Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  Wenty looked at her again, now with a flash of recognition in his eyes. “Oh, that’s it, I remember now! I met you at Piggy’s cocktail at Annabel’s a couple of weeks ago in London.”

  “No,” Ursula answered. “I’ve never been to Annabel’s.”

  “You’ll have to remind me.”

  “You pushed in front of me at the counter at Shepherd & Woodward last week.”

  Wenty looked completely blank. “Did I? Really? I don’t remember.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” she replied. Wenty was even ruder than she had thought. Not only had he pushed in front of her, he couldn’t even remember doing it.

  “Look, sorry, okay?” he said, trying to appease her. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Ursula.”

  “Ursula who, exactly?”

  “Ursula Flowerbutton.”

  “Flowerbutton. Lovely name. Unforgettable . . .”

  Wenty gazed at Ursula for far longer than was strictly necessary. But Ursula was determined not to be flattered. She imagined he probably called every girl he met “wonderful” and “unforgettable.”

  Finally, Wenty peeled his eyes from her, saying, “Lawnmower, Unforgettable, I’ve already run out of champagne saucers. Come and help me find some more?”

  He beckoned the girls to follow him across the landing, already swaying drunkenly as he walked. Nancy tailed him and Ursula followed reluctantly. They soon found themselves in a large, drafty bathroom with bleached wooden floors and a small window overlooking the courtyard at the back of the main quad.

  A claw-footed bathtub that appeared to have been in situ since the ’20s had been filled to the brim with icy water, and at least twenty bottles of pink Bollinger were floating around in it. A tray of dirty glasses was perched on the loo seat, and an abandoned bucket of cleaning items—washing-up gloves, J-cloths, and the like—sat on the floor next to it.

  “Where on earth have our dear washer-uppers got to?” Wenty said, glancing around the bathroom. “Now . . . hmm, maybe there are some more glasses in here.”

  He staggered downwards to peer inside a bathroom cabinet below the sink, and seemed shocked to find it contained his own toothbrush and toothpaste rather than clean glasses. He sighed, filled the sink with water, and attempted to wash one of the dirty champagne saucers from the tray using a shriveled-looking bar of Palmolive soap and a rather grubby face flannel. There was a crunch, an “Ouch,” and his left hand came out of the washbasin covered in blood.

  “Oh bloody hell, forget it,” Wenty said, hurriedly wrapping his hand in a face towel that had a W embroidered in one corner in the same shade of pale blue as his lapels. He cleaned the blood off his hand, chucked the towel on the floor, and somehow found a bandage in the bathroom cabinet.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, holding out the bandage to Ursula, who soon found herself wrapping the wound. “Has anyone ever told you that you do that better than Florence Nightingale?” he said when she had finished.

  “Do you flirt like this with everyone,” she replied, “or just with girls who aren’t your girlfriend?”

  “I do adore a prude,” countered Wenty.

  “I am not a prude!” she protested.

  “Okay, guys, chill,” Nancy interrupted. “Let’s get to the party.”

  With Nancy’s help, Wenty managed to open a fresh bottle of champagne and slosh it into the used glasses on the tray, saying, “Don’t tell anyone!”

  “That’s so unhygienic,” Nancy told him. “Haven’t you heard of mono?”

  But Wenty had tuned her out. “Girls, bring more bottles of booze, will you?” he called, heading out of the bathroom.

  Ursula and Nancy each grabbed a dripping champagne bottle, wiping them down with a bath towel so as not to spoil their dresses.

  “He really likes you,” Nancy whispered excitedly as they followed Wenty back across the landing.

  “He’s going out with India,” said Ursula in a hushed voice. “He’s only bothering to talk to me because I’m with you.”

  “I think you’re being mean about someone you hardly know,” said Nancy. “I dig him.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Ursula firmly.

  She had decided, though, that she was not going to let her views on her host interfere with her enjoyment of the party, making an executive decision to forget Wenty’s ridiculous comments and have fun. As she passed through the gilded doorway of the Old Drawing Room into the party, which was now packed, she felt as she imagined Alice must have when she fell down the rabbit hole. A smile crept across Ursula’s face.

  “Oh, sorry, Nancy, do you want to leave your jacket?” asked Wychwood, turning back to the girls.

  “Are you kidding me?” she replied. “This is a Norma. Kamali. Sleeping. Bag. Coat.”

  Wenty looked blank.

  Seeing his confusion, Nancy explained, “It doesn’t come off. It’s part of the look. This is the most aspirational jacket in New York.”

  “If you aspire to look like an astronaut,” their host replied mischievously. Then he carried on, “Come and meet everyone—and grab a glass of champagne!”

  Sipping glasses of delicious pink bubbles, the girls followed Wenty as he headed towards the center of the room carrying the tray. Guests were lounging on sofas or squashed three to a chair. Corks were popping, glasses were being filled, and tipsiness was being induced, all at a startling rate. A group had congregated around a white Steinway grand piano, on top of which a set of mixing decks had been temporarily installed. An olive-skinned boy in a white T-shirt, black jeans, and a black baseball cap with the word “BOY”* emblazoned in white letters across the front was DJ-ing. As Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” came to an end, Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” started up. He grinned at Wenty, making a thumbs-up gesture.

  “That’s Christian. Music scholar at New,” said Wenty over the music. “He’s far too London-trendy to wear white tie. The other weirdo over there is my good mate Horatio Bentley. Fondly known as the ‘Man in Mauve.’ He’s in rooms above the JCR. Studying Sanskrit. Come and meet him.”

  Wenty waved at an eccentric-looking figure propped comfortably against the piano. He was a squat, tubby personage. His red hair was short apart from his bangs, which he wore in a long, asymmetric style that he flicked dramatically off his forehead every now and again. Horatio was dressed in a long lilac djellaba, which, despite its voluminous folds, still strained across his considerable tummy, and his feet were clad in red velvet slippers. His neck was encased in a fat choker of tacky fake emeralds.

  The girls followed Wenty over. “Divine party, darling,” cooed Horatio at their host, then proceeded to kiss the young earl on the lips.

  “Horatio, can you stop acting quite so gay all the time? It’s getting boring,” protested Wenty, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “How many times do I have to tell you, I am not a homosexual and I will never shag you. Darling.”

  “Al-aaaaas!” Horatio threw up his hands in a gesture of mock despair before turning his attention to Nancy and Ursula. His beady eyes darted quickly from one girl to the other, scrutinizing them mercilessly.

  Wenty said, “Now, let me introduce you to Ursula Flowerbutton.”

  “Hi,” said Ursula, smiling.

  “And this is Nancy Feingold—”

  “I know all about you already,” Horatio interjected.

  “You do?” said Nancy, looking rather alarmed.

  “I’m the gossip columnist on Cherwell. It’s my job to know everything about everyone. I read about you in Tatler. Your reputation as a beautiful American gardens heiress precedes you—”

  “It’s not actually gardens. It’s gardening tools,” Nancy corrected him.

  “Minor detail, darling, minor detail,” declared Horatio.

  If he was a columnist on Cherwell, thought Ursula to herself, she should get to know him.

  “I signed up for the newspaper at the Freshers’ Fair,” said Ursula. “I’m coming to the meeting on Monday.�
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  “A girl like you will be a shining beacon of light amongst the bloodsucking cretins who staff it,” Horatio said dramatically. “It’ll be fun watching you fend off the tragic hacks.”

  “Er . . . right,” replied Ursula, unnerved.

  “I love your look, Horatio,” said Nancy.

  “That’s very flattering,” he said gratefully. He stroked the plastic gems at his throat. “I’m channeling Talitha Getty in Morocco—”

  “Horatio, cut the crap,” interrupted Wenty. “Look after these beauties very carefully while I do some waitering.” He disappeared off into the crowd, filling glasses as he went.

  “So, I’m curious,” Nancy asked Horatio. “Who are all these people?”

  “This lot?” he replied, gazing around the room. “They’re known as the Champagne Set—supposedly they’re Oxford’s most aristocratic, social, talented, or beautiful undergraduates. But I think it’s much kinder”—Horatio smiled wickedly—“to describe them as immature twits still obsessed with their posh public school peer groups.”

  “Ouch!” gasped Nancy. “That’s mean.”

  “But true,” said Horatio. “My columns are notorious—for their honesty. If that means sometimes describing my subjects in the worst possible light, so be it.”

  Just then, Ursula spotted a suave-looking boy crossing the room towards them. She had never seen such sophistication. His polished dark skin gleamed like a black diamond. A large gold signet ring on his left pinkie flashed in the candlelight, and his white tie looked absolutely correct, as though it had been pressed and starched to within an inch of its life. He flashed a glossy smile at Horatio as he approached.

  “Who’s he?” Ursula asked, trying to sound super-casual.

  “Eghosa Kolokoli. Wenty’s roommate. He’s from Nairobi. Very snappy dresser. But don’t be taken in,” Horatio warned. “Eg isn’t quite what he seems . . .”

  But Horatio’s warning faded into the din of the party. Ursula was mesmerized by Eg, who had suddenly transitioned to an expertly executed Michael Jackson–style moonwalk to reach Horatio and the girls.

  “Eg, you’re such a cliché of . . . yourself,” sighed Horatio wearily as Eg slapped him hello on the back. “Have you met Nancy and Ursula?”

  “Hello,” said Eg, turning to the girls. “I’m Eghosa.” He had a deep voice and a very proper English accent that sounded like something out of the 1950s. He then turned to Ursula, took her hand, and said, “Dance?”

  She couldn’t quite believe that a boy like this could possibly want her as his dance partner. She couldn’t say yes. Her dancing was far too amateurish. She shook her head. “I’m okay, thanks,” she said. “I’m sure Nancy would, though.”

  “Great,” Nancy said, taking off her duvet jacket and flinging it on a sofa.

  With that, Eg took Nancy’s hand and proceeded to whirl her around the room. Thank goodness that’s not me, Ursula told herself, as she watched the pair break into a ceroc. Luckily Nancy seemed to be some kind of Ginger Rogers. She and Eg twirled into any space they could find.

  “Ah, Prince Shuffling Knickers doing his shuffling!” pronounced Horatio, pointing out Otto, who was dancing furiously by himself. “Otto!” he called out. “Come over here, you lonely saddo!”

  Otto stopped suddenly. When he turned and saw his audience, he looked rather embarrassed, but still dashed over to Ursula, grabbed her hand, and brushed his lips across it, Euro-style.

  “India, Liebling!” he said, entwining his fingers in hers.

  Ursula snatched her hand back. “I’m Ursula!” How could he possibly mistake me for India? she wondered.

  Otto rubbed his eyes and peered at her closely.

  “Now I see. You are not India. You are Ursula. I am not wearing my glasses tonight. I never do for parties. Can’t see a thing. Sincere apologies,” he said, bowing almost to the floor as he did so.

  “Shuffling Pants, you are such a ponce,” Horatio admonished him. Ursula rather agreed. Otto’s good manners, she was starting to think, were extreme even for a minor Austrian princeling.

  “Shut up, Horatio,” retorted Otto. “A prince always bows when he apologizes.”

  “Otto, all this princeling twaddle is nonsense. No one cares that you rule over a pathetic pine forest on a craggy mountain somewhere in Carinthia—”

  “Oh, but I do,” Nancy butted in, having just returned, breathless, from her dance. “American girls just adore a prince, even one who lives someplace no one’s ever heard of and no one’s ever going to go.” She gave Otto a reassuring squeeze.

  “Ooooh! I’ve spotted a gossip item,” said Horatio. He moved off towards a couple snogging violently on a window seat, half draped in curtains. “See you all later.”

  “Thank you for sticking up for me, Nancy. You’re a sweet girl,” said Otto, bowing yet again.

  “Oh my God, Otto,” blurted Nancy. “You are so crazy posh.”

  “Not as posh as he is, sadly.” He sighed, glancing wistfully at an extraordinarily beautiful boy standing by the fireplace.

  “Who is he?” asked Nancy, gazing at the gorgeous boy, who was immaculately turned out in a spanking-new tailcoat with black satin lapels. His feet were clad in black velvet evening slippers adorned with large black satin bows, while his white tie showed off his tanned face, brown eyes, and dark, slicked-back hair to perfection. Lapis-and-diamond cuff links and studs adorned his dress shirt. If Wenty was a cucumber sandwich, Ursula thought, then this specimen—well, he was absolutely a Bendicks Bittermint,* Ursula’s favorite chocolate.

  The Bendicks Bittermint was talking to a boy who was his exact opposite—a portly, ruddy-faced young man dressed in grubby-looking tartan trousers and a threadbare claret-colored velvet smoking jacket. He reminded Ursula of a worn-out teddy bear.

  “The next Duke of Dudley,” said Otto.

  Nancy’s eyes lit up.

  “Is that as good as an earl?” she asked.

  “Better,” replied Otto. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

  “No, I think I have a better strategy,” said Nancy, a determined look on her face.

  “By the way, don’t mention the duke thing,” warned Otto. “He’s very embarrassed about it.”

  “Watch me not mention it,” she said, dashing off towards the fireplace.

  It only took a few seconds for Nancy to faux trip and accidentally-on-purpose throw her third glass of champagne all over the next Duke of Dudley and his shabbily dressed friend. Shocked expressions turned to laughter as Nancy seductively patted the boys down with a napkin. Ursula looked on as Nancy flirted and joked with the Next Duke as though they were old friends already.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Otto, observing the scene. It seemed he was about to say something, but then abruptly stopped himself. A sly smile spread across his face.

  “What?” said Ursula. “What is it?”

  But Otto didn’t answer. He had already moved onto his next social opportunity, and was waving at a stunning-looking girl who was chatting nonchalantly with Christian. Her beautiful, narrow face was cloaked by two curtains of long dark glossy hair, which came almost to her waist. She was wearing a starched man’s white dress shirt that barely reached to midthigh, black tights, stilettos, and not much else. An undone white bow tie hung around her neck.

  “I like her take on the dress code,” said Ursula.

  “Isobel Floyd. She’s a scene maker, always at the center of everything. Her father’s the home secretary. She was brought up in Belgravia. Everyone says she was the cleverest girl at St. Paul’s. She’s dating Dom Littleton. He’s the top stage director among the students,” explained Otto, heading in Isobel’s direction. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Sure,” said Ursula. She followed Otto, feeling somewhat intimidated after the write-up Otto had given this girl.

  “I see you’ve taken the dress code literally,” Otto told Isobel as he went up to her. He kissed her on both cheeks. “Very groovy.”

  “It’s fun, no?
” drawled Isobel. “I can’t face ball gowns this early in the term. I’ve been barefoot in Koh Samui all summer.” She then drew back her curtain of hair and peered at Ursula, who had hung back shyly behind Otto. “And you are?”

  “Forgive me,” said Otto apologetically. “Introductions. Ursula Flowerbutton, this is Isobel Floyd. The coolest girl in Oxford.”

  “You’re so embarrassing, Otto,” groaned Isobel. She then smiled smugly, as though to indicate that yes, she probably was.

  “Where’s Dom? Isn’t he coming?” asked Otto.

  Isobel rolled her eyes, peeved. “He said he’d meet me here ages ago. But he’s late as usual. God knows where he is—”

  She stopped talking, her gaze now fixed on the doorway, as the very late, rather dramatic arrival of India Brattenbury captured the attention of the entire room. Her look exuded glitzy modernity. Her long white silk-satin dress, beaded from head to toe with tiny seed pearls, was cut close to her body and puddled into a pool of glistening fabric that kissed the floor. In sharp contrast, her hair had been teased into a messed-up, punky bob, and she had an extraordinary pearl tiara with a diamond star at its center perched on her head. It was probably a priceless family heirloom, Ursula guessed.

  India was accompanied by a ponytailed boy wearing torn jeans, a Rolling Stones tee under a tailcoat, and pale blue John Lennon–style sunglasses. He zigzagged through the throng, arm in arm with her. Meanwhile, Horatio returned to join Ursula and Otto, kissing Isobel hello.

  “My best friend,” huffed Isobel, staring unhappily at India and her ponytailed companion, “and my boyfriend.”

  “What could they be doing together, I wonder?” said Horatio.

  “Stop stirring, you prat,” spat back Isobel. “Dom’s directing India in the play this term. They were probably . . . I don’t know . . . rehearsing.”

  “Well, she looks rrrrr-adiant!” trilled Horatio. Ursula could see that he was enjoying winding up Isobel about India arriving with her boyfriend. “Never have I seen a girl in pearls looking quite so groovilicious.”

  “God, I can’t believe she’s got that Chanel purse,” said Isobel, enviously eyeing a miniature white satin quilted handbag hanging by a chunky gold chain from India’s shoulder.