Nights In White Satin (Laura Principal novels) [Paperback]

The ball had taken place, as May Balls should always do, on a warm > night in the middle of June - a champagne and oysters kind of night, > following a strawberries and cream kind of day. By the early evening, > even a stranger to the city could sense that something extraordinary > was about to occur. There was a low sun glazing the spires of King's > College Chapel, and a pulse of excitement in the air. >

Three young women alighted from a taxi on King's Parade. They debated > briefly and then tottered off towards Market Square, their high heels > click-clacking as they went. They circled past the silent face of the > workaday world. Past Great St Mary's Church, where the bells were > muted. Past the Guildhall, locked and still. Past the market, like a > ghost-town, the stalls shut up tight for the night. >

Tourist numbers and Mediterranean weather had tempted Don Pasquale to > push the frontiers of the Pizzeria out onto the pavement. The result > was a makeshift sidewalk cafe. The young women took possession of a > table. They seated themselves with elaborate precaution. They slid > their frocks up their thighs, so the silk and satin and organza didn't > crease; they crossed their knees and stretched their long stockinged > legs away from the table to reduce the risk of snags. In full-length > gowns and high-heeled sandals, with pale backs and silky shoulders > gilded by the sun, the girls glittered against their drab > surroundings. They checked their make-up, plucked at pastries, sipped > cappuccinos, and giggled in equal measures of nervousness and > pleasure. It was going to be a special night. Each girl was buoyed by > the conviction that she was special enough to be a part of it. >

Nearby in Rose Crescent, in front of a shop selling designer hats, a > young man stopped to review the angle of his bow-tie. His pals looked > on from a distance. A fleeting comparison with Pierce Brosnan flashed > into their minds; they revelled in what they fancied was a > sophisticated image. A woman re-arranging the window display noticed > their starched white shirts, their formal suits. She thought of her > eldest boy who would soon, like them, be at university. For their > fresh good looks, for their fragile confidence - for fantasies of her > son's future - she accorded them a smile of pure indulgence. >

The 007 lookalike misread this response. 'She's after me,' he boasted. >

His companions cuffed him on the shoulder. "Try to control yourself," > they teased, "those trousers have to last all night." There was a > moment of scuffling and pummelling, of thinly-disguised masculine > warmth, before the undergraduates tugged down their cuffs, reclaimed > their dignity and hurried on to the cafi. >

These were the first groups whose appearance on the streets punctured > the quiet of the evening. Within minutes, others had appeared - a > trickle, and then a stream, of bright young things. The men stood out > sharp and clean against the soft grey stone of Cambridge; the women > looked bright and exotic. They filled the narrow streets with their > scent, the clatter of their heels, their laughter, their high spirits. > Cocky and loud, they came, or tight and restrained; in parties of ten > or twelve, or intimate cliques; loosened up with drink already, or > holding out for excesses to come. >

All exuded the wild energy of freedom. Most of them had just finished > the three most demanding years of their lives. As undergraduates at > Cambridge University, they had been pushed and pressed and challenged; > they had been coddled and cared for; they had been ignored, > patronised, criticised and overlooked. A few of them, with exceptional > talent, had been singled out for stardom. All of them had been made to > understand that, however banal their individual achievements, they > were better by far - better qualified, better informed, better taught > and better connected - than those who'd attended universities of the > lesser rank. >

And now, at last, the ordeal had ended. Examinations were over. > Results - with their baggage of success and disappointment, their > dashing of hopes, their imperatives to action - had not yet been > posted. It was May Week and, for the first time in years, the > undergraduates were unburdened of academic demands. The May Ball was > their chance for a final wild fling. They faced the opportunity with > arms wide open. >

And so, eventually, did Katie Arkwright. She was only a first-year > student, and not at Cambridge; as she perched amongst a group of more > confident party-goers in a cafi near Magdalen Bridge, she found the > prospect of the Ball faintly intimidating. She had one small glass of > wine to take the edge off her nerves. She pricked up her ears at the > cheers of the crowd queuing for admittance to St John's College. She > went to the ladies and checked her make-up; she smiled uncertainly at > her impeccable reflection in the mirror. Finally, Katie, too, was > gripped by a pleasurable excitement. Everyone-the other girls in their > party, and especially the men - had been so nice to her, so full of > compliments, that her diffidence drifted away. By the time they left > the cafi, and made their way towards the college, she felt a part of > the occasion. >

Almost as if she belonged. >

And by the time they entered St. John's - streaming through the gate, > at the tail end of twelve hundred party-goers - Katie was more elated > than she had ever been before in her life. She made a promise to > herself. She'd have a night to remember. >

After that, it all happened so quickly. >

At 9.15, they toured the college grounds, milling with the crowds from > courtyard to courtyard, marvelling at the entertainments that lay > ahead. They helped themselves to champagne and smoked salmon and > melon. >

At 10.00, there was the fireworks display. Katie sat on the grassy > riverbank and scanned the skies. She was entranced by the starbursts > over the tower of the University Library, bewitched by their > shimmering, watery echoes in the Cam. >

Katie Arkwright was seen at 11.00, tossing her soft gold curls to the > insistent rhythms of Hot Chocolate. More than one person watched how > she moved, noted how the deft shrug of her shoulder echoed the deeper > pulse of the music. >

At 11.15, she was gone for good. >

Katie Arkwright left, apparently, of her own accord. She abandoned the > May Ball quickly and decisively, as a person might walk away from a > bus queue. As if the money that Jared Scott-Pettitt had forked out for > a ticket meant nothing. She took her splendid young self - the elegant > white curve of a dress, the silver armlets, the dainty sandals, the > corona of curls - and disappeared. Not even a glass slipper remained > behind on stone steps to signal she'd ever been there. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.