Eleven
Memory 5
“I was very much hoping to come up to speed with what I’ve missed in English during the first few months of term,” Viggo said, rubbing his perfectly smooth, tanned forehead. “You know, when I was travelling around Europe as part of my prize for winning the Prime Minister’s History Awards for my work on the building of the English Houses of Parliament?”
“I know,” I said meekly.
“You don’t have any of your notes with you?” he asked as he poured me a glass of something whiffy from an expensive-looking bottle.
“I don’t, it’s true,” I said. “I am an idiot.” I took the glass even though I’d only ever drunk wine once before, at a dinner party with my parents. It came from a cask and tasted like Beezus’s breath.
“Now, Constance.” Viggo smiled. “I wasn’t chastising you. I was
