One Perfect Summer

you studying?”’ Lukas clarifies.
    ‘Oh!’ I forgot they say ‘reading’ instead of ‘studying’. Another difference between their world and mine. ‘English Literature,’ I tell him.
    He nods, regarding me intently. I shift in my seat. His stare is making me uncomfortable. Lukas seems to notice. He turns to Harry.
    ‘Don’t you need to speak to Terence about something?’
    ‘Oh! Yes!’ Harry jumps to his feet, almost knocking over his chair. He runs after a student who is on his way out of the hall. Lukas turns back to me.
    ‘Sorry about Harry.’
    ‘He’s funny,’ I say, and I mean it, even if I didn’t feel overly relaxed in his company. ‘Albeit a little eccentric,’ I add.
    ‘A little?’ Lukas queries.
    ‘Okay, a lot.’
    He leans across the table and takes my hand. I look at him with surprise. ‘I’m sorry about the way I acted last week,’ he says earnestly. ‘I was confused.’
    ‘About what?’ I want to understand.
    He hesitates, but doesn’t take his eyes from mine. ‘About the way I feel about you.’
    My blush returns in force. I can’t keep eye contact with him so I look away.
    ‘I would like to see more of you,’ he says, squeezing my hand gently and bringing my focus back to him. ‘What are you doing on Monday?’
    ‘I’m supposed to be on the river.’
    ‘You don’t have any lectures?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Can you take some time off?’
    ‘Um . . .’ I suppose I could ask one of the others to cover for me. Mike was looking for more work. ‘Possibly.’
    ‘Good.’ He smiles and lets go of my hand. ‘I’ll pick you up at eleven.’
    I nod. ‘Okay.’
    Harry returns and collapses down in his chair. ‘I hate eating cold curry!’ he exclaims in disgust.
    Lukas and I smile small smiles across the table at each other and tuck into our food.

 
    At eleven o’clock on Monday, Lukas rings the doorbell.
    ‘Where’s Klaus?’ I ask, spying the Porsche parked across the road.
    ‘He’s gone shopping,’ he replies, taking my hand and swinging it as he leads me across the road.
    ‘You’re in a good mood,’ I comment.
    ‘I am.’ He beams at me and my heart unexpectedly flips.
    He’s wearing a dark-grey sports jacket with tailored trousers and a light-blue shirt. His shirts always look so pristine and perfect. I wonder who does his ironing.
    ‘Where are we going?’ I ask when I’m safely buckled in. I hope he doesn’t drive as fast as he did the last time.
    ‘I thought I’d take you to Wimpole Hall.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘It’s owned by the National Trust. It’s quite a pretty house, I believe. I thought you might like to see something outside the city, for a change.’
    ‘Yes, I would,’ I reply. ‘May as well make the most of your car, right?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘Where does Klaus live?’ I ask as he drives off.
    ‘Girton. Just up the road from here,’ he replies. ‘It’s outside the city perimeters,’ he tells me with a grin.
    ‘Glad to hear it,’ I reply. ‘Wouldn’t want you getting into trouble, now, would we?’
    ‘Absolutely not.’
    He reaches across and squeezes my hand. He does this a lot. I can’t say I don’t like it.
    ‘Quite a pretty house’ are not the words I’d use to describe what turns out to be the largest country house in Cambridgeshire. Wimpole Hall, built of red brick and stone, is set within three thousand acres of parkland and farmland, and its landscaped gardens are beautiful.
    We wander side by side along the gravel paths. It’s a cold day today, but the skies are clear and blue. Some of the trees have been sculpted and look unreal, like something out of Alice in Wonderland . Lukas and I sit down on a bench facing the back of the house.
    ‘It’s lovely here,’ I breathe, moving in closer to him to keep warm.
    ‘It is nice,’ he concedes.
    The miniature hedges in the formal gardens form shapes like circles and triangles, and they’re inset with pink and purple flowers. The lawn is perfectly manicured and its edges perfectly straight.
    ‘I wonder how they get those grass edges to be so straight,’ I muse aloud.
    ‘Our gardeners do ours with scissors,’ Lukas answers casually.
    ‘ Scissors? ’
    ‘It’s the most effective way. My mother is very fussy,’ he adds.
    ‘But that must take forever!’
    He shrugs. ‘Not really.’
    ‘How many gardeners do you have?’ I remember he used the plural.
    ‘Four or five.’
    My mouth drops open. ‘You have five gardeners?’
    ‘Four or five,’