His hair is short and dark blond. He has very blue eyes.
    ‘You’re going to have quite a bruise, I think.’ He studies the mottled red patch on my arm. ‘You should put a cold compress on it.’
    He sounds German, but he doesn’t look it. At least, he doesn’t look like the German students that Lizzy and I used to giggle at in Trafalgar Square, with their brightly coloured parkas, blue denim jeans and backpacks.
    ‘Do you have one?’ he asks.
    I shake my head slightly with confusion. ‘Sorry, do I have what?’
    ‘A cold compress.’
    ‘A cold compress?’ What’s he going on about?
    ‘Yes. For your arm,’ he says. ‘ To stop the swelling.’
    ‘Oh, no, it’s fine. I’ll be fine,’ I say again. Weirdo. What does he think I’ve got, an ice pack in my handbag?
    ‘I can get you one, if you like. My room is only around the corner.’
    I can’t help it: I start to snort with laughter.
    His brow furrows. ‘What’s so funny?’
    ‘Sorry, no, thank you, I’m fine. Bye, bye!’ I hurry away from him before I completely lose it. Who the hell has a cold compress in their room? And why is he calling it a ‘cold compress’ and not just ‘ice’?
    It occurs to me that maybe he’s a doctor or a medical student and then I feel a bit mean, but I still make a mental note to tell Jessie about him later.
    I arrive back at halls and climb the stairs to the 100s on the top floor. The rooms to the left and the right of the landing as you come up the stairs are named after decades: the 30s – i.e. Room 31, Room 32, etc., and then the 40s, 50s, 60s, etc., all the way up to the 100s. Since I’ve been here there have been at least three decade-themed parties. Last night there was a 70s party, judging by the Afro wig and the bright pink feathers from a feather boa strewn halfway down the stairs.
    I walk to the end of the corridor and unlock the last door on the left. My room is cast in a murky orange glow, courtesy of Nightingale’s infamous crappy curtains, so the first thing I do is draw them back and then open up the window to let in some fresh air. One of my fellow students is having a jokey slanging match with the residents of the neighbouring King’s College Hostel. We can shout ‘Toffs!’ and ‘Commoners!’ at each other for ages. It passes the time. Time that I don’t have today. With great effort I pick up Volume One of the ‘small child’ and delve into its three thousand pages. My shower will have to wait.
    ‘What did you do to your arm?’ Jessie asks with concern later down by the Silver Street punting station. Sometimes we start our tours from here, the rest of the time from Magdalene. It’s so busy that I’ve been roped in to help out after my lecture.
    ‘Bloody cyclist crashed into me,’ I explain. ‘Oh, it was funny . . .’
    I start to tell him about the foreign stranger, but guilt appears out of the blue and pricks me. My voice trails off.
    ‘Go on,’ Jessie urges.
    I shake my head dismissively. ‘He was only trying to help.’
    ‘What’s so funny about that?’ He looks confused.
    ‘Nothing. It wasn’t at all, actually. I don’t know why I thought it was.’
    ‘Freak.’
    ‘That’s me.’ I look past him to see Sammy beckoning me. My next tour is about to start. ‘See you later.’
    ‘Bye.’ He gives my arm a squeeze and I wince.
    ‘Ouch!’
    My arm continues to feel tender as I navigate a punt full of people away from the punting station. There’s a young family seated directly below me: a man, a woman, a little boy and a baby girl. They live in Cambridge, from what I can gather, but it’s hard to concentrate on giving the tour because their young son has the patience of a