Miles took his place at the head of the dining table.
‘I think everyone’s expecting a few words, Ashford,’ said member Tom Samson.
Miles nodded and stood, straightening his white military tailcoat as he prepared to speak. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began to hoots and cheers, quickly dying away as he gave them a stern look. ‘Gentlemen, you represent the best students at the best university in the world,’ he continued, his voice commanding and clear.‘Unlike many elite clubs at Oxford, you’ve been chosen not because of where you come from, but because of where you’re going.’
They all cheered, thumping their hands on the table, rattling the fine china. Miles liked the sound of his own voice but he knew his fledgling hedonists hadn’t come here for a lecture.
‘Fellow ’bloods, I won’t keep you, because there’s fun to be had, memories to be created and a bond to be forged. But let this historic phrase ring in your ears: the Youngblood Society is officially in session!’
The members roared their approval as Samson handed Miles a sword and, gesturing for the crowd to stand back, he swung it in a glittering arc towards a jeroboam of champagne standing on the table in front of him. To the amazement and delight of the Youngbloods, it sliced the top of the bottle clean off, the bubbling liquid shooting into the air like a geyser.
Amazing what a little spectacle can do to people, thought Miles as he began to circulate through the throng. On the second floor, two strippers writhed around a brass pole in the centre of a platform specially erected for the evening. Smiling, Miles thought of Alan Johnson’s parents – currently in Thailand for Mr Johnson’s diplomatic career – and wondered what they would make of this. Their son, who had his head over a long line of cocaine, was clearly not giving it much thought. And what would his own father think of all this? he wondered. Certainly, he knew, Robert would give him hell about his lacklustre academic performance at Oxford, which had been a consequence of all the time the Youngbloods was taking up. Lately his tutors had been on his back for missed essays and poor attendance, but Miles couldn’t rouse himself enough to care. Why did it matter whether he got a first- or third-class degree – Ash Corp.’s human resources were hardly going to penalise him for poor exam results, were they?
‘Let me fuck the albino,’ whispered a second-year PPE student, Ian Thomas.
‘I believe her name is Abigail,’ said Miles with amusement. ‘And she is yours for the right price.’
‘Anything, I’ve got to have her,’ Thomas said hungrily.
Miles smiled as he watched him beckon to the girl, who willingly followed him up the stairs. He was pleased with all the women the agency had sent over to act as waitresses and ?
?companions’, each of them beautiful, accommodating and not afraid to multitask. ‘High-class escort girls’, that was how the agency had described them, but the insinuation was that they were all prepared to do anything for money. That suited Miles perfectly. He had transformed the bedrooms in the eaves of the house into seductive candlelit boudoirs and he would be charging the club members a hefty premium on top of whatever the girls asked. And judging from the constant stream of couples – sometimes threesomes – up the stairs, it looked as if business was going to be brisk.
A tall redhead came and sat beside him. She was older than the others, maybe even thirty. Crossing her legs, long and slim under elegant cream slacks, she leant over to him and stroked the underside of his jaw.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ she breathed.
Miles regarded her coolly. ‘Perhaps later.’
She gave a slight shrug but didn’t move away.
‘I take it from the white uniform that you’re the organiser,’ she said.
‘Founder of the society,’ corrected Miles.
‘Impressive.’ She smiled, running a finger up and down the stem of her champagne flute. ‘This is better than some parties I’ve been to in London and Paris, and believe me, darling, they were organised by some of the best hosts in the business. Movie stars, madams, even an ambassador’s wife with a taste, shall we say, for the exotic. You’re keeping up with the best of them.’
Miles was enjoying the flattery until she lowered her voice.
‘But are you quite sure it’s safe?’ she whispered.
‘Safe?’
‘There are some quite high-profile young men here this evening,’ she said, nodding towards Juan Carlos Constanta, the son of Mexico’s richest industrialist.
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘I find it pays to be informed. An event like this isn’t just about the girls and the decor. It’s about security.’
‘Security from whom?’
She waved a hand. ‘Oh, the press, the police. A tabloid journalist could end careers here before they’ve even started.’
Miles frowned, privately acknowledging that she had a point. He had gone through life feeling bulletproof; with the exception of his spliff at Eton, he was one of those people who just didn’t get caught out. So tonight he hadn’t given security much thought.
‘It’s all under control,’ he said smoothly.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she purred, putting the palm of her hand across his crotch.