Free Mystical Paths by Susan Howatch

undermine her argument and finally won the debate by shouting out a quotation in Latin.
    ‘Phew!’ gasped Palmer pie-eyed.
    I couldn’t make up my mind whether he liked Venetia as much as he appeared to like her, or whether the friendly admiration was just an act, part of an adroit social manner which could be switched on and off without effort. There was something unreadable about Palmer. He had brown hair, neatly cut and parted, bland blue eyes and a square, unremarkable face which any poker-player would have envied; he economised constantly in his use of facial muscles. He was shorter than Christian. I remember noticing, as I glanced in the glass above the fireplace, that Christian and I were the same height: six feet exactly.
    The party blazed on. Having reviewed my limited knowledge of Christian’s special subject, I finally managed to compose a sentence suitable for opening a conversation with him (‘Could the work of Joachim of Flora be considered a forerunner of the Mandan view of history?’) but unfortunately I never managed to ask this mind-bending question because I was collared by Michael Ashworth. He wasn’t engaged to Marina in those days and was busy being girl-mad, reacting against his father, the strait-laced bishop, and his brother, Charley-the-Prig. I had been watching him as I devised my question about Joachim of Flora. He had been sprawled on the sofa with two girls, his right arm squeezing the waist of the blonde (Emma-Louise) while his left hand squeezed the breast of the brunette. This unknown brunette interested me deeply. She was an ultra-steamy concoction of heaving cleavage, lissom legs and smouldering dark eyes.
    ‘This is Dinkie,’ said Michael, having nobly abandoned his squeezing in order to look after me. Although nearly three years my senior he always took a benevolent interest in my welfare.
    ‘Hiya, gorgeous,’ said the steamy brunette in a show-stopping American drawl.
    ‘Hi.’ Of course I could think of nothing else to say. What hell it is to be young.
    ‘I just love to make passes,’ said this fabulous creature, ‘at guys who wear glasses.’
    This indeed was an education. I had lost my virginity a month after my encounter with Marina the previous summer, but I still knew very little about girls and I still thought my reflection in the mirror fell far short of the masculine ideal which would be demanded by any discerning steamy brunette. I was glad to be tall but I hated being so lanky and angular. I was glad not to be blind but I hated having to wear glasses. I was glad to be white, since life in England was such hell for blacks, but I hated the unusual pallor of my skin. I was glad not to be a hermaphrodite but I hated being so unremarkable below the waist. Since the loss of my virginity I had accepted that average-sized genitals were quite sufficient to see me through life, but nevertheless I remained discontented because I had hoped to be compensated for my plain looks by being supremely well-endowed sexually. (What hell it is to be young.) No wonder I was so tempted to rely for sex-appeal not on my physique but on my psyche. It was all very well for my father to drone on about those ‘glamorous powers’ which could be so easily purloined by the Devil, but at the insecure age of twenty it was hard to resist parading all the glamour at my disposal once a steamy brunette appeared on the horizon.
    ‘A soothsayer, huh?’ purred Dinkie Kauffman at Marina’s party that night. ‘Tell my fortune, Wonder-Cat, and be sure you make it cool!’
    But before I could begin to produce the usual intuitive rubbish, Christian clapped his hands to gain everyone’s attention and I realised that the climax of the party had been reached. The lights were switched off, the curtains pulled back and as the floodlit Cathedral was revealed beyond the window, Christian proposed a toast to Starbridge. I had long since finished my Coke but I thought I might eat, rather than drink, the toast so