Midnight Girls

by Lulu Taylor

  She never had an orgasm when she was conscious, but sometimes, in her sleep, she would be back in that apartment in Paris, with the awful man pushing his tongue into her and endlessly licking and licking until she would shudder, and wake up, feeling she had climaxed. When that happened, she sickened herself. It seemed that any pleasure she got from sex was bound up with the man she hated, and no matter how many others she slept with, they couldn’t wipe his imprint from her.

  So she’d found a kind of release from that shame by giving herself whatever she wanted, and seeking a numbness in sex and substances that would help her forget.

  I want to party, she told herself. What’s wrong with that? I’m young, I’m free and I can do whatever I want. And look at Xander, he’s having a fabulous time.

  Her brother always seemed to be having a ball. Every day, from the moment he woke up in the afternoon, he began again. He was at the heart of a circle of privileged young men who lived for the pleasures of the flesh and threw their plentiful money around. They treated five-star restaurants like cafés; they began to drink the finest vintages – often from their families’ estates and vineyards – as soon as they got up. They were surrounded by fawners and hangers-on, keen to share in the spoils of wealth, and these people supplied their every want, whether it was drugs or willing girls or boys for sex. Debauchery was funny as far as they were concerned, and the pursuit of pleasure gave meaning to their lives. After all, these golden university days would be over before too long and then they’d have to clean themselves up, find something to do with themselves, and become responsible adults … wouldn’t they? But all that was safely in the future. Until then, they were young, good-looking, rich and eager for a good time.

  Xander didn’t always want Allegra around him, though. Sometimes, when things at the house in St Margaret’s Road were getting out of hand, he would tell her to go back to college. Usually so laidback and relaxed, he could get quite agitated if he thought she was witnessing something he didn’t want her to see.

  ‘Come on, Xander, I’m not a baby,’ she complained, when he hustled her out of the house the night some of the boys ordered in two prostitutes and got them to start putting on a show. ‘Other girls are staying, why can’t I?’

  ‘You’re my baby sister, that’s why. Now, I’ve ordered you a taxi – look, it’s waiting outside. Go home and go to bed, OK?’

  It frustrated Allegra, though she obeyed him. Why was it all right for him and not for her? He’d been cross when she’d emerged one morning from the bedroom of Dominic, one his housemates, and he’d bawled her out when he’d found her sniffing up a line of cocaine from a wrap Dominic had given her.

  ‘Why can’t I?’ she’d yelled back. ‘You take it by the bloody barrelful! You’ve put half of Columbia’s crop up your nose, and so have James and Dominic and everyone here. Temple’s out of her head half the time. What’s so wrong with me having a line?’

  Xander had snatched the wrap out of her hands and thrown it in the waste disposal, then said quietly, ‘I don’t know. It just is. I want you to be careful, OK? That’s all. I don’t want you to turn out a waster like me. You’re only nineteen.’

  ‘You’re only twenty!’ she flashed back.

  Xander had sighed. ‘I feel like I’m fucking forty-five. I need a break from all this.’ And she’d noticed then how grey and unhappy he looked. But the same night, he and the gang went out to a pub in the countryside and trashed it almost beyond repair. Only some smooth talking and an enormous cheque for the landlord had got them out of serious trouble.

  Xander couldn’t seem to stop his party lifestyle. He spent the vacations at the homes of his rich friends and the terms were melting away in a series of parties and serious hangovers.

  One day she had met him by chance in the Broad, and they’d bought a bottle of champagne even though it was only eleven o’clock and gone to the Parks to drink it. Xander had lain on his back with his eyes closed and told her how tired he was and how hopeless it all seemed. ‘But you look happy from the outside,’ Allegra said, picking a blade of grass and slowly slicing it to ribbons with her fingernails.

  ‘Do I?’ He looked at her through one bloodshot eye. ‘That’s funny. So do you.’

  She thought about this. ‘I am … I mean, when I’m drunk and the music’s playing and I feel young and excited and like anything’s possible … then I’m happy.’

  ‘You mean, when you’ve escaped from the bloodiness of daily life. When you’ve got enough chemicals to help you feel as though you’re happy.’

  ‘But why,’ she said tentatively, ‘is daily life so bloody for us? Why can’t we be happy?’

  Xander said nothing but, after a while, he sighed heavily.

  ‘Do you think it’s because of Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he replied. He looked at her, his eyes sad. ‘We’re just like him.’

  ‘What?’ Allegra was horrified. ‘How can you say that? He’s an awful, violent bully. We’re nothing like him.’

  ‘We might not beat people up or throw them downstairs, but we’ve got his strange personality, with its streak of black melancholy, running through us, haven’t we? And we spent our childhoods living in fear of him. You know, last holidays, I tried to reach out to him. I wanted to see if he really cared as little as he’s always seemed to. When I was leaving Foughton, I put my hand on his arm and said, “I love you, Dad. I mean it.” And he stared me in the eye with the cold look of his and said, “Then you’re a bloody fool.”’

  ‘That’s awful.’ Allegra felt shaky and tearful as she imagined it. She could hear her father’s voice spitting out the words. ‘It’s an act. It must be. He can’t mean it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Look at his track record – three marriages, five kids, feuds with all his relatives. If he was any good at love, we’d know by now. No, he’s fucked, and he’s fucked us up too.’

  ‘Has he? How?’

  Xander shrugged. ‘We’re addicted to unhealthy relationships. I know Temple’s no good for me but I can’t break free from her. I always love what’s bad for me, in just about every sphere.’ He grinned at Allegra, lightening the mood. ‘And you’re working your way through the entire male student body by the looks of it.’

  ‘Mmm. Well … not all of them.’ Allegra grinned as well, running her fingertips through the cool grass. ‘These damn’ vacations keep getting in the way. Everyone goes home.’

  He rolled over and looked at her. ‘You are being careful, aren’t you? I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘Of course I am. If anyone’s doing the hurting, it’s me. I’m very cruel,’ she said lightly, thinking, It’s too late for that. It’s already happened.

  ‘So this is the English Faculty,’ Allegra said, looking about in mock surprise. ‘It was my ambition to avoid this place for the whole three years, but it looks like I’ll have to surrender to it.’

  Imogen smiled. ‘This is the café. You’ll need to work up to actually going into the library.’

  ‘One step at a time, Midge, one step at a time.’

  ‘Well … Mods are only three weeks away now.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a bloody crime to be inside. Look at that weather!’ Allegra nodded to the beautiful bright day outside. ‘Revision weather,’ she said gloomily. ‘You can bet that when we’ve finished those bloody exams, it’ll start raining. Now, how are you? How’s Sam?’

  ‘Fine. Yeah, he’s good.’

  Allegra ignored the No Smoking sign and lit up a cigarette. She held out the packet to Imogen. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Have you given up?’

  ‘Well, Sam doesn’t, so …’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t.’ Allegra puffed out some smoke and dropped the match on the table. ‘Listen, we haven’t been seeing much of each other lately.’

  ‘I see you just about every day,’ Imogen protested.

  ‘Socially, I mean. Yeah, we meet up here or in the Radcliffe Camera or wh
erever, but we’re not partying together like we used to.’ Allegra fixed her with a direct gaze. ‘So … why not?’

  Imogen looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I suppose it’s because of Sam. He’s not a party animal really …’

  ‘I noticed, love.’

  ‘And your friends are all so rich and glamorous. He doesn’t really get on with that scene.’

  ‘You used to love it, though. You loved hanging out with me, and going to Xander’s house, dropping into the Grid and all that …’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’ Imogen thought for a minute and then said, ‘How is Xander, by the way? I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  ‘Actually, he’s not that great.’ Allegra tapped some ash on to the floor and then frowned. ‘He’s broken up with that silly bitch Temple.’

  ‘Really?’ Imogen looked interested. ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, a couple of weeks ago. She dumped him.’

  Astonishment passed over Imogen’s face. ‘But why?’

  ‘For someone better … at least, in Temple’s book. She’s going out with some baronet’s son now, someone who’ll actually inherit something rather than see his older brother move into the family house.’ Allegra shook her head sadly. ‘Some people are like that. He’s far more cut up about it than I expected and he’s necking even more drugs than usual. Those friends of his … it’s terrible. They can all afford anything they like, and all they like is to get totally wasted. Last week, they went out to James Barclay’s farm – you know his dad bought him a kind of small estate? – and all got out of their minds on coke, acid and speed.’

  ‘Is Xander OK?’

  ‘Yeah. But I’m worried about him. He needs someone to calm him down, and he won’t listen to me. So I thought that – well, maybe you could have a word with him.’

  ‘Me?’ Imogen looked bewildered. ‘Why on earth would he listen to me?’

  ‘He’s not going to pay any attention to me but he always thinks of you as that sweet, innocent girl from his childhood. So maybe he’ll listen to you …’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Imogen frowned. ‘Even if I wanted to, how would I get to speak to him?’

  ‘There’s this big party coming up. The Piers Gaveston. Have you heard of it?’

  Imogen shook her head.

  ‘It’s organised by the society crowd and it can get somewhat debauched, so the venue is kept deadly secret until the last minute to prevent it being stopped by the authorities. The boys all go in drag and the girls go as wild as they like, and it gets kind of crazy. The thing is, you have to be invited so you know where to go. Xander is going to be there and I think he might let rip, get off his head and do something stupid. If we go, we might be able to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Or … I could just go round to his place, or meet him for a drink somewhere?’

  ‘No, he’d never fall for that. He’d know I’d put you up to it. You’ve got to make it happen naturally.’

  ‘OK. I don’t think it sounds like Sam’s sort of party, though …’

  ‘Really?’ Allegra tried to look innocent, but in fact her plan had been to separate Imogen from Sam anyway. She found it frustrating never to have Imogen to herself any more and couldn’t relax with Sam around – his disapproval of her was too obvious and made her uncomfortable. What was worse, he was making Midge boring. They spent all their time together like an old married couple and it was beyond tedious. ‘Oh, well … you’d better come without him, then. He won’t mind, will he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get you an invitation then.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘It’s Monday of Eighth Week.’

  Imogen’s expression changed and she looked horrified. ‘But that’s virtually the night before Mods begin! The first exam is on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘I know. It’s a bit of a pain, but you’ll have all of Tuesday to recover.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about going out to a party like that just before exams?’

  Allegra shook her head. ‘Nope. I’ll just do my revision the week before. Besides, they say last-minute revising is pointless anyway.’

  ‘Not in my experience.’

  ‘Come on, Midge! You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.’

  ‘But it’ll be an all nighter …’

  ‘Are you a man or a mouse? Did we come to Oxford to have fun or not?’ Allegra leaned forward and fixed her friend with a long stare. ‘Please, Midge. It’s really important to me – and to Xander. Will you do it?’

  She could see that Imogen was torn. On the one hand, her common sense was evidently telling her not to be so stupid as to go to a party like the Piers Gaveston just before her vital exams. But on the other – an event like that was not to be missed. It was tempting.

  ‘Please?’ wheedled Allegra, sensing weakness in her friend. ‘It’s not just a favour to me. It’s for Xander as well. I know you’ve got a soft spot for him …’

  Imogen flushed and said quickly, ‘No, I haven’t! Except as a friend!’

  ‘That’s what I mean. He’s like your big brother as well, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes … that’s right, he’s like a brother …’

  ‘Come on, Midge, you’ve already done tons of revision, you’ve really got nothing to worry about. Look at me, I’ve done virtually nothing.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should both stay at home.’

  Allegra sighed. ‘OK, I see. Honestly, Imogen, I’m beginning to wonder about you.’

  ‘What?’ asked Imogen, with a hurt expression. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know if our friendship means anything to you any more …’

  ‘Of course it does!’

  ‘If you really mean it, then you’ll come to the Piers Gaveston with me.’

  Imogen bit her lip, obviously wrestling with her conscience.

  ‘Well, there’s my answer,’ Allegra said caustically. ‘So much for our eternal friendship.’

  ‘All right then. All right, I’ll come. But only to keep you company and talk to Xander, if he’ll listen. I’m not going to drink anything or stay out late.’

  ‘Great!’ Allegra smiled broadly. ‘That’s settled then. Now all we need is to decide what we’re going to wear.’

  Chapter 21

  New York

  2003

  MUFFY HAD THE most adorable jewel box of an apartment on the Upper West side that was now full of pretty young American girls, fluttering about like bright butterflies in their silk tea dresses and satin high heels. Romily was guest of honour, Muffy’s glamorous European friend with the famous name and the vast fortune.

  Some of the girls she already knew from skiing trips in Gstaad, Megève and Verbier: she kissed Carolyn Makeheart who was married to a press baron’s son, and Annie Schaupman, whose father had made a fortune in Duty Free shops. The others were part of Muffy’s circle, and she’d invited them because she was sure they’d all be fascinated by Romily’s new venture.

  The minute she’d arrived in New York, she’d felt enlivened and interested in life again. Perhaps it was the bustling crowds, the traffic, the way the place was always open for business, always buzzing. Perhaps it was that American girls seemed to have so much energy, and so much to do. Romily knew for a fact that Muffy got up at seven a.m. every morning to begin her regime: first, a swim in the pool followed by an hour’s Pilates. Every other day she ran in Central Park and had an hour’s yoga. Then it was time for the serious stuff of life – her masseur or facialist or manicurist would arrive for treatments, and last of all her hairdresser came to her to tend her locks. Then, at last, it would be time for breakfast – an omelette and some supplements, along with herbal tea and a wheatgrass concoction. Then Muffy was ready to begin her day.

  While the dedication this required was impressive, it seemed like a lot of hard work to Romily, who preferred to feel a little more pampered. She was awakened at nine a.m. by her maid with a tray containing a tiny but delicious breakfast: a boiled egg and some warm
brioche with strawberry conserve was a favourite; or rye toast with Marmite, a substance she had learnt to love at Westfield but that seemed to revolt everyone but the British. Then, while she breakfasted, she read several papers: The Times, Le Monde and the New York Post, checked her emails, read her letters, did some correspondence, made telephone calls and flicked through her diary, trying to keep on top of her busy life. There were always more invitations to accept or decline, more travel arrangements to make, endless appointments and shopping trips to fulfil.

  She was lucky if she was out of bed by lunchtime, but felt as though she’d put in a morning at the office before she’d even got up. Then it was time for her constitutional: she preferred to get her exercise in a less prescribed way than Muffy, and liked to wander through the park or go skating rather than visit a gym or an exercise class. She was lucky – she never seemed to put on weight.

  Perhaps that’s because I avoid confections like these, she thought, regarding the pretty cake-stand piled high with cupcakes that Muffy had ordered in from a local bakery that was the social favourite of the moment. The cakes were smothered by huge pastel swirls of buttercream icing and topped with little jelly diamonds. Why do American and British girls eat between meals? It’s something I don’t understand at all. The other girls were eyeing them greedily and denouncing Muffy for bringing such temptation into their orbits, when carbs and sugar were strictly forbidden, but nibbling away at them all the same.

  When everyone was supplied with herbal tea or sparkling water, Muffy clapped her hands for quiet.

  ‘Now, girls, I’ve asked you all here because I want to tell you about Romily’s new idea. As you know, she’s the granddaughter of Vincent de Lisle and she’s inherited his artistic eye. As you can see by the gorgeous Chanel dress she has so cleverly teamed with those Prada sandals, Romily has impeccable style. And she’s decided to open a boutique, right here in New York, bringing us all an exclusive taste of her Parisian chic. Isn’t that wonderful?’