Page 47 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘For a repeat performance.’ She giggled.

‘Come back to my hotel with me,’ he said, circling his fingertip around her nipple. ‘Why wait until tomorrow?’

15

Miles lifted his head from the pillow. What was that? His fuzzy brain, slowed by two bottles of claret at the Bear Inn, struggled to focus. He cursed at being woken up from his slumber. These poky little rooms in Oriel College were too old, too creaky, and with their stone floors and wood-panelled walls, you could hear everything all the way down to St Mary’s Quad. Miles grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his head. He did, of course, have one of the better rooms in college, but still it was more than any civilised person could be expected to bear; and what was it, anyway?

Growling in annoyance, he pulled the pillow away and lifted his head, cocking an ear. It sounded like singing ... no, chanting. It was almost haunting, melancholy, like a Gregorian chant, as it echoed down the halls. And then a shout went up: ‘We’re coming, you wanker!’ Finally Miles’ sluggish brain made the connection and his heart gave a leap: it was the Carrington Club!

The Carrington was the most elite society at Oxford, nominally a dining club, in reality an excuse for the very top boys from the best families in the university to get together and forge vital links with people who would be the next generation of political leaders and captains of industry. The ‘Carrie’ was over two hundred years old, and membership was strictly limited: always male, usually second- or third-year undergraduates and almost exclusively confined to those who could afford it – even the uniform, of Oxford-blue tails and amber waistcoat, bought only from Ede and Ravenscroft, cost skywards of a thousand pounds. And of course, you did not ask to be a member of the Carrington Club. You were selected by secret ballot and your invitation to join was delivered by way of a visitation from the club’s membership in the dead of night. Traditionally, they would kick in your door, trash your room and force you to undergo a variety of humiliating initiation rituals. A smile crept on to Miles’ face. He’d expected his invitation, of course, but not this soon. It was rare for a member to be initiated in his first year, unless they were considered an exceptional candidate. Father won’t be able to ignore this, he thought as the noise swelled to a crescendo, bracing himself for the boot on his door.

It never came. The chanting, shouting procession passed on down the corridor, then stopped. There was a sudden terrible silence as Miles strained his ears, frowning. What the hell was going on?

Then there was a crash from next door and a roar of a dozen voices at once, and rising above them all, the shouts of one excited voice calling them all bastards. Miles recognised it immediately: Ewan Donaldson, a boy from the year above him at Eton. He was popular, sporty and clever; more importantly, his father was some influential European ambassador. They had come to initiate Donaldson, not Miles. ‘Bastards is right,’ hissed Miles, pulling the pillow back over his head. Bastards!

Even after the noise had faded, Miles had found it impossible to sleep, tossing and turning, running it over in his head. Donaldson was such a stiff; the only reason anyone talked to him was because he was good at rugger and because they wanted to get to know his father. The Carrington could be so bloody predictable. Finally he admitted defeat when the dawn light began pushing under his curtains, and he got up and dressed, sitting in his window seat, chain-smoking. He tried not to get too worked up but it was a struggle. He was genuinely enjoying Oxford. After the Angel Cay holiday, he’d been desperate to go to university, having spent the rest of the summer staying with various friends to avoid seeing too much of his sister and parents. Oxford had been his sanctuary, his refuge; although at times like this it was traditional and stifling.

At eight thirty there was a knock at the door and Miles glared towards the entrance. He had no desire to speak to anyone this morning, and anyway, who would be bothering him at this hour? Everyone knew that Miles tended to pass on morning lectures as a rule. He stubbed out his cigarette and sighed.

‘Enter.’

Jonathon Taylor bounced in. He was an old Etonian friend also reading History at Oriel. He was big-boned, awkward and a little clumsy – Miles had always thought of him as a big floppy Labrador. But like the dog, Jon had hidden teeth, and he always had his ear to the ground regarding gossip.

‘Where were you at breakfast?’ he said, taking one of Miles’ cigarettes without asking and perching on his desk. ‘Did you hear about Donaldson and the Carrington?’

‘Of course I fucking heard about it,’ snapped Miles. ‘I could hardly miss it, could I? Bloody racket woke me up and kept me up all night. Don’t they realise prelims are around the corner? I’ve got a good mind to complain to the Dean.’

Jonathon laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, they absolutely trashed his room and sprayed fire extinguisher foam all over his Patek Philippe.’

‘Boo fucking hoo.’

Jonathon slapp

ed his leg in delight. ‘You’re jealous!’

‘Jealous?’ said Miles, snatching his cigarettes back.

‘Come on, Ashford. You want to join the Carrie and Donaldson got the nod.’

Miles glared at him. ‘What crap. The Carrington’s for blue-blooded pricks. Their pranks are idiotic and juvenile. I mean, what’s the point in smashing up Dono’s stuff? If they’d done that to me, I’d have had the coppers on them so fast it would make their heads swim.’

Jonathon was laughing now. ‘So you’re telling me you’d have turned them down? Not that they’re ever going to ask you, of course.’

Miles narrowed his eyes at his friend. How dare he? At least two members of the Carrington had discreetly indicated they were putting his name forward. But then, Jonathon Taylor was rarely wrong when it came to these things.

‘What have you heard?’ said Miles.

Jonathon grinned, knowing he’d hit a nerve. ‘Come on, Miles, don’t act so surprised,’ he said. ‘You’ve pissed off so many people over the years, not just here, but at Eton, you can hardly expect there to be a unanimous vote for you.’

Miles was putting a brave face on it, but it was a body blow. He had always assumed that he would be welcomed into all the establishment institutions with open arms – he was Miles Ashford, after all! – but then maybe that was the problem. He may have been a popular figure at Eton and king of the hill at Danehurst, but Jonathon was right: anyone who dared to stick their head above the parapet risked making enemies. And one of those wankers had blackballed him from the Carrington.

‘I shouldn’t worry too much. It’s probably not about you anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

Jonathon shrugged and sauntered towards the door. ‘Oh, you know how it is with the Carrie. It’s not who you are, it’s who your family is.’

‘Fucking snobs,’ spat Miles after Jonathon had left the room.