Chapter One

The College Chapel clock was chiming a quarter to ten as Big Jo finished applying her lipgloss and began arranging table and chairs for the term’s second meeting of The Virgins. This session had to go well. No one had been reelected President for longer than two terms, and she had set her heart on being there for three. She had, after all, the perfect room for these occasions, the biggest in the whole college, daddy’s monthly allowance permitted her to provide bubbly of the highest quality, and her tally of men was impressive even by Virgin standards. Tonight looked like a dream: two admissions, one of them indebted to her for the rise to College fame, a well-prepared late session with the Monks, and she had managed to acquire a rather special gown for the evening. Yes, a real dream.

On the other side of the quad the Dean was staring in dismay at the coat-hanger on which his legendary ancient gown usually hung. ‘How can I possibly break up the session without being properly attired?’ he demanded of the Bursar. The latter, who was focussing his field glasses on Big Jo’s window, ignored him.

The Dean was already feeling semi-undressed.

‘It must have been that Smithson,’ he whined, ‘he’s the last man I had in here. Wretch. He’ll pay for it.’

‘Calm down,’ replied the Bursar, ‘just have a look at this. That girl is exceptionally well endowed. That’s what we used to call a perky pair in the City, you know.’

The Dean grabbed his own glasses. ‘Perky pair, eh? Hmmmm…’ He sometimes doubted the Bursar’s tales of life in the City, and regularly speculated on why such an apparently brilliant financial wizard had decided to leave it. But on this occasion he had to agree. ‘Yes. That does sum her up very nicely. Now, how much longer before they start?’

‘Ten minutes. I can see one of them in the quad now. Brazen hussy. Look at the length of that skirt! That’s what we used to call…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Dean, refocussing his glasses. ‘Let’s just call her a brazen hussy. Good god! Never mind, we’ll get them when they’re sozzled. The amount of alcohol consumed in this College is a disgrace.’

‘Hmm,’ purred the Bursar. ‘But the Bar accounts are in profit for a change, so the Fellows’ port is still secure. I’ve managed to channel a little bit more towards free preprandial sherry, by the way.’

‘You’re the best Bursar we’ve had for years,’ acknowledged the Dean. The Bursar smiled as he took another large swig of the claret. He dragged his hand across his mouth to get rid of the drips and let out a modest belch.

Big Jo scattered a few more of the shimmering stars for which she was famous over her bare shoulders and between her perky pair, and then began lighting the candles.

‘Damn,’ said the Dean. ‘She’s probably going to switch off the light. Wretch. That’ll spoil my photos.’

But Jo was preparing for the best meeting of The Virgins in their five-year history, and by the time her twelfth candle was lit, the view from opposite was teasingly bright. There were two elections tonight, to replace two final years who had decided it was time to ‘go steady’. Huh! They’d be stuck with a mortgage and two kids before long. Jo had quite a way to go before that! As she smugly lit the thirteenth candle, there was a knock on the door and Blondilocks, Vice-President, swirled in, tossing her trade-mark hair provocatively and scattering her heavy scent. No style, thought Jo to herself contentedly. Blondi was fine as V-P, but would never make the top job.

‘Got the agendas?’ asked Jo.

‘Sure,’ drawled Blondi. ‘Shall I open the first bottle?’

‘No,’ countered Jo. ‘We’ll pull out three corks together and let the college know who really knows how to do it.’

Blondilocks smiled approvingly and enviously, making a mental note for when she took over. She had a bit of bombshell tonight, after all, no need to spoil the party yet. But she’d just had to finish off writing an essay, and she was rather thirsty. And she could never resist the sort of champagne that Big Jo provided…

The Chapel clockwork whirred into action again and before the tenth hour had struck, all eight Virgins were in the room. Apart from Jo, all in their undergraduate gowns, and most in very little besides… This was a society that knew how to run itself! Jo suppressed her delight. Her third term was looking even firmer. ‘Let’s have these corks all out in the same second,’ she ordered, motioning Blondi, Susie and Rocky towards the bottles. She herself took a step towards the window, thought better of it, and instead commanded Emma to open it wide. ‘Ready?’ she asked the openers. ‘I want to wake up those repulsive swots in the library. That place is getting to be the second busiest place in Oxford on a Saturday night – alongside Jesus bar.’ Her prepared wit drew appreciative titters, which turned into a cooing of satisfaction as all three corks somehow got their timing right and two of them managed to fly out of the window into the night.

‘Rich little brats!’ gasped the Bursar as he reached for the decanter of Tuesday night’s Fellows’ leftovers. ‘Just let them put another half a foot wrong and we’ll get them. They deliberately pointed those at the Library, you know.’

‘Steady, Bursar,’ soothed the Dean. ‘Plenty time yet. They’re just starting, you know, and God knows how much that little Miss Tanner has put away already. She’s bound to throw up somewhere useful in due course. And just wait for the Monks to arrive.’ He cackled in anticipation.

The first glass had been downed and the second was being filled as Big Jo warned of an important agenda and that this was the only College society which knew how to operate important business. Moving over to her wardrobe she pulled out an ancient, green-coloured gown and took her place at the head of the table. ‘You will doubtless recognise this one,’ she observed. ‘Anyone raise that?’

Gasps of appreciation were followed by silence. They did not quite hear the bellow of rage from the other side of the quad.

‘Well,’ cooed Jo, ‘agenda!’

Minutes of the last meeting were approved, brief reports made of recent conquests, the traditional item of clothing displayed as evidence, congratulations were expressed all round.

‘Excellent progress, fellow Virgins,’ commented Jo. ‘Please record in the Minutes my personal sense of satisfaction at the highest of standards being maintained in this, the most distinguished of all College societies. I say this because the next item on our agenda concerns the election of two members to replace those who are already on their way to screaming brats and a mortgage.’ Smirking all round.

‘Their names are before us and we must proceed to interview. First, though, does anyone feel these candidates do not possess the necessary qualities to join us?’

Uneasy silence. Some shuffling on seats.

‘Very well,’ said Jo in her most business-like tone. ‘Call the first!’

Sarah went to the door and beckoned to Nellie Hughes. Swaggering in on her exceptionally high heels, Nellie made an impressive sight. Everything was tight and glittering.

‘Ye Gods,’ barked the Dean, ‘it’s that first year historian whose father’s an MP. Blast! But what an outfit.’ He adjusted his binoculars.

‘Sit down,’ said the Bursar. ‘Plenty lolly there. She’ll pay the fine double quick to avoid any scandal. This could be a good evening.’

‘Please sit down, Miss Hughes,’ said Big Jo, motioning Nellie to the end of the table, where a bottle of Bollinger was waiting beside two glasses. ‘Would you like to join us in a modest drink?’

Nellie had been well primed. ‘Thank you,’ she said gracefully, and began unwinding the wire on the cork. ‘Where would you like it shot?’

‘Library, of course,’ snapped Jo, worried that Nellie was playing it a bit too coolly and it would all appear a prepared show.

‘Of course,’ said Nellie. ‘Apologies.’

That was better. Jo smiled. The cork gave an excellent bang and whistled in the appropriate direction. So far, so excellent.

‘Now then,’ said Jo. ‘You have been nominated for election to the most prestigious society in St Badley’s. What makes you think you deserve such an honour in your very first term here?’

‘Well,’ said Nellie, ‘I’d like to feel I’ve made a good start. Two on my first night in College, Captain of Boats from St John’s, Captain of the Second XV here, and then a member of The Parsons from Pembroke. Pinched the Chaplain’s gown for formal hall last week. Oh, and I got fined by the Bursar for drunk and indecent after the freshers’ dinner.’

‘Good start indeed,’ conceded Jo. ‘Any questions from other members? You are, after all, only in your fourth week, so you must not be disappointed if you need to prove consistency'.’

‘Of course,’ smiled the well-primed Miss Hughes. ‘I should be honoured to join at any point.’

There being no questions, Nellie left for the others to come to a decision. There was some dissent from Sly Susie, a voracious modern linguist whose appetites could, she claimed, only be satisfied abroad, but there was no doubt that Nellie was showing immense promise and probably needed to be encouraged. She was called back in and given the good news.

‘I am deeply honoured to join you,’ she proudly proclaimed. ‘And I promise to bring nothing but glory to The Virgins.’

‘I am delighted to welcome you,’ said Jo. ‘You know the rules: they are quite simple and undemanding. An average of one man a week in term, never lose an opportunity to flirt with any Senior Member, and, above all, never associate with anyone from that appalling College next door to our own.

‘Now, as Junior Member, would you be so kind as to call in the next applicant?’

Nellie went to the door and, with a sense of disdain, curled her finger at Catherine Hayter.

There was no doubt that Catherine had tried hard. She’d bought the first mini-skirt of her life, she looked dreadfully uncomfortable in a bra which didn’t do as much for her cleavage as it had undoubtedly claimed, and she was having grave difficulty with her stilettos. How she had managed her qualifying exploit was quite beyond the grasp of all who knew her.

‘Now then, Miss Hayter,’ said Jo in her most encouraging voice. ‘What makes you think you are worthy of joining our illustrious group?’

It had taken some time for Bursar and Dean to recognise the new face. Now that they had, they were taken aback. The Dean suddenly drew himself up in his chair. ‘Bursar,’ he declared, voice almost trembling. ‘You know what this probably means, don’t you?’

‘Er… remind me.’

‘We both know the rules for joining this appalling society, but there is one magic route which means that however few you’ve had, you still get in.’

‘Er… enlighten me.’

‘Experience with a Fellow!’ exploded the Dean. ‘Disgraceful! Disgusting! Who on earth can it have been? Because I have no doubt that wretch of a classicist – whom I myself have taught for Ancient History – can’t have any other claim for membership!’

Catherine was having difficulty in her chair. She hadn’t dared to pour herself a glass of champagne and she was wondering whether her three-year wait had been worth it.

‘Well,’ she began, and then remembered she had been trained never to start a sentence with that word, so she launched immediately into her prepared speech.

‘I must confess my experience is probably a bit more restricted than that of other members of the society.’

Smiles all round.

‘As you know, I am in my fourth year now, and I’ve had to put most of my efforts into work in order to get on the Masters course. But now that I’ve made it, I’m about to change, and I have… been… er… I’ve slept with a Fellow five times since the beginning of term.’

Sly Susie felt so sorry for Catherine she pushed another bottle in her direction. Catherine took the hint but poured badly; too much found its way onto the cloth and the floor; she then sneezed loudly as the bubbles got up her nose.

‘Any questions?’ demanded Jo of the others.