Nights in White Satin

Book by Spring Michelle

It was back in January when I'd been asked to coordinate security for the May Ball at St. John's. I didn't play hard to get.

"We'll do it," I'd said. "No problem."

For a private investigator, security work is bread and butter. Doesn't tingle the taste buds, but keeps the stomach full.

"Piece of cake." That was Sonny's response. He's my partner at Aardvark Investigations, the man to blame for getting me into this line of business in the first place. His heart was set on expansion, and--as he never tired of saying--expansion calls for capital.

Sonny knew a job that couldn't be turned down when he saw it.

"Easy peasy," echoed Stevie, our right-hand woman, during the week-before planning session. "Maybe Geoff could help." She reached for the telephone.

But by the time I asked, "Geoff?" she was deep in conversation with a client.

No problem; piece of cake; easy peasy. Two parts business and one part bravado, these responses.

St. John's College lies more or less in the center of Cambridge. The ten green acres that make up its grounds are bounded by busy roads--Northampton Street, Bridge Street, St. John's Street. The River Cam runs through St. John's, providing a conduit to Trinity College on one flank and to Magdalene Bridge on the other. Our brief was to keep college property intact, keep revelers safe inside, keep gate-crashers out. This might sound simple. But anyone who thinks they can coast their way through security with logistics like this is long on optimism and short on sense.

It's part of the wayward tradition of the Cambridge May Balls--just as staging them in the month of June is part of that tradition--that there will be gate-crashers. Their exploits are the stuff of local legend. It's whispered through college corridors how a pair of students equipped with climbing gear scaled an outer wall, changed from tracksuits to black tie, and managed to reach Third Court before they were accosted by security men. How a party of women from Newnham wrote themselves into history by scuba diving up the Cam. They infiltrated St. John's from the river. Their presence was betrayed only by the slapping of their flippers on the lawn. How a Churchill man, stowed inside a brewery van, had been pinned under three hundred pounds of draft lager when a barrel detached from its moorings. He emerged with broken ribs and a greatly enhanced reputation.

Or that's how the story goes.

Our job was to hold firm in the face of siege. Sonny, Stevie, and I were to secure the beachheads of the ball. To guarantee that the mock-Gothic portals of New Building would not be breached. It might not be a heavyweight assignment, but it had an element of challenge. On the evening of the ball itself, even I felt a surge of excitement.

By the time I'd escorted all the suppliers out of college and checked the storerooms for stragglers, there was a queue awaiting admission that stretched from the St. John's gatehouse all the way to neighboring Trinity. With three-quarters of an hour still to go before the party began, the crowd grew by the minute. Their voices bounced off the buildings on either side of the street. Echoes magnified the sound until a hundred people seemed like several thousand. I heard the raucous cries that greeted new arrivals; heard a football commentary conveyed by radio to the crowd. And every few seconds, massive and mysterious whoops of delight.

"What's going on?" I asked Stevie, whose territory included the front entrance. She had just sauntered back from a recon outside the gates.

"Someone's sharing round the most enormous bottle of champagne--"

"A jeroboam?"

"Whatever." Stevie hadn't attended Cambridge, and her shrug said she didn't care a hoot for the things that I'd learned there.

"Champagne, yes. Glasses, no," she continued. "They're drinking bubbly straight from the bottle. Like water on the sidelines at a football match."

I had never before seen Stevie dressed as she was that evening. Security staff are expected to blend in at the May Ball. That means formal gear--no jeans, no business suits--and Stevie had gone all the way. She wore a figure-hugging sheath scaled with brown sequins. Not for Stevie the pale English flower look. She was all tanned and strong and sparkling, like an Olympic sprinter en route to a Hollywood bash.

"Starting as they mean to continue?" I asked, nodding in the direction of the Champagne Charlies in the queue outside.

"'Fraid so. Visit the loo now," she advised. "The toilets will be unusable by midnight." Sequins or no, on all important questions Stevie is practical to the core.

At half past eight we gathered our student security force and rehearsed the rules of engagement.

Sonny issued instructions. "You know when and where to check wrists," he said. "Anyone without a security tag exits immediately, under escort. Frog-marched if need be, otherwise untouched. The point is to get them out, not to injure them. Missing teeth aren't part of the package. And if the gate-crasher should happen to be a lady ..."

This was greeted by chortles of anticipation.

I intervened. "If it's a woman, watch your hands." I fixed my eye on the one security man who still smirked. "Unless, that is, you fancy a lawsuit later?" He straightened his face; he didn't look like the sort of fellow who wanted to spend his Thursday afternoons in court.

At precisely eight-forty-five Sonny set off with four student accomplices for the Bridge of Sighs. They would patrol the river and the college grounds on the far bank, where--if previous May Balls were anything to go by--gate-crashing attempts would be concentrated. Other student security staff were charged with other assignments--some to move between the tents, some to protect the hot-air balloon and the fountain, and a half dozen to circulate through the grounds, making random checks on wristbands.

And I? Well, I was there to coordinate. Translation: to confront crises and resolve problems, to make sure the guards knew what was going on, and above all, to watch the watchers. Our student security men were rugby players, martial arts aficionados--men of a muscular bent. They'd signed a contract, paid a deposit, and shown up on the evening properly turned out in black tie. They looked ready for business. But they were, after all, students themselves. A beer tent with free and unlimited draft, and a glut of glamorous girls, would be more of a temptation than some of them could resist.

The last-minute tour of the college fell to me.

Everything was in order. The soft stone of the college buildings and the clean green of the lawns formed an elegant backcloth for celebration. For stalls and counters and stacks of crates, burdened with food. For gleaming white cloths and sparkling silver on a flotilla of round dining tables. For cascades of balloons. For laser lights to slice through the festivities with mauve knives of fire. For tents where six bands performing in sequence would do their best to cater to the restless pleasures of the crowd. As I finished my tour the first of these bands was warming up, tossing a tentative rhythm onto the evening air.

I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear a gurgle of laughter from somewhere near the river, and the pitty-pat of a breeze as it teased the balloons.

I heard footsteps behind me. A strong pair of arms slid around my waist.

"Nice to see you in formal dress," Sonny whispered, and planted a gentle kiss on my neck.

The worst thing about working posh occasions is trying to do security with satin flapping around your ankles. I'd opted initially for a turquoise halter-neck, vaguely Egyptian in shape, with lots of room to swing my arms. But it called for high heels. The thought of chasing an intruder down a staircase on stilts made me think again.

So I'd settled instead on a black tuxedo. It had jet beading on the lapels, and a skinny silk chemise under the jacket, so it wasn't quite Radclyffe Hall. But I could fit a walkie-talkie in the pocket and get away with glittery high-tops. And in spite of the glitz, I could still do a six-minute mile.

"How about a dance?" Sonny asked. He was moving gently to the music, carrying me with him into the sway.

"Have we time? Before the hordes mount the horizon?" I didn't really mean it as a question. I wanted more than anything in the world to snuggle up, to slow-dance. To make like this fairy-tale setting had been magicked into existence for the two of us.

I turned slowly, guided by the circle of his arms, until we were face-to-face. Until I was staring straight into Sonny's warm brown eyes; until his lips brushed the side of my mouth. Until our legs were entangled, and there wasn't space between our bodies for the night air. Until his breath stroked my hair, and my breath stroked his. Until I couldn't tell whether the pounding I felt was his heart beating in his chest or my heart beating in mine.

Until we were dancing slowly, slowly. Barely dancing.

Cheek to cheek.

"Do you play?" Sonny whispered in my ear. As he had the evening in the jazz club, when we'd first met. When he'd put away his clarinet and turned up at my table.

As he had again, much later, when we'd teetered on the edge of a new relationship--fearing to damage the old, the purely professional one, but drawn to something more powerful. "Do you play?" Sonny said. Left it to me to decide. And I did.

We ignored the bass beat from the band. We shut our ears to the clamor of the queue outside. And First Court, still unpopulated, was elegant and tranquil. If it had been left to me, I might have forgotten obligation. Might never have allowed the ball to begin. Might have stayed all alone--just Sonny and me--slow-dancing the night away.

But Stevie, at least, had her ...