Page 1 of You Float My Boat

1. Charlie:

(Kissing with tongues: To be, or not to be?)

Violet Brooks was officially late.

I’d already been warned by her brother that she would be, which is why I’d arrived a quarter of an hour after the time I’d given her, but that was forty-five minutes ago.

I checked my watch again; it didn’t make the hands move any quicker. Neither had drumming my fingers against the table, or tapping my foot, or glancing at the door every two seconds. I’d have left if I wasn’t so desperate for her help.

The condensation slid down the outside of my glass of soda water. Even though it was freezing outside, and snow was beginning to fall thickly, the fire I was sitting beside made the Blue Oar seem positively tropical. It was also quieter in here than usual seeing as it was technically still the Christmas holidays, but by the weekend the place would once again be heaving with students gearing up for the new term.

I glanced out of the windows, where there was still no sign of Violet. I’d already read through one of the daily newspapers left on the bar, so I picked my phone up and typed out some formulas I’d been thinking about for my physics paper – may as well not completely waste my time sitting here.

I was deep in thought about all possible solutions ofF = -kX, when a flurry of white snowflakes whooshed through the air as the doors flung open. The Christmas decorations, yet to be taken down from the ceiling, blew around, barely hanging on by their single silvery threads. The air cleared to reveal a girl standing on the threshold of the pub, and the doors slammed shut behind her. Her bright blue eyes scanned around, widening as they landed on me.

‘Chazzle!’

The fluffy emerald-green coat, which a poor Muppet had been skinned for, had already been shucked off her shoulders by the time she arrived at the table.

The scarf came next: metres and metres of multicoloured cashmere that looked more like a blanket big enough to keep a family of five warm. I stood as she yanked off her large, navy knitted hat with a giant pink bobble on the end of it and dropped into the chair opposite.

‘Sorry, sorry, overslept.’

Overslept?

I certainly wasn’t a fan of early mornings, but it was two in the afternoon.

‘God, it’s bloody boiling in here,’ Violet exclaimed, and proceeded to remove another layer of clothing, this time a black polo neck to reveal a tight white vest, and I briefly wondered if maybe she’d been wearing it in bed, and thrown on the nearest items of clothing she could find before running here. I pushed that thought away only for her tits to squash together as her arms crossed and she pulled the neck of the jumper over her head, finally freeing herself from the confines of cashmere.

I forced myself to focus on a spot over her left shoulder until she stopped wriggling about. Staring at a girl’s breasts was a big no-no, staring at my best friend’s sister’s tits currently snuggled into a green lace bra wasabsolutelyforbidden under any circumstance.

Long caramel-blonde curls, the colour of my golden retriever, Magic, tumbled over her shoulders. Except the bottom inch looked like it had been dipped in purple paint – violet paint – contrasting with the deep azure of her eyes, ringed in navy, and the rosy flush of her cheeks.

Finally, she sat back and looked up at me, the whirlwind she’d walked in with calmed, but in less than a second she sprang up from her chair.

‘Sorry, I didn’t hug you hello.’

I was still yet to say a word and found myself pulled into a hot embrace as she pressed hard against me. She was raised on her tiptoes as her arms wrapped around my neck, but still managed to reach my six-feet-four height without too much effort. Her lips brushed against my cheek and the scent of dark violets and woody amber invaded my nasal passages, making my chest tighten.

‘Well, Chazzle, long time no see.’ She grinned, picking up my pint of sparkling water and taking a massive gulp. ‘Can’t wait to hear what you summoned me for. Huey wouldn’t tell me. Have you been working out, you look bigger? How’s training?’

I blinked, staring as I tried to make sense of the staccato firing of words, before a broad grin spread across my face.

‘Violet?’

‘Yes,’ she finally paused her ramble.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yes, please,’ she replied, picking up mine again and downing the rest. ‘Maybe something a little more alcoholic than water this time.’

I walked over to the bar, ordering a glass of Pinot Noir for her and a pint for me. I had planned to cut alcohol out until after the Boat Race, but in hindsight this conversation would probably need it. While I waited to pay, my eyes found themselves wandering over in her direction.

The last time I saw Violet Brooks she’d been a gangly seventeen-year-old. It was the summer after our first year had ended – Brooks, Oz and I had been at Brooks’ parents’ house in Somerset, where we all chilled out after the Henley Regatta, sleeping, swimming and eating for a week before we’d left for Greece with Oz.

Violet had finished her A-levels and was packing for a year abroad – she’d been a tornado spinning through the rooms, leaving chaos in her wake. That week I must have met a dozen of Violet’s friends, all exactly the same as her, parading through the always open front door at the Brooks’ house. Unlike her brother, who kept a tight circle of friends, Violet seemed to allow anyone entry into her world. The more the merrier.

Now, sat here, her long legs were crossed underneath her, and I peered down at her shoes – Nike high-tops. At six feet four, it was unusual to meet a girl where a hug didn’t result in neck strain from them clinging onto me, but Violet had clearly inherited the Brooks’ family height.

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