Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  “Now now, Isobel, try and be nice,” tutted Horatio.

  “Liebling, over here,” interrupted Otto, waving enthusiastically at India.

  “Hi, darlings” and air kisses were exchanged as India and Dom joined the group.

  “Baby,” said Isobel to Dom before grabbing him by both shoulders and snogging him ravenously. No one except Ursula seemed to be the least bit embarrassed by the sight of Isobel’s tongue darting its way in and out of Dom’s mouth.

  “Don’t wait, Dom, tell Isobel now,” said India, interrupting the PDA with a tap on Dom’s shoulder. “Good friends need to be . . . honest.”

  “About what?” said Isobel, drawing away from her boyfriend.

  Horatio nudged Ursula and chuckled, “Oh goodie. I do find a scream-up among the drama hacks terribly amusing.”

  Meanwhile, Isobel was looking at India suspiciously.

  “Shouldn’t we tell Henry Forsyth first?” said Dom to India. “I mean it was his role—”

  He stopped, seeing that a goth-looking boy with straggly, shoulder-length black hair and a month’s worth of beard growth had strolled up. In his tailcoat he looked like a teenage Dracula. Despite being only about five feet four inches tall, he had presence.

  “The Rodent arriveth,” whispered Horatio mischievously to Ursula. “Let the spat commence.”

  “The Rodent?” repeated Ursula.

  “My pet name for Henry Forsyth. Fitting, isn’t it?”

  “No!” But Ursula couldn’t help giggling.

  On tiptoes, Henry Forsyth craned his neck to peck Isobel on both cheeks.

  “Henry, something’s going on,” she hissed at the bearded boy. She couldn’t hide the agitation in her voice. “Something about your role.”

  He stood back, regarded Isobel’s distressed face, and said, somewhat melodramatically, “Isobel’s angry; and the heavens themselves / Do strike at my injustice.”

  Otto looked quizzically at Henry.

  “The Winter’s Tale. I’ve been speaking in semi-intermittent iambic pentameter since the summer,” he explained. “The Method. Preparation for taking on the Prince of Denmark.”

  “Pretentious twat,” whispered Horatio to Ursula. She stifled a laugh.

  “Please, Dom. Tell him.” India nudged Dom so hard he almost fell onto Henry.

  “Dom?” was all Henry said.

  “Er, well, yeah, Henry, mate,” replied Dom nervously. “Look, mate, I want to be mega-radical with the Michaelmas production of Hamlet. I mean, yeah, any old public school toff can play Hamlet, mate. But Ophelia is a much bigger challenge for an Old Etonian like you. It will be so modern. India’s completely right about that.”

  “India! What the—?” Henry gagged. “Am I to conclude that she is directing the director? Ugh. How pathetic.”

  “Haven’t you heard about gender-blind casting? It’s so moderne,” India interjected. She smiled charmingly at Henry. “I mean, you as Hamlet—snoresville. You as Ophelia? Now that will make waves.”

  Henry Forsyth seethed. Gosh, he would have made a good Hamlet, Ursula thought. Finally, he announced, “I have not invited every agent in London—contacts I have been building up in the theater world since I played Julius Caesar in F Block* at school—to watch me nancy about in a dress in three weeks’ time. I am playing Hamlet, as we agreed last term.”

  “Henry darling, listen, I adore you. You’re a star, absolutely,” India cooed. “But we’ve got to be relevant, otherwise everyone will carry on thinking Oxford drama is a stuffy old boys club. The problem is, everyone’s seen Hamlet played by a man, it’s not exactly original. So that’s why, when Dom and I . . . analyzed the play . . . together a couple of days ago, Dom switched the casting and he . . . suggested that I play Hamlet now.”

  “You?!” Henry exploded.

  “It’s the in thing now at drama school to reverse the sexes in the classic roles,” she replied coolly.

  “Sounds idiotic.”

  By this point, some of the other guests at the party had realized India, Dom, and Henry were putting on a not-to-be-missed show, and a circle of spectators was forming around them.

  “It’s going to be thrilling for everyone,” India continued, “particularly you, Isobel.”

  “Really,” Isobel deadpanned, looking about as thrilled as Anne Boleyn heading for the executioner’s block.

  “Isobel, sweetheart, you are my bestest friend in the world. I honestly couldn’t wish for a better understudy, and you will definitely get to play Hamlet as I’m obviously going to be ‘ill’ on the Saturday night of 3rd Week. It’s my shooting party at Brattenbury Tower that weekend. So you get to be Hamlet.”

  “Shooting weekend? What shooting weekend?” muttered Otto crossly to Ursula and Horatio. “She hasn’t invited me. Outrageous. After she came to our wild boar shoot at the Schloss and drank all our peach schnapps and didn’t leave any tips for the staff.”

  “Are you surprised?” Horatio asked Otto, eyebrows raised. “Rich girls are always by far the cheapest.”

  Meanwhile, Ursula couldn’t help but notice a radical change in Isobel’s expression. A smug smile was suddenly dancing around her lips; she now resembled Marie Antoinette when confronted with a huge slice of cake.

  “. . . well. Oh,” Isobel was saying, “I mean, I agree, we have to modernize. Oxford can’t carry on putting on The Importance of Being Earnest every two minutes. It’s so bourgeois.”

  “Mate,” Dom said to his girlfriend, “I’m so glad you’re on board. Come on, Henry, how about it? How about Ophelia?”

  Henry stared him down, unmoved. Finally he hissed, “You’ve forgotten one tiny little detail, Dom. India is a bit of posh totty who couldn’t act her way out of a local village hall.”

  There were a few gasps from the group that had assembled and then a deathly silence fell, with all eyes on India. She smiled at Henry, rather seductively, and then, as if by magic, her face transformed. The bloom drained from her cheeks and her skin took on a ghastly pallor. Slowly, she raised one arm and pointed behind Henry’s head, as though terrified of something. She took a deep breath and began, in a whisper:

  Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

  Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned,

  Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell . . .

  She was pointing, Ursula and the rest of the room now realized, at the gloomy portrait of Thomas Paget hanging over the fireplace. Her voice trembled, as though the ghost of Hamlet’s father was standing before her—

  Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

  Thou comest in such a questionable shape

  That I will speak to thee . . .

  “I think this one can act her way out of a village hall and all the way to Broadway,” murmured Nancy, who had sidled up to Otto, Ursula, and Horatio during India’s speech, still flushed after her run-in with Next Duke.

  “She is Hamlet,” said Ursula, amazed.

  At this point, India fell to her knees beneath the painting, and an utterly convincing tear rolled down her cheek as she finally ended Hamlet’s soliloquy.

  There was an astonished silence; then Wenty, rushing over, cried out “Bravo! Bravo!” and the room erupted into applause. India got up and smiled seductively at Wenty, who kissed her enthusiastically on the lips. Meanwhile, with a look of cold envy in his eyes, Henry Forsyth looked hard at India and said, “You deserve Macbeth.”

  India looked shocked. Henry stormed across to the other side of the room, the champagne in his glass splish-sploshing angrily from side to side. In a far corner, a little group soon huddled round him to commiserate.

  “Spoilsport,” concluded Lady India, regaining her composure. “He’s easily pretty enough to play Ophelia.”

  * * *

  Later that night, as Ursula, Horatio, and Nancy hung out on the huge sofa beside the fireplace, the talk was of India.

  “Quel performance,” said Horatio drolly. “Much better than the deathly drawing room drivel Oxford Universi
ty Dramatic Society usually bores everyone to tears with.”

  “She’s really a brilliant actress,” Nancy said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t got an agent already.”

  “Oh, but she has, darling, she has,” replied Horatio. “The same one as Rupert Everett, apparently.”

  He got up to go.

  “Well, toodle-pips, all,” he said. “It’s been fun. But I’ve got about six more drinks parties to get to tonight.”

  “Bye!” said Nancy.

  “See you at the Cherwell meeting,” added Ursula.

  As soon as Horatio had departed, Wenty took his place in an armchair opposite the girls and India perched on his lap, draping her arms languorously around his neck. Occasionally she stroked his cheek, her immaculately lacquered nails, painted as dark as oxblood, lingering around his lips. Ursula squirmed with embarrassment when Wenty started kissing India’s fingers.

  She was starting to feel her head swim. The drama of the party had exhausted her, and her nine a.m. tutorial, followed by the all-important Cherwell meeting, for which, it was dawning on her, she did not have one single idea for an interesting article, or even an idea for an uninteresting one, loomed at the back of her mind. Meanwhile, Isobel, Wenty, India, Nancy, and everyone else were carrying on drinking as though they would be lying in until noon tomorrow.

  “Enjoying your first Oxford party?” India asked Nancy.

  “It’s awesome,” she replied. “Actually, I’ve even fallen in lust already.”

  “What?” cried India. “Who with?”

  “The next Duke of Dudley.”

  India winced. “Really?” she said, looking amazed. “You do know the Dudley country place doesn’t have central heating yet?”

  Nancy’s face lit up. “He has a country house? With no central heating? How . . . eccentric! How romantic!” she said. “On top of that, he’s the hottest boy I’ve ever laid eyes on. Makes Rob Lowe look homely.”

  “You must be love-struck,” laughed Wenty.

  Ursula’s room beckoned. She stood up, put down her glass, and turned to go.

  “Sneaking out?” said Wenty. He jumped up off the sofa and grabbed her by the wrist. “Don’t leave just yet, Unforgettable.”

  Before she could say a word, India, fuming, had torn his hand from Ursula’s wrist. “Wenty. That’s. It.”

  With that, India released his hand, grabbed a glass of champagne, and dashed towards the door of the Old Drawing Room. Clutching a fresh bottle, Wenty followed in hot pursuit, calling out, “My darling! Don’t go! Champagne?”

  “My star,” yelled Dom chasing after them. “Wait!”

  “My boyfriend,” shrieked Isobel, scooting after Dom.

  “My part!” raged Henry Forsyth, stamping furiously after everyone.

  “Should we go after them too?” asked Nancy, wobbling dizzily as she got up from the sofa. She was very, very drunk.

  “I think the party’s over,” said Ursula. “Let’s go to our staircase.”

  “What about stopping by Claire Potter’s Crosswords and Ice Cream Society meeting?” giggled Nancy.

  Oh no, thought Ursula guiltily. They’d forgotten about poor Claire’s club. “I think it’ll be finished by now,” she said, looking at her watch. It was a few minutes before midnight. “Let’s go.”

  But Nancy had collapsed back on the sofa. Ursula tried to pull her up by her arm, but Nancy just giggled and asked for more champagne.

  “Need a hand?” Eg had appeared out of nowhere.

  “I think so!” said Ursula gratefully.

  With his help, Ursula guided Nancy through the party, grabbing her duvet coat en route. As they reached the door, Ursula noticed a boy lying across the threshold. He appeared to have fallen asleep, his head propped up against the doorframe, but as Ursula and Nancy tried to step over him, he jerked awake and grabbed at Ursula’s ankle.

  “Hey, gorgeousness, sleep with me,” he slurred.

  “What? Ugh! No!” yelped Ursula, yanking her leg away from him.

  “How about you, beautiful? Sleep with me?” the boy said to Nancy.

  “That sounds so romantic in your British accent,” said Nancy woozily, stopping with one leg on either side of him.

  “Just ignore Duncan,” said Eg. “He propositions everyone when he’s drunk. Even me.”

  But Nancy was oblivious. She slumped down on top of the boy and started French-kissing him. Ursula turned to Eg, shocked.

  “I think we’re in for a long wait,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. Ursula couldn’t help grinning back at him, despite her friend’s predicament.

  “Nancy. Nancy!” she said. “What about the next Duke of Dudley?”

  Nancy managed to break off her snog for long enough to utter, “Who?”

  Chapter 7

  Monday, 18 October, 1st Week: Morning

  The possibility of being labeled a lemon by Dr. Dave was, Ursula concluded, as she hovered uncertainly on the icy landing outside his rooms exactly ten minutes before the scheduled start of her tutorial, far more sinister than that of seeing her tutor in his pajamas. If he did not answer the door at nine, she was determined, as per his instructions, to go straight inside, regardless of any pajama-related embarrassment that might ensue.

  The minutes ticked by painfully slowly. Ursula let out a yawn so long and rumbling that, had anyone heard it, they might have mistaken it for a wolf’s howl. The truth was, she was shattered after Wenty’s party last night. Despite her vow to be in bed by midnight, she had only been able to prize Nancy from Duncan’s drunken clutches at around one a.m. Thank goodness Eg had hung around, chatting with her and keeping her entertained. By the time Ursula finally fell asleep—a state further delayed, she surmised, by the combination of the bone-chilling cold in her turret and the boardlike sensation of her mattress—it was almost two in the morning.

  God, it was cold on Dr. Dave’s landing. Even in one of her warm kilts, a duffel coat, and her new college scarf, Ursula felt goose bumps appearing under her clothes. She checked her watch. Still only eight minutes to nine! She decided she would occupy herself by opening the surprisingly large number of envelopes she had found in her pigeonhole that morning. The first missive, a grand invitation printed on a stiff cream card, was unexpected. It was as smart as the kind of thing a countess would send out for her debutante daughter’s coming-out ball, and read:

  The Perquisitors

  request the pleasure of your company for

  Bucks Fizz

  Monday, 1st week

  at the Monks’ Undercroft, Magdalen College

  R.S.V.P. The Hon. Rupert Bingham, 8 p.m.

  Magdalen  Smart

  Who were the Perquisitors? wondered Ursula. She didn’t know anyone called the Honorable Rupert Bingham. She must have received the invitation by mistake. But then she noticed that her name was written in dark blue ink on the top right-hand corner of the invitation. It was meant for her. Ursula wasn’t sure whether to feel excited or creeped out. Were the Perquisitors one of Oxford’s notorious secret societies? And how did the Perquisitors know her? It didn’t matter, she thought. She couldn’t possibly go anyway. It would be most odd to go to a party you’d been invited to by someone you’d never met. She’d had her ball-gown-wearing moment at Wenty’s party. It had been wonderful, but tonight would be books and Ovaltine.

  A feeling of increasing confusion enveloped Ursula as she opened the other envelopes. It seemed that she’d been invited to a different party—by boys she didn’t know—almost every night that week. And not just any old party—they were strictly black-tie affairs. Wednesday night had been reserved for a party being thrown by a society called the Gridiron Club.* Meanwhile, four boys named Kit, Angus, Jamie, and Tony had invited Ursula to join them on the Friday for cocktails at a place called Vincent’s. Who on earth were Kit, Angus, Jamie, and Tony? And what was Vincent’s?

  Just then, Ursula heard footsteps coming from the floor above her and looked round to see Horatio wandering down the stairs, a vi
sion in mauves. He was dressed in a lavender-colored velvet jacket, which was thrown over a violet gingham shirt and purple Prince of Wales–check tweed trousers.

  “Morning, Horatio,” Ursula called out.

  “Ciao, petal,” he replied, coming up to her and kissing her once on each cheek. He tugged at her scarf. “A tip. College scarves are terribly passé. Burn it at once. They’re for Japanese tourists.”

  “Really?” said Ursula, contemplating the tragedy of burning such an item. Even if it was horribly gauche, she thought to herself, it was far too expensive to discard. And it was the coziest thing in the world.

  Horatio suddenly noticed the invitations in Ursula’s hand. “Good haul!” he congratulated her. “Looks like you’ll be in a ball gown every night this week.”

  “Horatio, I can’t go to all these parties. I’ll have far too much studying to do after my tutorial. In any case, I don’t know any of these people, and I’ve no idea how they know me.”

  “Let me explain. Remember the Freshers’ photograph you did on Friday on Great Lawn?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Ursula.

  “On the Friday night of every 0th Week, as soon as the Freshers’ photographs have been developed, Dave Brooks’s darkroom on Market Street is crammed with Hooray Henrys* going through each college photo looking for pretty Freshers. They circle the best-looking ones, get the girls’ names off the photo, and send them invitations to their societies and parties.”

  “A beauty contest?” said Ursula, affronted.

  “In polite British society, it’s known as a cattle market!” hooted Horatio, bellowing with laughter.

  “But what about the girls who aren’t picked? They must feel so left out,” she said.

  “It’s very depressing for the plain Janes,” he agreed, exhaling a long sigh. “The selection process is so sexist it’s probably illegal. But no one cares about all that crap. The parties are great fun. You must go to the Perquisitors’ tonight.”

  Ursula couldn’t help but feel her interest piqued. Despite the Hooray Henrys’ truly wicked selection methods, she was secretly flattered to have been “picked” by them—it was nice to be considered one of the pretty girls. Still, she told herself, she wouldn’t go to the parties. How could you call yourself a modern girl if you didn’t stand up to chauvinists? Ursula was going to stand up for feminism. She’d stand up for the plain Janes. Perhaps she could write an article about that for Cherwell—the inalienable right of the plain Jane to attend any Hooray Henry party she wished.