Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  “Ugghh,” shuddered Nancy.

  “—and the Third Year who overdosed on heroin the day before his Classics finals.”

  “How tragic,” said Ursula, feeling unnerved.

  “You know what they had in common?”

  “What?” asked Nancy, a note of terror in her voice.

  “They were both,” concluded Otto, “very posh.”

  Chapter 2

  The Gothic Buildings were arranged around a rather spooky little courtyard dominated by a sprawling, gnarly trunked yew tree in the center. Very Bleak House, thought Ursula as she looked around, noticing that the quad had four castellated turrets, one in each corner. The only dashes of color were the few pale pink autumn roses still open in the flower beds. Otto led the girls towards one of four stone archways. It had the letter C carved above it.

  “This is your staircase,” he informed Ursula and Nancy.

  The girls peered curiously inside the archway. A flight of scrubbed wooden stairs led towards a window on a high landing. Two girls were standing just inside, scrutinizing a black-painted board attached to the wall on the left. The number of each room and the name of its occupant had been inscribed upon it in white italic lettering.

  “Hi!” called one of the girls when she saw them. “Felicia Evenlode-Sackville. Head Girl, Roedean. Lacrosse captain, Firsts. Everyone just calls me Moo.” She had the plummy Sloane Ranger accent common to the alumnae of one of England’s most prestigious girls’ boarding schools.

  “Moo” was dressed in a navy blue regulation Roedean School tracksuit and Green Flash Dunlop sneakers. The plump blond ponytail on the top of her head seemed to bounce in time with her words. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her face and a healthy, sporty physique.

  Moo’s bumptious confidence put her in stark contrast to the other girl, who seemed too terrified to utter much more than her name, Claire Potter. Claire was a sad-faced girl, as plain as it was possible to be. She had acne-strewn skin that appeared to have the slippery consistency and pallid color of lard. She was dressed in a drab knee-length skirt, a scratchy-looking sweater, and woolly tights. Her flat feet were clad in enormous ugly brogues. She was wearing clunky spectacles, and her coarse, mousy hair was chopped short.

  Ursula felt sorry for Claire Potter. She’d try and be nice to her, but she suspected she wouldn’t become good friends with her. Although Claire had barely spoken a single word, Ursula, occasionally prone in the way eighteen-year-old girls are to making snap judgments based on appearance, doubted they would have much in common. Ursula couldn’t really relate to short-haired girls. She just didn’t understand their philosophy of life.

  “Your bathroom is through there,” said Otto, pointing to an open door on the left.

  Ursula and Nancy stepped into the room and inspected the washing facilities. Four sinks were attached to the wall, and two whitewashed cubicles each contained a large bath. The room was icy, with the only possible relief offered by a meager fan heater installed high on the wall above the doorway.

  Nancy regarded the bathroom with a look of horror. “Where are the showers?” she asked Otto.

  He chuckled. “As far as I know, the only showers in Oxford are in the Randolph Hotel—oh!” He let out an excited cry. “I don’t believe it.

  “India!” he called out to a girl heading towards Staircase C. “India!”

  Ursula was immediately intrigued by the new arrival. Petite and fine-boned, India had a complexion as pale as a dove’s wing. She wore her dark hair in a long bob, which had been left punkily unbrushed. Ray-Ban sunglasses revealed little more of her face than sky-high cheekbones. As she drew closer, Ursula could see that the girl’s lips, which were stained a dark blackberry color, were set in a full, dramatic pout. She was dressed in the Chelsea girl hipster uniform of the moment—black leather biker jacket, black Lycra miniskirt, black opaque tights, and black suede fringed pixie boots. Her hands were encased in black leather fingerless gloves. Her edgy look made Ursula regret her own tragic Beatrix Potter garb even more.

  India greeted Otto with a kiss on each cheek when she reached him. She then started pinning something on one of the notice boards just inside Staircase C.

  “What on earth are you doing Up in Freshers’ Week, India?” Otto asked. “Shame on you!”

  “Rehearsing. It’s so annoying, I’m missing Beano’s cocktail at Annabel’s in London tomorrow night. Darling, don’t tell a soul you’ve seen me here, yar?” she begged him.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he agreed obligingly.

  India stabbed a final drawing pin in a corner of the notice. It read, “Oxford University Dramatic Society—Treasurer Required. Apply to President Dom Littleton, Magdalen College.”

  “Anyway, we’re desperate for a treasurer, and none of the acting lot would dream of doing anything so dull. So I had the brilliant idea of putting notices in the Freshers’ staircases. Saddo First Years love doing that kind of thing . . . but if no one takes this bait, maybe we can recruit someone at the Freshers’ Fair on Saturday.”

  “I’ll apply,” offered Claire Potter. She spoke with a soft Welsh accent and blushed furiously as she did so.

  India pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, revealing startling violet eyes and yard-long black eyelashes. She regarded Claire Potter with the kind of disdain an eagle would reserve for an earthworm—an organism so insignificant it wasn’t even worth contemplating as a meal.

  “Sorry,” said Otto. “Let me introduce you all. Freshers, this is Lady India Brattenbury.”

  “Hi.” In contrast to the friendly tones she’d used with Otto, India now spoke with a clipped, cold voice.

  Ursula recognized the name from the pigeonholes. Lady India was clearly Someone Very Grand. While Otto introduced each Fresher by name, India’s pout became ever sulkier. Until, that is, she heard the words “Nancy Feingold.”

  “So you’re the Feingold girl,” she said to Nancy, her pout morphing into a welcoming smile. “I heard on the grapevine you were coming Up. Read all about the Feingold gardening-tool dynasty in Tatler. It’s my fave mag.”

  “It’s hardly a dynasty,” insisted Nancy, looking highly amused. “It’s only two generations, and that’s including me and my brother!”

  “Well . . . anyway, I’ve already thought of the most brilliant nickname for you. ‘Lawnmower,’” announced India, spluttering with laughter. “Isn’t that perfect?”

  She didn’t appear to register Nancy’s rather surprised expression and carried on, “You should come to Wenty’s party on Sunday night. I’ll get you an invitation.”

  “Okay,” said Nancy. “Why not?”

  “It’ll be sick fun. Otto’s coming, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” he declared happily.

  The other three girls were, felt Ursula, rather pointedly excluded from this conversation. But finally, fixing Ursula with a bored expression, India said, “Where were you at school?”

  “St. Swerford’s,” said Ursula, hoping her local private school sounded a bit smarter than it really was. “On a scholarship.”

  When she saw India’s smirk, she wished she’d never mentioned the scholarship.

  “St. Whereford’s?” said India. “Never heard of it.”

  She turned her attention to Moo, noticing her Roedean School tracksuit. “We Wycombe Abbey girls always used to beat your Roedean lot at matches.”

  Faster than shooting a lacrosse ball into goal, Moo retorted, “And we beat Wycombe at chess.”

  The uncomfortable pause that followed was eventually filled by Claire Potter, who stuttered, “I-I-I went to the grammar school in C-C-Cardiff.”

  “Oh,” India replied, clearly underwhelmed.

  Otto looked at his watch. “Look, I must get the Freshers to their rooms or they’ll never be in time for lunch in the Buttery. See you later, India?”

  “Yar. Great to meet you, Lawnmower,” said India.

  India departed. She didn’t bother saying good-bye to t
he other girls.

  Chapter 3

  The first thing Ursula did after Otto had left her to unpack in her room was to find an old photograph of her parents, taken on their wedding day, and stand it on her desk. How beautiful her mother had been, with her auburn hair cascading around her shoulders. Everyone always told Ursula she looked like her. She had been blessed with the same kind of hair—in the sunshine, it glimmered like autumn leaves, and it was so long and thick that it required almost the whole of her narrow wrist to flick it to one side. Ursula’s gray eyes and china-white complexion had come from her father, though, and the freckles that were dotted across the tops of her cheeks she blamed on the rare bursts of sunshine that very occasionally reached the Gloucestershire hillsides.

  Ursula’s attic-like room, number 4, was perched in the turret of Staircase C. Nancy’s, Room 3, was opposite, across the landing, with Claire and Moo on the floor below in 1 and 2. The décor was basic. The walls had long ago been painted an institutional yellow color, which was peeling in places to reveal fragments of old floral wallpaper underneath. Apart from the desk and its chair, the furniture consisted of a single bed, standard-issue chest of drawers, empty bookcase, armchair, and narrow closet. The original fireplace had been boxed in, and the only heat source was a meager two-bar electric fire.

  So what if her room was decorated like a sanatorium and colder than an igloo? It was her new home, and Ursula adored it. After putting her room key safely in the desk drawer, she unpacked her record player from her trunk, plugged it in, put on her favorite single—A-ha’s “Take on Me”—and started decorating. She draped a beloved old bedspread printed with lilacs over the bed, and put an ancient chintz cushion of her grandmother’s on the armchair. Then she set about organizing her desk. Opposite the wedding photo, she laid out her stationery—pens, pencils, folders, writing paper, diary—on the right-hand side before putting a reporter’s notebook in the center. She hoped she would fill it with ideas for articles for Cherwell,* the legendary Oxford student newspaper she longed to write for.

  It didn’t take Ursula long to unpack her clothes with A-ha’s music to egg her on. In any case, she possessed an extremely limited wardrobe since, like most English girls, she had been dressed in the same ugly brown school uniform pretty much since she was eleven years old. She had a couple of tweed skirts, a few kilts, some Viyella blouses, several warm sweaters, and a few pairs of jeans and cords. She had one smart velvet dress that she had made herself, but her pride and joy was her one proper black-tie ball gown. It was beautiful, even if it was a hand-me-down from her grandmother, and if she was ever invited to an Oxford ball (please-please-please, God, let me be invited to a ball one day! she prayed), she could go. The only “trendy” things Ursula owned were her pair of Dr. Martens boots, a stripy pair of fingerless gloves, and a black satin bomber jacket, all precious birthday gifts from her groovy London godmother. Unsurprisingly, all of her clothing fit easily into the narrow wardrobe.

  Ursula soon noticed a large white envelope addressed to her propped up on the mantelpiece. A mass of papers and notes fell out when she opened it. There were notices about matriculation, the Freshers’ photograph, and the Freshers’ Fair, which were all scheduled to take place over the next two days, Friday and Saturday. Her battels* for the term were to be paid immediately. A photocopied note from the captain of the Christminster women’s boat team invited her to try out for the college rowing Eight. There were endless details about college meal times and a list of required dress for Formal Hall. An academic gown, Ursula realized, must be acquired that afternoon if she was going to be allowed to eat anything tonight. She also needed a mortarboard for the Freshers’ photograph.

  At the very bottom of the pile of information, she found a small white card embossed with the college coat of arms—a shield illustrated with a stag at the bottom, a chevron in the middle, and three fleur-de-lis above—and handwritten with the words:

  Dr. David Erskine and Professor Hugh Scarisbrick

  At Home

  Thursday, 14 October

  Room 3, Staircase B, Great Quad

  7 p.m. Sherry

  Suits Gowns

  Sherry with her History tutors tonight! How thrilling, thought Ursula. Perhaps she could brainstorm with Nancy and Moo over lunch—they’d need something current to discuss with their dons. She guiltily hoped they wouldn’t be obliged to hang out with Claire Potter at lunch. There was something depressing about her.

  By the time Ursula had finished unpacking and wandered across the landing to Nancy’s digs to see if she wanted to go to lunch, the American student’s room had undergone a dramatic transformation. Her bed was now fluffed up with a squillion-tog duvet, encased in a leopard-print cover. There were matching cushions and even leopard-print pillowcases.

  “I brought my own bedding,” said Nancy, flopping down on the newly plush bed.

  The rest of the room was completely covered in clothes. As Ursula cast her eye over the sartorial chaos draped over the desk, chairs, and floor, she couldn’t help feeling slightly envious. There were party dresses and glittery shoes, skintight jeans and cropped tops, piles of sports gear, roller skates, hot pants, and several varieties of sneakers. There were jewelry cases bulging with tea-bag-sized diamanté earrings, ropes of faux pearls, and armfuls of bangles. There was even, Ursula noted, a pale vanilla-colored fur coat that glistened in the way that only real mink would. Nancy had a white vanity case, now open and with crystal perfume bottles and makeup spilling out of it, that took up almost the entire surface of her desk.

  Seeing Ursula looking longingly at the case, Nancy said, “You can borrow any makeup you like.”

  “Wow, amazing, thanks,” said Ursula, who had precisely one tube of mascara and one black eyeliner to her name.

  “Even with no closets and that really unhygienic twenty-thousand-year-old bathtub seven flights downstairs, I love this attic,” sighed Nancy. “The only thing I’m stressing about is how I’m gonna store my lipstick without a refrigerator.”

  Ursula opened the window that overlooked Christminster Passage at the rear of the college. “It’s cold enough out here,” she said.

  “Brrr! Freezing,” said Nancy, leaning out of the window and placing her most fashionable lipstick—Estée Lauder’s Russian Red—on the sill.

  The girls looked down. The narrow cobbled lane below was set between high stone walls. Two male students were walking along it, pushing bicycles. Their voices echoed up towards the girls’ turret.

  “. . . bloody good idea to get here in time for Freshers’ Week. More opportunity. Before the OEs get in there with the Freshettes.”

  “And the Freshers’ photo will be out tomorrow and then we can really get started.”

  “Do you remember that minger you snogged last time . . .”

  For a split second the girls didn’t know whether to be appalled or amused, but they chose the latter, collapsing into giggles.

  “I hope all the boys here aren’t that honest!” exclaimed Nancy, closing the window. Then she said, kindly, “Hey, I’m really sorry for asking about your mom and dad earlier.”

  “Don’t be,” Ursula replied. “I only know them from photographs. I was so young when they died. My grandmothers really are the best mum and mum. Anyway, come on, we need to get to lunch . . .”

  Just then there was a rap on the door.

  “A visitor! Maybe it’s one of those earls I’m planning on catching,” said Nancy with a wink. “Hey, come in.”

  A pert, bright-eyed woman wearing a floral apron and bright yellow rubber gloves bustled into the room. Despite the fact that she was lugging an industrial-sized bucket of cleaning materials, she had an exceptionally cheerful look on her face. She appeared to be in her midthirties, and had her cheaply peroxided hair half pulled back from her very made-up face with a giant glittery butterfly clip. Beneath the apron, she seemed to have a voluptuous figure. Perhaps not all cleaning ladies suffered as much as Mrs. Deddington, Ursula thought hopefully to
herself.

  “Good morning, Miss—?” She grabbed a list from her apron pocket and looked at it, then smiled gaily at Nancy. “Feingold. I’m Miss Blythe, your scout. But I let all the undergraduates call me Alice.”

  “Awesome,” said Nancy.

  “I’ll be up here to clean your room and make your bed, miss,” Alice continued, smiling. She had traces of what sounded like a Northern accent. “Every morning at ten-ish. And yours, Miss—?”

  “Flowerbutton—I’m in the room across the hall,” said Ursula, thrilled. This was just too grown-up for words, having a college housekeeper to look after her.

  “Do you think,” said Nancy, reaching for her wallet and pulling out a crisp one-pound note, “you could do some extra tidying in here today? I just can’t seem to get my closet sorted.”

  Nancy beamed a persuasive smile at the scout. But Alice’s hitherto jolly face suddenly took on a worried expression.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Feingold. College servants aren’t allowed to accept money from undergraduates.” She sighed, gazing longingly at the one-pound note.

  “Gimme a break!” said Nancy, shoving the money into Alice’s apron pocket.

  Their scout patted the pocket with a wink and said, “I’m ever so grateful, Miss Feingold. It’ll help with . . . well, things, you know, bills and suchlike. Your room will be perfect. But don’t go saying a word to the high provost now, will you?”

  “Ssshhh,” said Nancy. “I swear I won’t.”

  “Nor me,” said Ursula.

  Suddenly there was another knock on the door. “I feel very popular this morning,” said Nancy as she pulled it open. There on the threshold stood India Brattenbury, holding a stiff white card in her hand.

  “Your golden ticket, Lawnmower,” she said, handing it to Nancy. “Wenty says he’s dying to meet you.”

  Nancy took the card and read out loud:

  The Earl of Wychwood