I ain't sayin she a goldigger
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
When Jane Austen wrote those words in 1813, women may not have had the vote, the right to own property or the chance to go to university, but at least Jane had the right idea: who needs to vote, work or study when there’s an abundance of eligible young men out there who bank at Coutts and dine at The Ivy? In a world where ‘the right to choose’ is of utmost importance, there’s nothing wrong with choosing a rich husband over a nine to five.
Location, Location
Oxford undergraduate to ‘trophy wife’ may not be the most obvious career choice, since many people still seem to stick to the misguided belief that young ladies go to university to broaden their horizons and expand their intellect.
Au contraire, any girl with real intellect knows that university is the Kings Road of husband-shopping, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that Oxford boasts the crème de la crème of single men in possession of a “good fortune” (or daddy’s platinum card). Even before women were allowed to set foot within the university, they knew that Oxford was the place to find their richer halves, hence the abundance of secretarial schools that sprung up in and around the city centre.
Sending one’s daughter to such a school would provide her with a purpose in life • marriage • and if that failed, well, shorthand and typing might come in handy. One famous product of The Oxford Media and Business School, which still offers courses in how to become a “personal assistant”, is Ulrika Jonsson, TV presenter and serial spouse who is currently on the lookout for husband number three.
However, in Oxford, The Media and Business School is now the last one of its kind, the breed suffering perhaps from the university’s finally opening its doors to the fairer sex.
Your Quarry
Although women gained admittance to Oxford less than a hundred years ago, they’re a thriving presence who know what they want and how to get it.
Over tea at the Old Parsonage, recently, one female student remarked that “the Rad Cam is the best place to meet eligible bachelors” and if you like moneyed, tortured and poetic then you may well want to stop off there on the pretence of doing some work. However you would do well to remember that not every degree is going to lead to a million pound Christmas bonus at Goldman Sachs, so it’s wise to find out what your spouse-to-be is studying before signing the pre-nup.
While arts students may look hip and spout sonnets, the reason they’re doing an arts “degree” is because they have no sense of direction: you’d be lucky if they found their way to a lecture, let alone down the aisle. Put it this way, since arts students by and large are unlikely to go into big business, marrying one will find you queuing for the dole as opposed to Dolce and Gabbana.
Science students, on the other hand, are getting rarer by the day and consequently more sought after by investment banks. While they may not venture out of the labratory very often, the extra effort involved in hunting one down is sure to pay dividends by the end of a lucrative summer internship.
The Hunter
It is worth remembering, though, that it is not only women who are on the prowl, but men too.
Why spend twelve hours a day working if not to come home to a loving partner? Robert Grant, a Brasenose undergraduate and self-confessed trophy-wife hunter, notes, “You get the wife you can afford”. Forget quantum physics, Grant is looking for “someone who is essentially willing to lay back and think of England.” Pressed as to where this leaves the idea of ‘true love’ Grant replies, “But where does love come from? If you love someone for their money, you’re still loving them."
A sentiment Austen would have been proud of.
Can we add the university husband hunt to the list of truths universally acknowledged then? Not yet… Ellie Cumbo, OUSU VP (Women) disagrees with the notion that women come to Oxford solely to meet eligible bachelors, but admits that “meeting somebody nice who’s going to get somewhere in life is something that would appeal to both sexes and is probably at the back of everybody’s mind when you enter a college full of nubile nineteen years olds of either sex.
In the Tradition
Part of the problem, as Cumbo points out, is that “as with any very old, very traditional university there are structures in place, and methods of learning and methods of being examined in place, that were never designed with women in mind.” Any girl who has hobbled through her quad in fi ve inch heels cursing the man who invented the cobble stone will testify to that I’m sure.
Since girls haven’t been in Oxford that long, its diffi cult for them to know where they fi t within this prestigious seat of learning, especially since intelligent women seem to be viewed as scary by the opposite sex. A woman’s IQ, it seems, is directly proportional to her likelihood of ending up living with three cats and smelling of cabbage: for every extra point you score intellectually, the chances of this happening go up.
Who can blame a woman, then, who wishes to secure domestic happiness before intellectual?
Meat Markets
If you want to find the man (or men) who has some potential then it’s all about knowing where to look. The Rad Cam is the fi rst stop for any young woman looking for a blue blooded young male to carry her books. Although a library wouldn’t be the first place you think to look when you’re thinking about relationships, the Rad Cam isn’t just any library.
It caters to the poseur (tousled hair, designer stubble, creased clothing as if he’s just rolled in from last night’s party) who will make his way around the stacks as much in search of a conquest as a book for his next essay. Go for some innocent flirtation (or “eye sex” as it has recently been beautifully termed) but bear in mind that with no talking rule, you won’t really know what you’re getting until its too late.
If the idea of libraries brings you out in hives, you’d be well advised to try the Bridge on Tuesdays or Thursdays (but not the Monday crowd, darling; daddy wouldn’t approve). While some might call it a meat market, a girl who really knows what she’s after would look at it as a ‘meet market’ where your older brother’s best friend at Harrow can introduce you to the man of your dreams (or the key to your dreams, if your dreams involve a house, a yacht and summers in St Tropez).
Since queuing really isn’t the new black, bypass anyone who isn’t known by the bouncers (for the right reasons) and head straight for the VIP room once you’re inside. Because if they can’t make it to the VIP room of Bridge they certainly won’t be making it to the VIP room of Umbaba. Sometimes you want somewhere a bit quieter to get to know your new beau (get to know whether or not he believes in pre-nups, that is). QI is the perfect place.
A members only club with an upper-crust reputation and a book shop you’ll never need, the lounge upstairs is perfect for a cosy chat about the pros and cons of buying yet another Lamborghini. QI actually stands for Quite Interesting, but to be honest, your man can be as dull as the latest Sienna Miller movie, as long as his wallet’s in the right place.
The Bottom Line
There’s a certain cynicism here of course, but consider the alternative: if this seems a bit of a sordid way to form what should be a lifelong relationship, you can always sit back and wait for fate to decide whether you end up with three divorce settlements, or three cats. I advise being more sensible • planning and romance are not mutually exclusive. As Grant puts it, “You love someone so much more if they’ve got £30 million in the bank.”
A TROPHY WIFE'S GUIDE TO THE FIRST NINETY DAYS
DAY ONE
Even though your ring is glimmering brightly in the Bermudan sunshine, you still feel empty inside. You console yourself by fl irting with the cabana boy and naming your unborn children’s ponies after variants of Spot. The evening is occupied by stealthily dodging another sexual encounter with your new husband, and going for a “massage” in the cabana. Naughty.
DAY FIFTEEN
Safely ensconsed on the Kings Road again, you plan out your holidays for the rest of the year. You decide that an African safari would be fun, except for all the flies and death, and settle on Nice instead. Apparently, it’s so passé it’s cool again. Or something like that. You also begin to fret about your clothes living in different houses. Whoever said the rich had it easy was clearly poor.
DAY SIXTY
You start sourcing out boarding schools. Why should the best years of your life be devoted to running after snotty faced adolescents just because they came out of you? Poor people simply don’t have the resources to send their children a few counties away, or they would. Meanwhile, the staff are acting up, your husband decides he likes caning, and your manicurist takes you off her client list. Apparently you are too demanding with the rest of the salon staff.
Like they ever experience a fraction of the stress you live with on a daily basis!
DAY EIGHTY
You’re quite bored of being a trophy wife already, and decide to start working with charities. On your fi rst day at Oxfam, you manage to alienate most of the clientele by insisting that they leave the store and buy ‘nice clothes'.
For heaven’s sake, you put them in contact with your buyers: Michelle who always knows where to score Fendi bags, and the name of the nice girl at the Chanel boutique. How is that not helping?
The amazing shrinking ring
DAY NINETY
The one thing you hadn’t reckoned on after becoming a trophy wife was the abundance of slightly more attractive men than your husband in your new social circle who have just as much money.
You begin to work out that being a trophy wife is not necessarily an experience that needs to be singular. And oddest of all: your ring doesn’t look as big as it used to.
20th Apr 2006