Career Girls (2 page)

Rowena fell in love. She couldn’t write, like Topaz, but

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she could certainly talk. She learnt how to debate and found she adored the almost sexual charge of passionately exhorting a crowd, joking, rebuffing, challenging, holding them locked into her eyes and voice. She started running in the Union elections and found she loved that too; the bitter feuds, the pacts made and broken, the secret meetings in the officers’ offices. She loved the rhetoric and the protocol ‘Madam Librarian’, ‘Mr Chairman’, ‘the honourable lady from St Hilda’s’.

‘What’s the motion next week again?’ Topaz asked, trying not to seem too absorbed in her own triumph. Published in a national! Published in a national! Editor of Cherwell was one thing, but this! …

‘This House Believes that Women Are Getting Their Just Deserts,’ recited Rowena.

‘

Topaz laughed. ‘I can’t believe they’re letting you off the

leash on that one in a Presidential, Madam Librarian.’

Rowena allowed herself a quick smile. ‘Nor can I, to be honest,’ she admitted. ‘Gilbert is such a prat about feminism.’

The Presidential Debate took place once a term and was tlae final showdown between officers and other candidates for the top job. Rowena’s only real competition was the Secretary, Gilbert Docker; one hundred per cent public schoolboy, blood so blue it was obscene. Gilbert found it appalling that women should even be allowed to join the Union, let alone run for office. In the good old days, they had had to watch silently from the visitors’ gallery, with all the other peasants.

‘You’ll have Cherwell right behind you,’ Topaz assured her.

Rowena smiled. ‘Yeah, well. At least you and I can count on each other. Let’s go and have a beer.’

They wandered down Broad Street towards the King’s Arms, a perennial favourite for students from the university and polytechnic. Most of the tourists that crowded Oxford’s lovely streets had climbed back on their buses by six o’clock, and the early evening air was warm and soft. The

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scent ofmown grass drifted towards them from the gardens of Trinity College.

‘Have you seen Peter this week?’ Rowena asked.

Peter Kennedy was one of the better-known students at Oxford, and Topaz Rossi’s boyfriend. They’d been seeing each other for a couple of months, and Rowena was intrigued by the romance. She gathered that Peter was well - more from her own kind of background, to be honest. He wasn’t the type she’d expect to be interested in Topaz Rossi, nor he in her. Still, by all accounts he was drop-dead gorgeous.

‘Yes,’ said Topaz. She blushed. ‘I really like the guy. He’s pretty.., pretty interesting.’

‘Pretty spectacular, you mean,’ said Rowena. ‘Let’s not kid ourselves.’

They turned into the pub, grinning at each other with perfect understanding.

‘Nicejol, Topaz!’ called Rupert Walton from the bar. ‘I heard about The Titnes.’

‘Cheers, Rupert.’ Topaz waved to her deputy editor. ‘Hey, Rupe,’ Rowena called. ‘Madam President,’ he said.

‘Bloody hell, don’t say that,’ Rowena protested, fighting her way through the crowd. ‘Gin and tonic, Labatt’s, and whatever Rupert’s drinking, please. You’ll jinx it.’

‘Nothing can jinx it after the piece on him I’m running next week,’ he said smugly ‘It’s not even editorial condemnation. It’s just a long listofhis own quotes, starting with “Working mothers are responsible for the crime rate,” and ending with “Oxford was designed for the sons of gentlemen, and it ought to be kept that way.”.I’ll have a Guinness, please. Thanks.’

They threaded their way back to the table, nodding at friends. Chris Johnson and Nick Flower, two of Rowena’s candidates, were sitting next to Topaz.

‘Look out, Rupe, hacks in the area,’ she teased. ‘You go out for an innocent drink with Miss Gordon, you end up in the middle of a slate meeting.’

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‘Right,’ said Rupert. ‘You’ll wind up civil servants, the lot of you, and serve you right. No fate is too bad.’

‘How’s it looking, guys?’ asked Rowena. ‘Ignore the budding Fleet Street scum over here.’

‘Christ Church is solid,’ said Nick, ‘as ever. Oriel’s not.’ ‘Surprise.’

‘Hertford’ll give you a hundred and fifty line votes.’ ‘God bless Hertford,’ said Topaz. ‘Amen,’ Rowena concurred.

‘We’ve got Queen’s, Lincoln, Jesus and St Peter’s wrapped up. Balliol’s a problem. So is John’s.’

‘Why?’ asked Chris.

Nick shrugged. ‘Because Peter Kennedy’s decided he wants to support Gilbert, and he’s mobilizing the old school ties.’

‘ A slight chill fell over the table and Rowena felt her heart sink. Gilbert, really, had never been that much of a threat. Peter was another matter.

Topaz touched her sleeve. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go see him, talk some sense into him. He’ll be cool.’

‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ Rowena said, wondering what she’d do without her. She didn’t want Topaz dragged into a political row between her best friend and her boyfriend. ‘But I’ll do it. This one’s really my problem. I’ll sort it out.’

Peter Kennedy versus Rowena Gordon, Rupert thought, looking at the two beautiful girls. Now, that will be interesting.

‘Can you tell me where Mr Kennedy lives, please?’ asked Rowena politely.

The porter touched his bowler hat gravely, whether in deference to herself or Peter Kennedy she wasn’t sure.

‘Certainly, madam. Mr Kennedy has rooms in Old

Library, number five on the first floor.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rowena.

She took a quick glance at the spacious lodge, littered like most of O:ford’s college entrances with leaflets advertising lectures, plays, jobs and pizza discounts. It was Friday, which meant that a large pile of that week’s Cherwell had just been delivered, dumped underneath the window next to the noticeboard. She grabbed a copy before they all disappeared.

He would be at Christ Church, she thought.

It was the largest, most prestigious and most arrogant college in the university. Only St John’s was richer, and only Oriel more despised by everyone else. Not that either of these things bothered the House, as it was traditionally nicknamed; John’s was full of ‘grey men’, hardworking, brilliant undergraduates destined for fellowships and research po.sts-boring idiots in other words-and Oriel was a poor relation. Christ Church had produced something like twelve prime ministers and nineteen viceroys of India. Its hall was one of the architectural wonders of England. It had a private picture gallery, boasting drawings by Michelangelo and Van Dyck.

Peter Kennedy could not possibly have gone anywhere. else, Rowena thought. She smiled. And neither could I.

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She walked through magnificent Tom Quad, admiring the grey Elizabethan stone, lit gently by the setting sun. Tom Tower, rearing up behind her, began to strike the hour five minutes early, because the college was exactly one degree west of Greenwich. She felt very nervous, as if even the ancient walkways and carved gargoyles were ranking up behind Gilbert, now that Kennedy was on his side. She’d have to talk him out of it. That was all there was to it.

Under the soaring archways of the walk into hall, someone had pinned up the standard-issue poster announcing the Union elections, listing the candidates and somewhat improbably requesting that any breach of the rules be reported toJ. Sanders, Exeter, Returning Officer. Since the rules stated that no candidate should solicit votes, much less form an electoral pact - a slate, in other words - they were universally ignored, except on polling day, when the deputy returning officers had fun making life even more miserable for the hacks than it was already. Every hack, once they stopped running, had a go at being a DRO and enjoyed it immensely.

Rowena examined the poster for graffiti and was pleased to find that someone had scrawled ‘Prat’ after Gilbert’s name. She also noticed, laughing, that someone had carefully written ‘xo,^z ROSSL sx LDA’S’ at the top of the list of standing-committee nominees. My friend the sex symbol. She’d tried to get Topaz to run a million times, but unless she could interview it, report on it or give it an impossible deadline, Topaz wasn’t interested. ‘Tina Brown didn’t have time for the Union,’ she’d said dismissively.

Rowena strolled through the glorious cathedral cloisters to Old Library. The door to the staircase wa heavy, solid wood, studded with metal bolts like a dungeon entrance. Maybe, thought Rowena fancifully, they locked Protestants in here when Bloody Mary was queen.

She bounded up the narrow stairs to Kennedy’s room, her heart hammering, and knocked loudly. I am Librarian of the Union, she told herself firmly, and he’s a threat, that’s all, to be dealt with like any other threat.

eter, tall and tanned from rowing, opened the door. ‘Miss Gordon, delighted to meet you’, he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in?’

Rowena stepped into the most luxurious undergraduate rooms she’d seen anywhere. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please call me Rowena, Mr Kennedy.’

‘Only if you’ll agree to call me Peter,’ he said, smiling, waving her to an armchair. ‘I am seeing your best friend, after all. I’m amazed that we haven’t managed to meet up before now.’

‘Then that’s settled,’ said Rowena, ashamed to find herself momentarily jealous.

Christ, the guy was attractive. He was wearing a dark blue Boat Club tracksuit, with HOtSE emblazoned on the back in large white letters, the colour emphasizing his blue eyes and luxuriant blond hair. To Rowena, his size and strength made him seem even older than twenty-three, perhaps nearer to twenty-five. There was discreet evidence of immense wealth displayed all over the room; an antique gold carriage clock, a couple of leather-bound first editions on his table without library stickers on them. The bed was made up with a feather duvet and crisp Irish linen, and she doubted even Christ Church would run to that. Peter Kennedy was studying Anglo-Saxon under the legendary tutelage of Richard Hamer, one of the most learned and pleasant dons at Oxford, but there were textbooks on advanced economics stacked in rows on his bookshelves. Two pairs of oars were mounted across the bed; blades, traditionally awarded to the finest rowers. And God only

knew he was that, Rowena thought.

‘Coffee?’ he enquired.

‘Yes, please,’ said Rowena. It might be a little easier when those handsome eyes weren’t staring her down.

‘You presumably know why I’m here,’ she said. ‘Word has it that you’ll be supporting Gilbert Docker this term. You must realize that without your intervention I’m cruising home.’

‘So how can one outsider’s influence make any difference

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to you, more or less?’ asked Peter calmly, stirring the coffee.

Tm not sure,’ said Rowena, deciding that honesty might charm him, ‘but I’d prefer not to chance it. Believe me, I know how popular you are, how widely you can pull out the Old Etonian vote, the sports vote’ - she hesitated, but added, ‘the female vote … ‘

Peter handed her her coffee.

‘I don’t feel that anything could make Gilbert look good,’

she said, ‘but if there were something, it would be your support.’

He sat opposite her, sizing her up. Nice. Long blonde

hair, green eyes, slim body, long legs, a lady evidently. A virgin for sure.

‘Why should I support you?’ he asked. ‘Gilbert’s the son

of a friend of my father’s. You’ll have to give me some very good reasons to withdraw my backing from him.’

My God, Rowena thought. He’s considering it. Is he seriously interested in my qualifications for the job? Most people couldn’t give a monkey’s about that.

‘I’m the best candidate by miles,’ she said, ‘and you’re rumoured to be a meritocrat, Peter.’

He smiled, amused. That was a clever slant.

‘As Secretary, I doubled the number of social events and made a profit on entertainments for the first time in four years. As Librarian, I managed to get speakers from David Puttnam to Mick Jagger. I’ve served time on every Union committee. I’ve debated for Oxford in the world championships.’

‘Did we win?’ asked Kennedy, interested.

‘We came second to Edinburgh,’ Rowena grinned. ‘The Cambridge judges were copping an attitude.’

‘Classic inferiority complex,’ agreed Kennedy.

‘Gilbert ran straight for Secretary, just scraped in on the

OE vote because there was no serious opposition, can’t be bothered to turn up for standing-committee meetings, and has put on exactly two parties, using hangover sponsors from my term. He only wants to put “President of the Union” on his application to the merchant banks. He

probably wouldn’t bother with his own debates, if he got it.’

Kennedy nodded, accepting this. ‘I need some more time to think about it,’ he said. ‘I won’t give you a glib answer.’

Rowena got up and offered him her hand to shake, pleasantly surprised.

He turned it over, raised it slowly to his lips and kissed it. A shiver ran with little electric feet all over her body.

‘Really, Topaz is terrible,’ he said. ‘Keeping you away from me like this. If I’d had the pleasure of knowing you beforehand, I wouldn’t have committed myself to Gilbert in the first place.’

For a second Rowena wondered how on earth Topaz had managed to hook up with this devastating guy. She was amazed that he would choose an American. Still…

‘Well, thank you for seeing me,’ she said. Tll be in touch.’

Topaz and-Rowena sat in Topaz’s cramped room in Hall Building in St Hilda’s, companionably drinking huge mugs of tea and stuffing their faces with chocolate biscuits, leafing through back copies of Cherwell to select the best pieces for Topaz’s portfolio. What there was of Topaz’s room was very nice, as it had once belonged to a don, but in order to create two separate rooms for lowly undergraduates someone had partitioned it straight down the middle. Topaz thus had half a window, which looked out on to the river, past the gorgeous Hilda’s gardens which were ablaze with roses and thick honeysuckle. Both girls loved it here.

‘God, I’m so tired,’ Topaz complained. ‘The fucking computers crashed at three o’clock this morning and we all had to stay up and retype everything.Ever tried drinking out of a Coke can someone just used as an ashtray? No? Well, don’t bother.’