Happy Boat Race day everyone!

She watched him as he ate his burger. Watched him savour every mouthful with his beer, juice running down over his fingers and into his palm, watched the look of utter delight that she hadn't seen since they had last eaten roast beef together all those months ago. She wondered what it would be like to see him so happy every day. Mostly she was able to watch him because the television had been switched on to a great cheer from the crowd that had now gathered and Richard was absorbed with the build-up – except for when he was looking at her. Richard had starting glancing her way since she had returned, occasionally offering a little half smile. Camille didn't know what had brought on this increased interest in her but she wasn't complaining. Perhaps it has finally occurred to him just how much work she had put into the party. On the other hand, the knowing looks Charlotte kept sending her way were annoying, because she had no idea what they were about.

It was almost time. She had never known anything like it, the excitement, the apprehension, the camaraderie and the competition. The Oxford graduates had increased their catcalling to titanic levels, Richard for the most part had ignored it, but Charlotte was giving as good as she got.

"Yeah, at least we don't try and sink our competitors!"

"Give it up Lottie, that was over 10 years ago!" replied her brother, "and an accident!" chimed in another, "but congratulations on being the only team to have actually sunk!" shouted a third. The last comment gained the most laughs and Lottie sat down, suitably stung.

The tension was palpable. The start seemed to go on forever, the monotonous commentary, the constant lining up. She had no idea what was going on, other than the fact that there were steady calls of cheat going on between the two teams now.

And finally they were off! There was another rousing cheer and she was amazed to see Richard thump his near empty bottle on the table and roar "Come on Cambridge" at the television, which promptly repaid his allegiance by going blank.

It wasn't his fault – he was too far away from the television for his actions to have possibly knocked out the signal – and yet they had coincided perfectly. Every person in the bar was staring at the screen in horror – it displayed a blank screen with a small message in French informing them there was not enough signal to display the channel. Slowly, almost as one, the Oxford lot turned around to glare at Richard. Charlotte, to her credit, realised that it wasn't his fault stared resolutely back. They were being as badly affected as the Oxford reunion after all.

Camille really felt for Richard now, and she felt a little guilty as well – she knew how precarious the signal was but had been too proud of her little party to warn them this might happen. But there was still time – she surged to her feet declaring, "I can fix it!"

A few nights before, Camille had spent quite a lot of time experimenting with the aerial in different positions to see which gave the best (and most reliable) signal. Actually having the aerial up high – achieved by her standing on the bar – had been best, but she and her mother had been unable to think of a way to secure it into that position. Camille climbed up onto the bar now, with an eager Oxford graduate giving her an entirely unnecessary boost probably designed to cop a feel, and got them to pass the aerial to her whilst she instructed her mother to hit the retune button.

The entire bar held its breath. 30% retuned, 40, 45...the television took a break and the tension became too much for one Oxford graduate who shouted a frustrated "come on!" at the television. It had the effect of continuing the retuning process. 50%, 60%, the horizontal bar on the screen filled agonizingly slowly as Camille began to wonder just how much of the race they were actually missing. The television seemed to hover on a tantalizing 99% for longer than it should toying with everyone's emotions before Camille was able to select BBC1. The channel flickered for a moment before the screen came back into glorious focus.

"Yes!" Just hearing Richard's cry of relief and excitement was enough for her. She stretched a little closer to the ceiling to ensure that the reception didn't suddenly give out of her again, gently shaking loose the helpful hand that was still placed at the top of her thigh, he was definitely trying to cop a feel.

The bar erupted again, everyone's thoughts channelled towards the television. Everyone's except Richard, who sent her a quick and very grateful look. She couldn't help but notice that his eyes lingered on her legs, she knew that the shoes had been a good buy.

They'd lost five minutes of the race. Camille suddenly realised that she may be stuck in this somewhat awkward position for another 15 or more…she hoped this was one of the years the race was over sooner rather than later. Or perhaps one of them would sink. At least she was wearing shorts so nobody could look up her skirt whilst she was stuck up here.

Camille wasn't familiar enough with the route to know what stage they were at. What she could tell is that it was pretty damn close at the moment, and with neither team having a clear lead the excitement in the room only seemed to get more extreme.

"Make a break! Make a breaaaaaakkkkkkkk!" She heard one screaming, then "Get your cox in order Cambridge!" She tried to catch Richard's eye, needing him to reassure her that she had heard correctly and that it wasn't appropriate. But he was too wrapped up in his own retaliation.

"Our cox? Our cox? You're too bloody close!" His attention was on the television again, "Rooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

From her vantage point she could survey the whole room. She took into account Richard in his natural habitat amongst his peers and could finally see why he had struggled to fit in with their team. They were all united in a common activity. And it was not one that Camille found remotely interesting. Sure, the first two minutes had been interesting. The grimacing, the exertion, the pure focus of both teams. But then a map had popped up on the screen showing how much further there was to go and she began to lose interest. It was such a very long way to the finish. She felt her eyes wander first from the river to the buildings alongside it, then to the audience. He wasn't so different after all she thought. He looked the same as everyone else, and as animated as he currently was she thought he looked better. Totally absorbed, his eyes were fixed on the screen, drinking in his home, his university, the city he had left behind.

He glanced up at her and the full impact of his smile hit her. She couldn't help but return it. For the first time she had been utterly disarmed by him. Charlotte glanced up to see what had caught his attention and smirked at her. Camille's smile faded and she felt her arm dropping with tiredness. Someone rushed to remind her of her job. "Hold it Camille...hold it..!" Her resolve stiffened as did the muscles in her arm, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could hold out for.

A hush fell over the crowd as the race started to take shape. "Oh my God we're making a break!" Charlotte's excited voice rang through the bar to many annoyed moans and groans.

"Pull Oxford damn you! Pull!"

"Come on Cambridge! Come on!" Camille thought she had rarely seen him so excited. Both his hands were bunched into fists, his face contorted into a competitive scowl. He looked less...bookish. More manly.

And then she saw Charlotte's arm around him. Them both jumping up and down in excitement.

She very nearly dropped the aerial then. Especially when she saw one of the men elbow Charlotte's brother and waggle his eyebrows, point at the pair of them. Her brother, unimpressed, punched him on the shoulder. Camille was also not impressed, and had to bite her tongue. A clearly pessimistic Oxford supporter near her feet mumbled despondently, "Oh my God Cambridge are going to set a record." The rest of the men were starting to quieten down now as well, with Cambridge clearly pulling further into the lead. She almost felt sorry for the Oxford lot, as it would surely have been better for them to lose by a short margin than a long one.

"Oxford won the goat race," somebody said towards the back of the crowd, staring at their phone. It was met by groans – clearly the others didn't feel this goat race (Camille would have to look that up later) was something worth celebrating.

"Yeah well it is the only thing you lot are winning today," Richard said gleefully. "Was that a stroke Oxford just missed, right off their stride now, aren't they?" He'd put up with plenty of ribbing today, so Camille supposed he had the right to gloat (for once). He and Charlotte were able to move closer to the screen (and her) now Oxford were losing and it was becoming more painful for the other spectators to watch. They were on the final straight now, the crowds on the banks were going crazy.

"And Cambridge have an 11 length lead now," She heard the commentator say. "Coming up to 15 minutes we are looking at a record if they can get over that finish line in the next minute. Good burst of speed there, they clearly realise there is more than just the win at stake!"

Richard and Charlotte weren't cheering anymore, instead they seemed to be holding their breath – waiting to see if Cambridge could not only beat Oxford into the ground (or river) but do so with a record breaking time.

"20 seconds to go before Cambridge miss out on a new record and I wish I could convey to you the atmosphere here…and YES! Cambridge have done it, they are the winners of the 161st boat race and in a record time of 16 minutes on the dot!"

But Camille couldn't focus on the win. The television might as well have been turned off, her ears were mute to the commentary, to the shouting to the groaning that was now coming from Oxford. Only one thing had her attention. Richard and Charlotte had now added hugging to their jumping. Hugging! - She thought bitterly of their one and only hug, awkward in the extreme, nothing like the jubilation that he was now experiencing. He looked up and caught her eye, making a face to try and make her understand that he wasn't entirely comfortable in this particular hug. Camille smiled and nodded but tried to take a step back to put more distance between them, forgetting for a moment that she was on the bar.

Her heel went over the edge.

She balanced precariously, teetering for a precious half second which seemed like an eternity, before gravity got the better of her and she began to fall, pulling the aerial out of the television as she did so.

She braced herself for the crack of her head hitting the floor or a table or a chair and held her breath. Only it never came. Instead she felt tight arms wrap themselves around her torso, cushioning her body while her feet came to rest on the floor.

Once her mind had fully comprehended this turn in events, Camille looked up to thank whichever one of the Oxford graduates had grabbed her, hoping they weren't expecting anything more than a simple verbal expression of gratitude. To her surprise, it was a pair of very familiar green eyes she found herself looking into. Richard had somehow managed to catch her, a fact she felt the need to say aloud.

"You caught me!" Dear God, she sounded flustered.

"Yes I did," he said, seeming a little surprised by the fact himself. "Actually at school we did this thing where somebody drops a metre ruler and you have to catch it between your thumb and forefinger and the distance on the ruler is a measure of reflexes and I had the best in class," he rambled. Camille didn't care what he was saying, as long as he didn't move away from her.

She focused on his proximity, the sweet smell of beer that she knew she also had, his hands firm in their grip on her back and her shoulder. She realised he was waiting for her to talk.

"Well thank you," she told him sincerely.

"No, um, thank you," he said.

This confused her a moment, "For falling?"

He gave a nervous little laugh that was also incredibly attractive. "No, for this whole thing – for giving me the boat race."

"Well I didn't arrange the boat race, Richard," she said cheekily. "Somebody told me that it has been held in the centre of London every year since 1856."

He felt her fingers at the nape of his neck and wondered if she had forgotten they were there. She curled her hands around the skin and toyed with the short strands and he began to realise that she might want them there. He was pretty sure that the last man she had done this too had not been suffering from hair loss.

Those big brown eyes were still looking at him, willing him to respond, to flirt back. He risked a look at her lips. She noticed and a small smile bloomed on her face. He thought about everything that had happened between them, about Charlotte thinking they were already a couple, about her buying him trousers, about her shoes in the Cambridge colours, about how much he desperately wanted to kiss her.

"Camille?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She was going to object to that, but then he was kissing her. It turned out it was very difficult to object to being told to shut up when you were being given such a pleasant activity to distract you from talking.

Charlotte saw the pair of them and felt like she was watching the end of some great romantic movie – except it was a lot more awkward. Her brother walked over to her and patted her a few times on the back. "Do you want me to beat him up?" He offered, taking her aback.

"Beat him up? Why on earth would you beat him up?"

"Because he led you on Lottie," he said wide-eyed. "It's just not on! Nobody insults a Salter lass like that on my watch!"

She was starting to think this island existed in some kind of parallel universe where Shakespearean farces were real. Before her brother hastily attempted to defend her honour she told him, "He wasn't leading me on. We had a conversation in which I mentioned I was single at the moment but interested in somebody else…"

"You are?" He replied, wide eyed. "Ah, it's not John is it? Because I will beat him up!"

"Never you mind who it is," she said quickly, thinking they were both too old for this routine. She wasn't a teenager anymore. "The point is Richard didn't lead me on, so no poundings are to be handed out today. Apart from the one Cambridge just gave Oxford," she couldn't help but add on the end.

"Aye, alright Lottie," he said, smirking. "No poundings. Though I think me and some of the other boys would agree it might be time the pair of them broke it off…"

In his moment of triumph Richard had forgotten that the television had lost reception and that the bar was quiet in light of there being so few Cambridge alumni. He had forgotten that Camille's mother was in the bar, and that he probably wasn't the most popular of people given the fact that his team had just won. Neither saw the nudging or heard the catcalling. And they certainly didn't see anyone remove the soda jet from its holding behind the bar.

A steady jet of fizzy water hit them both on the cheek and they separated spluttering like chastised dogs, Richard looking mortified and Camille desperately trying to avoid Catherine's amused eye.

Charlotte grimaced apologetically, "I couldn't stop them."

"Well it is probably better than being thrown in the Thames," Richard said, able to be magnanimous for once.

"Well we don't currently have access to the Thames," one of the Oxford lot said sensibly. "Mind I believe the sea isn't too far off? And it doesn't seem fair that the other Cambridge supporter should go unscathed…"

As the men all cheered and gathered around Charlotte, Richard saw her sigh. She was clearly resigned to her fate. The men easily lifted her and carried her off in the direction of the ocean, and he even thought he saw a half smile on her face implying she might actually be enjoying herself. "Aren't you going to help her?" Camille asked.

"No. Being thrown in the Caribbean Sea is also a lot nicer than being thrown in the Thames."

She giggled. "How do you know you've never been in either?"

"I've been in the sea here." She raised an eyebrow. He conceded, "for a paddle." He closed his eyes. "Oh God, what are you doing with me?"

"I think it's called kissing."

"Yeah, well don't think too hard or you might decide that is as far as you ever want it to go."

Camille noted that her mother had decided to make herself scarce, probably to give the pair of them a little privacy – as well as start the masses of washing up. She found a small smirk forming on her face, "Perhaps you should show me what I would be missing out on then?"

It was his turn to become flustered – or rather revert to being flustered, as he seemed to spend so much of his life in that state. Camille was about to backpedal a little, adapt a more softly-softly approach before she lost him, when a glint appeared in his eye. It seemed to her Richard Poole might just have had a revelation. No doubt the fact she was currently wearing a wet t-shirt helped.

"That," he said, hands coming back to her waist tugging gently at the sodden material as if to reinforce her last thought, "seems like a very sensible plan of action."

She was about to reply that she liked a man of action, when she saw him looking at her feet. She followed his gaze down and he said rather despondently, "they ruined your shoes." She didn't say anything, studying the discolouration for herself. "And they're your Cambridge shoes." She shrugged and he thought she looked annoyed at the water stain that in all probability wouldn't come out. He took the opportunity for the first time in his life to be gallant, after all he had kissed her leading to the shoes being ruined, and spoke before he could stop himself. "I'll buy you some more if you like?"

Well, that was an opportunity she couldn't pass up. She grabbed his hand and led him to the door. Richard was looking slightly reticent until she explained cheekily. "Perhaps tomorrow. You realise you don't have to buy me gifts just because I kissed you right? Because it isn't that much of a hardship."

"That is not why I offered," he protested.

"Good," she said, the cheeky grin still firmly in place. "Well then tomorrow perhaps you can buy me shoes and a bag."

Richard allowed himself to be dragged away, and despite his brain focusing on the fact that her t shirt really was clinging to her body in a very alluring and provocative way he couldn't help feeling that he was being manipulated.

But then he thought, he didn't think he cared anymore.