Gold rush
But I don't like a gold rush, gold rush
I don't like anticipating my face in a red flush
I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch
- gold rush by Taylor Swift
The only problem bigger than Eloise’s assignment had a name and was in shape of a person. She didn’t realize this during a heated debate or a race to check exam results, but in the library, when Theo Sharpe’s hand brushed against hers as they reached for the same book.
“You’ve got to be joking, Sharpe.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, “I’m afraid not even your poor observation skills could overlook the fact that I got here first, Bridgerton”
“Why do you need this anyway?” she hissed, gripping Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brande “I need to resubmit my short story in two days.”
“And once again”, he drawled, “A key point has slipped under Ms. Bridgerton’s radar: other people may need this for their short stories too.”
His words stirred her memory, and like a sharp knife, the rejection of her first submission for Professor Danbury’s Creative Writing module tore through her mind.
“It was you,” she said, eyes wide. “You were one of my anonymous reviewers.”
Professor Danbury had asked them to submit drafts of the first five chapters of their 5000 word short stories. They needed approval from three peers before reaching her for final evaluation.
Eloise had spent days on hers and had been sure she would get approved as two glowing reviews sent a ripple of satisfaction through her, until she read the third one.
“It has clearly slipped under the student’s radar that this story will not shed light on any groundbreaking topics that have not already been explored. It is rooted in a flat storyline. The writing is unnecessarily loaded, clearly pointing to a lack of substance –“
She hadn’t continued reading. She had simply swallowed the memory in a mouthful of wine her brother Benedict had left in her dorm the last time he visited. The memory blurred along with many others but came back sharp as a bite.
“Ah yes, it is quite difficult to forget such a desperate attempt”, he smirked, “if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, I can’t call it an eagle, can I?”
“If it reads like a compelling story, then that’s what you call it!”, Eloise retorted.
“I would have!”, Theo snapped, “if it actually was.”
“Your comment was more driven by spite rather than genuine criticism.”, Eloise said, now standing almost nose to nose against him. The heat of her anger rose to her cheeks, “How did you even know it was me? All submissions for peer reviews are supposed to be anonymous.”
“You think I can’t recognize your writing? Who else would be so obnoxious even on paper?”
“QUIET!”
They both turned around, startled as Brimsley, the old librarian stood in front of them.
“Need I remind you that this is a library Mr. Sharpe and Ms. Bridgerton?”, he said, his hands on his hips.
“I am sorry, Mr. Brimsley”, Eloise said quickly, “I assure you it won’t happen again, right Sharpe?”, she treaded on his foot, eliciting a small wince.
“Sir”, Theo added, “We understand. There will be no more problems.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, “I assume this is the moment one of you asks me if there is another copy of the book you two are squabbling over.”
It was the hundredth rehearsal of the same script, on a stage where the curtains never came down. They nodded sheepishly.
“Tough luck”, he grumbled, “you two will learn to share”
They occupied the corner of the library, surrounded by tall shelves of books. They sat next to the window, their furious whispers overpowering the pattering rain as they bent over the tattered book. Theo had been hogging the book for twenty minutes and Eloise could practically feel time moving.
“Do you read as slowly as you walk?”, Eloise huffed, crossing her arms.
“You’re calling me slow?”, Theo asked, “if you read any slower, I’d be sure we are turning back time.”
“Adorable. Did you take all day to come up with that one?”
He scowled, returning to the page he was on. He closed his eyes and turned back to her.
“If you must know”, he said in a low voice, “It’s not that I didn’t find your writing compelling.”
She unfolded her arms, “What?”
“I am not going to repeat myself”, he said, “I am not saying your idea was bad. But the character had nothing going on for her. She has no depth.”
“So why didn’t you write that?”, she hissed. Did he seriously believe she was not capable of handling constructive criticism?
He shook his head, “I meant what I wrote, Bridgerton. You need to rethink the way you write.”
“You know, if you at least-.”, Eloise said furiously,
“If you’re so hung up over it, why don’t you ask Professor Danbury for her opinion tomorrow?”, Theo said, irritated.
Eloise turned the idea over in her head like a coin. Lands on Danbury’s approval, she wins. If not, she could at least weasel an apology out of Theo for being so harsh with his review.
She nodded, as the bell chimed for dinner.
“El!”, Penelope called, her red curls bouncing on her shoulders. The knot in Eloise’s stomach loosened at the sight of her best friend. They’d been close since she was twelve and Penelope was thirteen. They were both in the second term of their second year.
“Hey”, Eloise linked her arm with her, “How is your essay coming along?”
“Fine”, Penelope yawned, resting her head against Eloise’s arm, “It’s not the writing that bothers me. It’s sitting holed up in the library poring over books on The theory of state.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad”, Eloise said absentmindedly.
“It is when the course is practically a snorefest”, Penlope said sourly, “I am a journalism major. Why I have to spend days researching on politics is beyond me.”
“Research is fun when you work hard and gain interest, Pen.”, Eloise said, as they entered the dining hall, “The dead ends are frustrating, but ultimately there is nothing more rewarding than-”
“El, just let me rant” Penelope said firmly, “just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean I have to like it immediately too.”
“Pen I—“, Eloise started, and then reached for Penelope’s hands, “I am sorry. You are right. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive.”
Penelope shook her head, “I am just frustrated. My professor is somehow determined to make me look like an airhead.”
“Is it that old codger, Mr. Berbrooke?”
“That one!’, Penelope reached for a glass of water, “He couldn’t teach if his life depended on it,”
“If we are talking about his life, I doubt there is much of it left”, came a voice from behind. Penelope let out a squawk and jumped, spilling water over herself.
“Colin!”, Eloise said indignantly as her brother slid in the seat next to Penelope, “Look what you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry Pen”, he said sheepishly. He grabbed a napkin and held it against her sleeve where water had soaked the fabric.
“Oh no, it’s okay” Penelope’s cheeks were reddening as he shrugged off his coat.
“Don’t worry”, Eloise said dismissively, “Nobody is looking.”
Colin draped his jacket over Penelope, but she continued shivering, smiling softly as she pulled it closer around her.
Eloise shoved a mouthful of pasta into her mouth, “How are things with you, brother dear?”
“Fine”, Colin answered.
Colin was a year above her, in a Political Science and Economics degree. He attacked the mashed potatoes on his plate with the same enthusiasm he signed up for the study abroad opportunity. Eloise rested her elbow on the table and gave him a look. He grinned broadly.
“I gotch ekchepted.”
“What?”, Penelope asked, with a look of amusement that Eloise was half sure was based on disgust.
Colin took an enormous swallow, “I got accepted into the student exchange programme! I am going to Greece over the summer!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Penelope said, smiling, “You must be excited!”
“Congratulations Colin. I hope you love it.”, Eloise said, downing her glass of lemonade in one go and deeply wishing it was something stronger.
Colin deserved to go. Of course she didn’t doubt that. He had worked hard for this, spending hours doing extra credit for Professor Kathani, and that was an achievement in its own right. Apart from being one of the few gold medalist PhDs among the staff, she was known for being the best professor in the Economics department, despite her reputation for setting question papers that reduced the most brilliant students to tears.
Colin had been dreaming about travelling across Europe for years and Eloise had spent hours sitting cross-legged by his chair while he gazed out of the window and spoke.
“The gardens, Eloise, the lakes and forests. I shall know the skill of God’s hand.”
She’d been swept away, listening to him talk dreamily about Spain and Austria, all while something stirred within her like a beast purring and stretching. A restless longing clawed through her. If she could be transported through just his words, and touch the landscapes he painted, she would have seized it like a boat and set sail.
“Promise you’ll send postcards”, Eloise said, “tell me everything about every theatre and ruin and—”
“Eloise”, he laughed, getting up to get a second helping “if you want me to tell you about everything I do abroad I don’t think you’d like me very much.”
Penelope coughed uncomfortably and Eloise pulled a face.
“Anyway”, Penelope said, “El, how’s your story writing going?”
Eloise tucked into her stew and wondered why the floating carrot was shaped suspiciously like Sharpe’s raised eyebrow, “Going just fine.”