One Way Out- Chapter Two

Rachel glanced at her watch. It was five minutes past eight. He said that he’d be here at eight. He hadn’t forgotten…had he? She checked her appearance in the mirror; thankfully she had managed to sneak a black cocktail dress into her bag just in case. As the hands of the clock hanging on the wall ticked by, the loud noise torturing her nerves, she picked up her lipstick and applied another coat of red lipstick to her full lips.

Just as she had finished filling in her lips, someone knocked on the door.

“A Prince has come to collect a pauper.” A lofty voice called through the door. Rachel laughed and pulled the door open, revealing Edward, who was looking debonair in a set of well-tailored tails.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, running her eyes over his elegant appearance.

He lowered his voice. “Tell me, how much do you know about our drinking societies?”

She smiled. “The Bullingdon?”

He laughed scathingly. “Didn’t you know? The Bullingdon’s old news now.” He said, “Too many plebs kept trying to get in.”

She rolled her eyes. “Where are we going then?”

“Ah, if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

“That’s a bit dramatic. “She muttered.

“Are you coming or not?” he asked, holding the door open, “there’s a party tonight and I’d hate for you to leave Oxford without experiencing the fun side.”

“I’m on my way.” She said, picking up her coat and pulling it on.

“So,” he said as they walked down the corridor, “what do you know about parties?”

“You get drunk and dance?” she said simply, despite the fact that the only party real party she’d ever been to had been…well, a shambles.

“Wait until you see this party,” he said, helping her into a large Rolls Royce which was parked outside the college, “You’ll never be able to go to one of your little house parties ever again.”

She sank back into the smooth leather seat, thinking about how hopeless life had seemed that morning.

“Champagne?” he asked, reaching into a mahogany mini-fridge and pulling out an expensive-looking bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes. “Go to the favourite one, Hopkins.” He called to the driver, who nodded and started up the car.

“Sure.” She said, taking a glass from him and sipping it elegantly.

“So,” he said, “what’s your story?”

“What d’you mean?” she asked, twisting around to face him.

“Why’re you here?” he asked again, staring intently into her eyes. She looked away. Those slightly golden eyes were slightly unnerving.

“My mother was going to go to Oxford,” she began, pausing to take a sip of her drink, “but then she met my dad and well, she got pregnant.”

“So she dropped out and had you?” he asked. She could feel his eyes on her but she stared straight ahead, watching the back of Hopkins’ coppery head.

“Pretty much. She spent the next fifteen years as a housewife until my Dad divorced her for a model.” She said, the scenes of her parents frequent arguments flashing across her brain. She tipped the rest of the champagne down her throat before turning around to smile at Edward.

“Refill?”

She nodded and held out her glass. “Anyway,” she continued, “after my Dad left her, she decided that I had to come to Oxford…you know, so that I could live her dream. She had me tutored after school every day and so here I am; trying to secure a place for a law degree that I don’t want.”

“Don’t you just love parents who screw up their own lives and decide to take it out on their children?” he said sagely.

“So what’re you studying anyway?” she asked, turning to face him again.

He made a face. “PPE.”

“Wow,” she said, “Politics, Philosophy and Economics…that sounds like fun.”

“Don’t,” he said, closing his eyes, “It’s painful.”

“Why’d you decide to do it then?” she asked, “You could’ve done English lit and sat around reading novels all day.”

“Because,” he said, smiling, “I decided that it would be a good idea to choose my course based on what I though was a good idea after a night of heavy drinking at the hunt ball.”

She snorted into her champagne, causing half of it to shoot up her nose, which made her cough violently. He thumped her on the back and she laughed harder. “You chose your course when you were drunk?” she asked once she had recovered, “I’m not going to lie, that’s not the best idea.”

He laughed. “It seemed like the best option at the time,” he said defensively, “Anyway your method was worse.”

“What method?” she asked sharply, gazing at his high cheekbones and the way his brown hair curled slightly around his ears.

“Letting your parents choose,” he said simply, staring at her and sipping his champagne, “I assume you didn’t decide that a three year-I assume its three years- law course would be a doss?”

She shook her head ruefully. “Mother was going to study law.” She said.

“Should’ve known.” He said, finishing his champagne and putting it on top of the fridge.

“Should’ve known what?” she asked quickly, her head snapping back around.

He placed his fingers together, forming a triangle and studied her for a moment. “It’s obvious,” he said, “you don’t look like the law type.”

“How can you tell?” she asked, narrowing her eyes, “for all you know, I could be a passionate lawyer-to-be.”

“I know plenty of law students,” he said simply, “and you’re nothing like any of them.”

“Why?” she asked, putting her empty champagne flute next to his, “what’re they like?”

“They have aspirations-” he began.

“So do I.” she interrupted.

“I know,” he said, “but their aspirations, I suspect, are completely different to yours. You see, they all want to be comfortably well off but not so well off that they’re no longer upper middle class.”

“And what about me?” she asked sharply, leaning forwards slightly as she waited to hear the answer.

“Well,” he said carefully, “I sense that you don’t belong with the tennis-club-darlings.”

“What d’you mean?”

He closed his eyes. “You belong on the hunting field, not in a square brick house in Surrey.” He said simply.

“I’ve never been hunting.” She said, tilting her head to one side.

“I’ll take you sometime.” He said, stroking the back of her hand.

She smiled and turned to look out of the window. Her heart stopped when she realised that they were no longer in Oxford. She whipped around to face Edward.

“We’re not in Oxford anymore?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He laughed. “You can’t seriously have thought that any decent society would host a party near the university?” he said, “why what did you think?” his voice was heavy with implications. She flushed.

“You know what I thought.” She muttered.

He laughed. “Of course I did.” He said.

“So where are we going?” she asked curiously.

“I can’t say,” he said, reaching forward and pulling a mask out of a pocket, “but this one’s a masked party.” He handed her a black and silver half-face mask before adding: “Oh, and use your middle name; if the university found out you were there, they’d probably give you a spot immediately.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “people would kill to go to this party.”

“Wow.”

“And you don’t even go to the university…yet.”

“Yet?”

“One party and suddenly a law degree from Oxford will seem positively exciting,” he said with relish, leaning towards her, “It made PPE seem like a party.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not easily swayed.” She said.

“Neither was I,” he said as the car came to a halt outside a large mansion, “we’re here.”

He pulled his own crimson mask over his face and got out of the car and walked round to help her out. What she saw in front of her made her stop and stare for what seemed like eternity.

Brightly-coloured lights streamed out of the lower windows of the white-brick mansion, the sound of music and laughter filling the winter night’s air. On the other hand, heavy red drapes had been pulled across the upstairs windows, leaving what was taking place beyond them entirely up to the imagination. Gently swaying trees lined the gravel driveway, their spindly arms waving lazily in the moonlight and their trunks entwined with winking fairy lights. A large marble fountain was situated several metres from the front door and several scantily clad students were doing handstands and cartwheels in the purple foam that spewed out of the armpits of Venus. The girl shrieked as their legs collapsed, causing them to plunge into the bed of violet foam. By the side of the fountain stood a proud bottle of Bollinger and several cocktails, their brightly-coloured beverages contrasting with the elegant white marble of the fountain. Rachel watched as one of them swam over to the side of the fountain and picked up the bottle of Bollinger before tipping back her head and pouring half of the bottle down her elegant throat.

In the distance, she could see the glittering lights of a city-Oxford perhaps-but this place was as far removed from the sensible and archaic city; it was hard to imagine the studious university student who had shown her around the college library several hours ago tossing off his chinos and tipping cocktail after cocktail of hypnotising and decadent liquids down his badly-shaven throat. No, this wasn’t where the ordinary university students came to party; this place was different. It was a well-maintained theme park which only admitted those who were worthy.

Meanwhile, a group of boys drove across the green lawns on Vespa’s, their red and gold masks draped around their necks and their eyes bright with the excitement that only a night of the most despicable scenes of debauchery can provide. To her left, several people were drunkenly playing polo, shoving each other violently onto the ground as they attempted to hit the ball-in this case, a Faberge egg- towards a make-shift goal.

Edward turned to Rachel and smiled before offering her his arm. “You ready?” he asked as they walked up the marble steps.

She took a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She said, pushing the door open. However, nothing could ever have prepared her for the scene beyond the oak door.

It was like a scene from a film; she’d never seen excess like this before in her life and she doubted that she’d ever see such decadence again. The sweeping marble staircase was covered in couples grinding to the beat of the music whilst dancers writhed in mid-air, having been suspended from the painted ceiling by large black ropes. In the corner of the hall, a slender dancer, who was bedecked from head to toe in bright pink feather boas and diamonds, danced on top of a bar, her dizzyingly-high heels knocking over glass after glass of brightly coloured liquids. Waiters in white masks and tuxedos mingled through the crowd, offering the drunk and delusional yet-more alcoholic refreshments. What struck Rachel most was the sheer amount of colour which had exploded in the hall, making it seem as though a rainbow had exploded and its fragments had found their way into this alcohol and drug-fuelled party.

High-pitched laughter filled the air as girls in revealing clothes staggered around, splashing the contents of their glasses onto the black and white tiled floor. They gripped one another’s shoulders and laughed louder. Everything in the room was hilarious, from the woman who sat weeping in the corner to the couple drawing a moustache on the serious face of one of the portraits that lined the staircase. It could’ve been worth a million pounds but no one here seemed to care; as far as they were concerned, it might as well have been painted by an amateur artist than Rembrandt.

The hypnotizing beat of the music beat a tattoo on the inside of her skull, hijacking her senses and propelling her into a state of delirious happiness. She wanted to dance and she wanted to dance now. She wanted to forget her problems and dance away her woes; she wanted to be like the dancers who were unable to think of anything save for the beat of the music which filled their souls, letting them forget until the dawn rolled around, promising them the tribulations of yet another tedious day.

A tall, thin and balding man without a mask on made his way down the stairs flanked by two voluptuous blonde women in coconut bras and grass ‘underwear’ wearing emerald green masks. He looked familiar to Rachel but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before.

“Who’s that?” Rachel shouted in Edward’s ear, struggling to make herself heard over the noise of the revellers.

He smirked. “The Mayor of London.” He shouted, laughing when he saw her shocked expression.

“Here,” he said, plucking a glass of red-orange liquid off of the tray of a passing waiter and handing it to her.

She gazed at it dubiously, raising it to her nose to sniff it. He laughed loudly.

“Just drink it. It’s a Bloody Mary.” He said, picking up a second glass and taking a large gulp. He shuddered slightly. “I find that the taste improves after the second one.”

She grinned and shrugged her shoulders, taking a large gulp of the strong drink, the taste of which caused her to gag.

“C’mon.” he said, draping his arm over her shoulders and steering her towards the staircase, pulling her past the cavorting couples and up onto the second floor. He paused outside a large black door. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked, waiting for her to nod before pushing open the door.