It's hard to believe that the last week of summer term is already here.

Exam results and the unbearable prospect of a whole year without Al might have been lurking in the back of my mind lately, but a certain - erm - physical activity has completely taken over my timetable since last Tuesday, keeping me more than adequately occupied. Consequently, I've been drifting along in a merry haze, as though I could never feel true anger or misery ever again, and I'm acting so pleasantly towards everyone, including my many enemies, that raised eyebrows and hushed whispers must be following me where ever I go. I even managed to smile politely at Paul when I saw him in the Porter's Lodge yesterday. It's so unlike me that I wonder if I've been suffering from undiagnosed sexual frustration for years now.

I mean, I'm so euphoric, I've even agreed to letting both Saffron and Gabriela loose on my hair and make-up for tonight's May ball at the same time. Each person individually is almost too much to bear; I must be well and truly in La-la land if I'm permitting a dual attack.

"Oh my God, I am dying to see the dress!" is the first thing Saffron shrieks in my face when I meet her at the Porter's Lodge to escort her up to my room, just after six o'clock in the evening. "When did it arrive?"

"Four days ago. Mum sent it via recorded delivery as soon as she'd chosen it. It's…gaudier than I had in mind," I reply, silently hoping I don't sound too ungrateful. "I was kind of expecting something a bit more muted, like a charcoal shift dress, with a few sequins here and there to jazz it up, perhaps."

Saffron looks at me as though I'm stupid. "You cannot wear a fucking dowdy shift dress to a ball!"

"But I can't even wear a bra with this one!" I whine fussily. "My boobs will be practically hanging out of it! Why did I ask my mother to choose me an outfit? Might have known she'd go for something garish, flimsy and unpractical."

In truth, I'm really glad I'd asked Mum to select something for me. We don't see eye-to-eye over a lot of things, but I concede that her knowledge of fashion far surpasses mine, and she was so excited to be given the task of dress-shopping that it made me surprisingly happy too. I'd almost go as far as to say that it's been quite a bonding experience, as our whole relationship in general seems to have benefitted, if her recent, much-less-fault-finding-than-usual text messages are anything to judge by.

"Oh I have faith in your Mum's choice," says Saffron decisively as we ascend the stairs together. "That trouser suit you gave me is gorgeous."

"For fuck's sake, must everyone side with my mother?" I moan. "Even Al does it, and he's never bloody met her!"

Saffron just laughs gaily, and follows me as I stomp into my room, where Gabriela is lounging on my bed with a mug of tea.

"Saff, meet Gabriela. Gabi, this is Saffron," I say, gesturing carelessly towards each person as they greet each other politely. "And over there is the dress."

Saffron immediately rushes over to examine it. "It is, quite simply, stunning," she exclaims, admiring the garment from all angles. "From the cut, to the lovely fabric, to the quality of the stitching. Your Mum really knows a thing or two about clothing, Sunny! Who's the designer?"

"Dunno," I shrug, not caring. "Someone called T. Rosen-something."

"Oh, Tabu Rosengaard. He's up-and-coming," nods Saffron knowledgeably, "and clearly one to watch out for because this is gorgeous."

"It's a thing of beauty, isn't it? I can't wait to see what it looks like on," says Gabriela enthusiastically. "It should hang so nicely on your figure, Sunny."

"It's practically floor length; it's bound to trip me up," I grumble. "And the whole of Cambridge will see me fall and they'll all laugh."

"Don't be so melodramatic. I'm super impressed with your Mum's dressing vision as I bet this fits you perfectly," replies Saffron, holding the garment up against me. "Mine has no idea what clothing size I am, let alone what would suit me."

"Oh it's the right shape and everything," I murmur, "but it's red and stands out a mile."

"Not just red, Sunny! Look at how it blends to purple here and this segment is definitely quite pink! It's like a glorious silk-chiffon sunrise. Al is not going to know what hit him when he sees you in this."

"Do you know Al well?" Gabriela asks, turning to Saffron. "I guess you must do, what with you all studying medicine together. Sunny hardly mentioned him and then - boom! She's dating the guy and besotted with him!"

"Honestly, I'm not surprised she never said anything because there was this mad tension between them for months!" Saffron replies with a bark-like laugh. "At first, I thought Sunny absolutely hated his guts, but obviously not."

"Oh my God. I have missed out on the whole story," sighs Gabriela, her eyes shining. "You have to fill me in on every detail!"

"Guys, I'm still here, remember? You don't have to talk about me in the third person. Anyway, Saff, why don't you tell us about Lenny and yourself getting it on together? I for one would love to know when that all kicked off."

Saffron ignores me and stubbornly carries on. "Well, it was Sunny's own fault to start with. She was so late to lectures one morning that I thought she wasn't coming, so when this really cute guy asked super-nicely if he could sit in her vacant seat, of course I just said 'Yes'. It would have been extremely rude to turn him down when there was nowhere else for him to go, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," nods Gabriela, totally invested in this stupid anecdote already.

"So then Sunny rocked up, mega pissed off because she was late and had to sit on the steps, and then she had a massive go at Al for nicking her seat, and he just ignored her," giggles Saffron, "which wound her up even more, and I guess it went from there. She kept saying how much she hated him, way more than she should have done because it's not like she owns the seat or anything."

"Bless her, she's so territorial at times!" Gabriela laughs, eyeing me fondly. "How on earth did they end up together, then?"

"Well, I don't know all the deets, but they were definitely less frosty with each other after Christmas…"

Good grief. If I'd have guessed that Saffron and Gabriela would connect this well, I'd never have instigated this simultaneous assault. Eventually, Saffron runs out of information (thank fuck), and both of them turn their attention directly onto me. Which is barely any better, because being critically assessed as though one is some kind of show-dog isn't much fun either.

"Hair up or down, do you reckon?"

"Oh down, definitely. Sunny's slight wave will suit this dress perfectly. I've got a little red-feather hair-clip in my room if we need it, but I think it will hold on its own with a dash of hairspray."

"I agree," says Saffron, taking a lock of my hair and twirling it between her fingers.

"Smoky make-up or nude?"

"Mmm," replies Saffron, considering. "Something in between? Not sultry, but not too innocent either. Classy; maybe a little understated?"

"This colour for her lips?"

"Oh, that's gorgeous. What is it?"

"Chanel Amour."

"We can always apply it and if it doesn't look quite right, we can wipe it off and try again with something else. I've got a few bold colours that would probably suit."

"Please stop!" I whimper, as they begin to attack me with products. "I'm not a frigging 'Girl's World' you know!"

I can almost feel Saffron and Gabriela giving each other evil, comrade-y glances. I can't see to confirm, because I've got a bloody great metal contraption hanging off my eyelashes. And yes, that is as uncomfortable as it sounds.

"Girl's World?" Gabriela laughs loudly. "I'm going to call you that if you don't stop whinging! Now shut up and sit still, unless you want to look like an Andy Warhol painting!"

I force down the snarky reply that's threatening to strangle me. Now is not the time to antagonise either of them, not when the fate of my face lies firmly in their dangerous paws.

"Do you have any concealer, foundation and powder at all, Sunny?"

"There's an all-in-one thing on my dressing table, but it's quite old and probably solid by now," I mutter apologetically. "I never use the stuff."

"Hmm." Saffron reaches across and grasps the little bottle, grimacing in distaste as she unscrews it. "Fucking Hell, this is the consistency of cement! And it's way too dark for your skin. What were you thinking when you bought it?"

"The sales assistant said it was the right colour," I reply, feeling defensive and incompetent. "She matched it to the skin at the base of my thumb and told me it would be perfect."

"And since when do people wear foundation on their hands, Sunita Chandrakumar?" Gabriela scolds. "Honestly, I can't believe you fell for that crap!"

"It's a bit of a bugger," sighs Saffron, "but I guess we'll have to do without. Luckily, you have reasonably clear skin and it's not too patchy, apart from your freckly bits, of course."

"Leave my sodding freckles out of this."

"Wait! I've got some intelligent foundation in my room," says Gabriela suddenly. "It's a medium shade, so it would probably do for Sunny too - it doesn't have to be an exact colour match as it'll blend in with her natural skin-tone— but if it's fractionally on the light side, we can mix some of Sunny's cement in with it. I'll go and get it."

"Oh fab. Okay, sit still, Sunny. I'll get started on your hair and then Gabi can do your make up as soon as she's back."

Accustomed to Saffron's brutal methods of styling, I screw my eyes shut and grit my teeth, retreating to my inner world and shutting out the discomfort as best I can. It will all be over soon.

Over an hour later, swathed in silk, and coiffed to the nines, I make my way steadily downstairs, to where Al is waiting in the Porter's Lodge. The expression on his face as I saunter up to him makes all the preparation worthwhile, because I've never seen Al Potter look so completely lost for words. His lips are slightly parted, and he's staring as though he doesn't recognise me.

"Uh, hi Al," I say, thankful for the make-up that hides the flush creeping over my cheeks. "You look amazing."

And he does. He looks absolutely fucking hot in white tie. So hot, I'd take him right now. In fact, forget the ball; I might just drag Al up to my room instead and have my way with him.

He exhales softly, then kisses me delicately on my cheek, as though he's afraid I'll smudge. Little does he know that Gabriela has applied so much stuff to my face, I'll probably be preserved like this for centuries.

"Shall we skip the ball and go straight to my room?" I suggest coyly in his ear, only half-joking.

"It's extremely tempting and I'm torn," he murmurs as he holds out an expectant arm, "because you really do look incredible and I'm absolutely blown away, but I'd very much enjoy your company at Trinity college first, if that's not terribly inconvenient."

"As you asked so nicely, Posh Boy," I say cheekily, tucking my hand into the crook of Al's proffered elbow, "I'll oblige. Just this once. But you know, black tie would have sufficed. You've outdone yourself."

"Why would I want to aim for bare minimum? Unless you don't like me in this suit," he asks in faux concern, gesturing to himself.

"Of course I do, but let's just say I'm particularly looking forward to removing it later. Shall we go?"

Trinity college is next-door to St John's so it takes less than five minutes to walk there, but when we arrive, we immediately encounter a long queue of well-dressed people who are occupying the full length of Trinity Street and beyond.

"Bloody Hell! It'll take hours to get into the ball at this rate," I mutter in disappointment as I grind to a halt near the tail-end of the queue. To my surprise, Al doesn't slow. "Hey Alburnum Potter; we need to wait here! Where are you going?"

He simply extracts a ticket from his pocket with a smug flourish. "VIP, sweetheart. We get priority admission and a champagne reception at eight o'clock rather than having to wait until nine."

I think I love this boy.

With no queue to impede us, we're admitted directly into the Great Hall of Trinity college where long rows of champagne glasses greet us, pale gold and glittering under the lights. Expressionless waiters hand them out with practiced efficiency; a conveyor belt of white cotton gloves and formally low bows.

"It's very tempting to go nuts on all this free booze," I say, clinking my glass against Al's and taking a sip, "but we'd never survive the night if we did. Shame, because this stuff is bloody delicious."

"Well they're certainly not skimping on quality," he says, twirling the glass in his hand and studying it. "This isn't a cheap champagne by any means."

"Wonder what canapés are on offer?" I muse, poring over a platter of miniature pastries and blinis, stopping to check the ingredients before I choose something. "Those little brie tartlets look quite nice."

"How about an oyster?"

"Fuck no!" I choke. "Even if I wasn't vegetarian, there's no way I'd be eating that lump of snot!"

"Oysters are delicious and an aphrodisiac, darling. As is the champagne. It's almost as though Trinity college is encouraging procreation this evening," he smirks, reaching out for one of the dark rugged shells with its slimy contents.

I bat his hand away in revulsion. "Honestly, Al; if that thing passes your lips, I swear I am never kissing you again!"

"Oh don't be so crabby."

"Well, it would be pretty shellfish of you to ignore my aversion."

"I'm quite conches of your hatred of molluscs, actually."

"Bollocks, don't make me laugh - I might pull a mussel."

I firmly drag him away from the disgusting seafood selection and distract him with a second glass of champagne and some much more appetising canapés before we fall down a pun wormhole or he spots the langoustine vol-au-vents instead.

There's a pile of schedule pamphlets by the side of a champagne tray. Al picks one up and we flick through it together.

"Where should we go first, do you reckon?" he asks. "There's orchestral music and dancing on the upper floor, some kind of Britpop party on the ground floor, jazz at the end of the hallway, three rooms featuring stand-up comedians, a band called Squid on the centre stage with Reaper Cushions as their supporting act, all kinds of entertainment going on outside including a funfair, and fireworks at midnight. What takes your fancy?"

I pause for a moment. "Anything. Everything. I want to experience it all. Except maybe Squid," I add, shuddering involuntarily as I recall that dreadful date with Paul at the beginning of the year. "I'm, err, not a fan of their music anymore."

"How about the funfair?"

"Ooh yes! I love bumper-cars and carousels and coconut shies! And it's probably best if we go on all the rides before we drink too much or the queues get too long."

"What's a…" Al begins with a frown before stopping abruptly and turning the leaflet over in his hands.

I wait patiently for him to finish his sentence, and when it become apparent he's not going to, I prompt him gently. "What's a what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter." He shakes his head and refuses to comment further. "Come on," he says, holding out his hand for mine. "Let's visit the fair, then."

We stroll down a long corridor which takes us to the main courtyard, already filling with people waiting for a band to appear on the temporarily-erected centre stage. Jostling our way through the crowd, we detour left onto the grounds, where a brightly-illuminated carousel beckons and a high-pitched chorus of joyful squeals fills the air.

With a jolt, I spot Jonty Sullivan in the queue for the chair-o-plane, his hands cupped possessively over the hips of a tall, blonde girl I don't recognise. He sees me and allows his gaze to linger appraisingly for a moment before he emits a brief smile and turns his attention back to the girl. She may be his latest accessory but her stature is identical to her predecessors; leggy, slim, discontented pout. Thank goodness the Universe didn't give way to my desires during Michaelmas term or earlier; I'd just be a sorry notch on his bed-post by now - if I'd been attractive enough to grace his arm, that is. Anyway, Al fucking well knocks spots off him.

"Who do I knock spots off?" Al asks in confusion, his arms looped around my waist, jaw brushing my temple.

"Oh, no-one," I murmur without thinking, before realising just how uncomplimentary that sounds, and hurriedly correcting myself. "I mean everyone, of course." I twist around and plant what I hope is a mollifying kiss on his cheek, bursting into a shriek of laughter when he reciprocates by tickling my neck with his nose.

We scream our way through the chair-o-plane ride. Well I scream, and almost everybody else around me screams. Everybody, that is, except Al; he just assumes a slightly bored expression and looks entirely at ease flying through the air in a rickety tin chair with little safety restraint, as though he pulls this kind of stunt every day.

"Are you one of those high adrenaline threshold people?" I ask him suspiciously, as soon as we're back on solid ground again. "I love white-knuckle rides, but fuck me, that was dangerously precarious, and you showed no reaction whatsoever! Do you regularly go flying through the air on a poorly-assembled chair, then?"

He rubs the back of his head, something he does when he's slightly ill at ease, I've noticed. "Of course not," he snorts. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Hey, what's up? What did I say?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing? You're definitely hiding something; I just know it!" I laugh, curving my hands around his delicious neck. "Don't tell me; you're from a travelling circus and your special talent is being a human cannon-ball, right?"

"You asked me not to tell you so I won't," he immediately quips back, mocking me with a lopsided grin.

"That's not what I meant!"

"Well maybe you should learn to ask what you mean, then," he teases, tipping my chin up with his thumb and planting a kiss on my scowling lips. "Hey, I can hear music. I know you're not into Squid, but maybe we could catch a few minutes of centre stage? I fancy listening in."

"That doesn't sound like Squid," I reply, as a guitarist strikes up a few chords and there's a raucous cheer from the assembled crowd. "It's probably the support act. I've nothing against them."

Reaper Cushions turn out to be pretty bloody amazing, and have the whole crowd rocking within a few minutes, Al and I included. I lose track of time as we pound our feet to the beat, swaying our arms in the air, yelling out the lyrics in response to the band's prompting. Al in particular pays close attention, his eyes not leaving the stage unless it's to share an appreciative glance with me. As soon as Reaper Cushions sing their last note to bow out and announce the headline act, I wrap my fingers around Al's and pull him away from the crush of bodies all clamouring for a glimpse of Squid's rather dishy lead singer.

"They were great," I gasp, hot and raw-throated with exertion. "You seemed transfixed by the group. Was it the attractive blonde girl on drums who was doing it for you?"

"What? No! I'm almost positive I recognised the lead guitarist, that's all. I'm sure he used to play in Patronus Patrol," says Al, looking strangely perplexed.

"Quite possibly. I'm sure guitar players switch bands from time to time. Who the Hell are Patronus Patrol, anyway? I've never heard of them."

"Oh, you won't have," replies Al. "I mean - let me rephrase that - it's highly unlikely you'd recognise their music; they're pretty, umm, obscure. The only reason I've come across them is because my cousin Louis is a musician and heavily into the rock genre - he introduced me to their stuff."

"You have a rock-star cousin? Cool!" I reply in excitement. "What instrument does he play? Or is he a singer? What's the name of his band?"

"Oh he does a bit of all sorts really. He mainly plays keyboard and sings the backing vocals for a band called Strakrad, but he also writes songs for them and a number of other groups; Patronus Patrol included. And he's an accomplished bass guitarist too."

"Wow. He sounds very talented."

"Bordering on genius, actually," says Al with a fond smile. "Hopeless in certain respects and can't make a decent cup of tea to save his life, but unbelievably good at composing music and compiling lyrics. So, what do you want to do next?"

"Good question," I reply. "How about we enjoy a bit of pop music? Or maybe we should check out a stand-up comedy show?"

"Your choice. I picked last time."

"Let's go to room three, then. Jon Ahmad is performing and he's supposed to be hilarious live."

"Sounds good to me."

We flit from room to room; laughing, and dancing, and drinking, and getting swept along with throngs of ball-goers, until we're parked up at the chocolate fountain and I'm suddenly craving something else entirely more delicious than chocolate-dipped strawberries eaten directly from Al's hand.

"Why don't we find somewhere quieter?" I suggest, swiping my finger at a stray droplet of chocolate on Al's lip and licking it seductively.

He understands in a heartbeat. "My thoughts entirely."

Hand in hand, we slip past security and wander off the main track, across the river Cam and onto the tree-lined grounds behind Trinity college. The dusky sky is faintly studded with stars and crisscrossed by dark branches. It's a perfect, undisturbed location.

"Al?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's have sex," I whisper, a little thrill of excitement rushing through me when I feel his wrist pulse accelerating with mine.

"About time. I thought you were never going to ask," he whispers back, running a finger lightly under the strap of my dress, letting it slip down my shoulder.

"Well, you could have suggested it first," I reply brazenly, unknotting his bow-tie and beginning to unfasten his shirt. This particular high-quality champagne appears to be bringing out a side of me I never knew existed, and I feel dizzy with recklessness, wanting nothing more than to fuck Al senseless in this very spot.

"If I'd had the audacity to suggest such a thing, I would have either faced arrest or you'd have turned me down in the harshest possible way."

"As if!" I reply, letting my hands wander over his warm pectoral muscles, my body growing unbearably tense with impatient longing. "I've always wondered what it would be like to do it outside."

And he murmurs huskily in agreement, his urgent kiss matching mine as his cool fingers brush my collar bone, sending flickering flames of desire rippling across my skin.

As it turns out, fucking in the open air happens to be very, erm, rustic. We seem to have selected the woodsiest, most impractical spot for this moment of passion, which is why we're still giggling madly and fishing twigs out of our hair half an hour later when explosive pyrotechnics begin to fill the night sky with a riot of colour.

"Oh! Midnight! I love a good firework display," I sigh, still in the throes of post-sex elation.

"Come on," says Al, tucking his no-longer-a-bow-tie into a pocket and slinging on his jacket over a half-unbuttoned shirt and open waistcoat. "Let's go and watch. We'll get a better view from the riverbank."

He entwines his fingers with mine, pulling me to my feet, then carefully sweeps away the debris from my dress. There's the barest hint of a cool breeze as we make our way back towards Trinity college, and I shiver involuntarily as we approach the river, which is now heaving with punts full of spectators.

"You cold? Here." Without waiting for a response, Al shrugs off his jacket and places it over my shoulders before wrapping me in his arms and resting his chin on the top of my head.

Firework after firework erupts into the sky, to the rhythm of various movie theme tunes, but I'm lost to other thoughts and tiredness in the warmth of Al's embrace. Suffice to say, I barely pay any attention to the proceeding hours and events, which pass by in an indistinct blur. It's not until I'm revived at half-past three by black coffee and hot sugared doughnuts that I begin to take notice of my surroundings again. From that point onwards, it's a case of hanging on to the end for the survivor's group photograph and walking back to St John's, which is easier said than done when I've been on my feet in heels all night.

"Al?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you mind slowing down a bit? These shoes are killing me."

"Oh. Hold on."

Within seconds, he's swept me off my feet - literally - and I'm encased in his arms. "Umm, sorry Al, no, I didn't mean…"

"Relax, Sunny," he murmurs, hitching me up against his torso as I let my hands rest on his shoulders. "I'd carry you wherever you wanted to go."

"Really?" I let out a tired giggle. "How about all the way up the Eiffel tower?"

"Piece of piss," he smirks.

"Everest?"

"Mmm; I'd give it a go."

"Tell you what; my bed would do for now."

"I was hoping you'd say that. What do you want for breakfast?"

"You."

We tumble into my room, discarding chiffon and silk all over the floor, still craving each other's touch despite holding onto each other all night. Even though I'm so exhausted I could fall asleep standing, all I want right now is Al. On top of me, under me, and in me; again and again and again.