"Attention everyone. This is your MedSoc captain speaking. Don't forget that punts are set to sail at 2pm today, bound for Grantchester. The afternoon weather forecast is excellent and there's a high possibility that you'll end up in the river Cam at some point. Swimwear is optional but recommended. Over and out."

I pause, mid-doodle, and look up. I'd almost forgotten about signing up for this end-of-term river punting expedition, which is not really an expedition because everyone knows where Grantchester is, but you catch my drift. It's the last day of Lent term today, before we break up for Easter holidays and break down with revision stress. We only have two lectures this morning, one of which has just finished and was completely pointless if you ask me, as it was a recap of last term's lecture on obsolete antibiotics. Why should we give a shit about drugs we'll never use? What an utter waste of time. Still, I'm quite pleased with how artistically I've shaded in the plasmid diagram in my pathology handbook.

Yoshi and Leonard, who are sitting in front of us as per usual, turn around in their seats.

"You lot are going punting this afternoon, aren't you?"

"Of course," replies Judith promptly. "It was organised weeks ago, remember?"

"Oh fabulous," exclaims Leonard, enthused. "Yoshi and I were wondering whether you would care to join us in an eight-seater? We're looking for a minimum of four people, otherwise it's not particularly cost-effective."

"What you mean is you can't afford it on your own," says Saffron drily.

"Something like that, Sugarplum; yes," confesses Leonard, looking rather bashful.

"So there are six spaces to fill, hmm?"

"Five if we splash out on a punt with a guide."

"I thought you were on a budget, Lenbot."

"If we all chip in, it's just about doable."

"It costs a fortune to hire a punter! What a waste of money," frowns Judith.

"Al will join us, won't he?"

"Err, what about Orla?"

"What about Orla?"

"Orla? Really? We barely know her."

"Oh, but Butterscotch; I, for one, would love to be better acquainted with Orla. Ow!" Leonard shrieks and rubs his shoulder where Saffron has just stabbed him with a pencil. "Was that absolutely necessary?"

Shaking his head, Yoshi continues. "I doubt we'll get Al without Orla. They're kind of joined at the hip these days," he says seriously.

"Sometimes, needs must," I mutter.

"But what about the punter?"

"We'll just have to punt the thing ourselves. Seriously, how hard can it be?"

"Last time I tried punting, I kept steering into the river-bank and getting stuck. It's so much harder than it looks. Oh stop it, Lenny," says Saffron, glaring at Leonard, who is sniggering childishly and wiggling a finger at her. "Must you make an innuendo out of everything?"

"Jesus, will you two pack it in? Will someone go and ask Al?"

"I'll do it."

Yoshi squeezes past Leonard and scurries down the steps to where Al is sitting with Orla, returning moments later bearing a glum expression.

"Apparently, they're punting to Grantchester this afternoon, but they've made other arrangements and won't be sailing with us. They send their apologies."

"Did we upset Al? I wonder why he won't sit here any more."

"He came out drinking with us last week, remember?"

"Yeah, but he's definitely avoided us in classes lately. I know he said that Orla was in need of a friend, but he didn't have to desert us completely."

Veronica discreetly makes an 'under the thumb' gesture and pulls a face. "I think Orla might have had something to do with keeping Al in confinement."

I smile wanly. I understand Al's loyalty to his friend, but I've missed his company in lectures.

"So are you four profiteroles up for sharing, then?"

Saffron eyes him demurely. "I'll need to confer." She turns to the three of us, dropping her voice to a low whisper. "What do you think, girls?"

"Why are they even asking? Who else are we supposed to punt with? It's not like we've been inundated with offers."

"Just run with it, okay? Let them think we're popular enough to ditch them."

"What's in it for us?"

"Can they punt?" I ask. "Because if they can't, it's going to be a lot of work for us and it might take us years to reach Grantchester."

"It'll be a lot of work for you, Jude and Ronnie. I am not touching that punting pole OR the steering thingy," replies Saffron firmly.

"Are they providing refreshments?"

"I think we need to decide our terms and conditions."

"A bottle of champagne?"

"Ronnie, you gotta learn to think much bigger, girl."

"Two bottles?"

"Okay, listen; how about they provide the nutrition and labour, and we'll deign to accompany them?"

"Sounds pretty fair to me."

"Everyone can bring their own food and drink," says Judith fairly. "You can't expect Lenbot to provide all the refreshments. No buts, Saff," she adds, holding up a hand as a mutinous Saffron attempts to interject.

We turn to face the guys and bring forth our proposal.

"Right, boys," I say as authoritatively as I can manage. "We've had a discussion and if you are prepared to do the grafting bit…"

"Of course," beams Yoshi immediately. "Lenny would LOVE to be the punter."

"I would?" Lenny's eyes grow wide in panic. "But Yoshi, Grantchester is miles away!"

"It's less than a mile, you wimp." Yoshi nudges him assertively. "Honestly, once you get into your stride, it'll be a piece of piss."

"My arms will be pieces of piss by the end of the day," moans Leonard gloomily. "Can't we distribute the work more evenly between us?"

"Absolutely not. I'm practically a concert violinist and these limbs are valuable, man." Yoshi clutches his noodle-like appendages protectively.

"For fuck's sake Yoshi, it won't kill any of us to share the work. I'll do some of it," snaps Judith. "I could do with an upper body workout today."

"Does that mean you'll join us?" Yoshi and Lenny look at us like two expectant puppies waiting for a biscuit.

"Oh, go on, then," mutters Saffron, as though we have any fancier alternatives to consider.

A number of hours later, after a spectacular crash into another punt, lots of whining from Leonard, and a near-miss with an ancient bridge, we pull up at a mooring close to Byron's pool in Grantchester, where we disembark and climb up the grassy riverbank to dump our belongings. Byron's pool, best described as a 'bulge' in the river Cam, is already roiling with students, its usual tranquility shattered by shrieks and splashes.

There are a variety of reasons why ending up in the river Cam is a bad, bad idea if you're me, even if it is nearly twenty-three degrees Celsius on this astonishingly warm March afternoon. One; I'm a lousy swimmer. Two; I'm terrified of drowning, which is a legitimate fear when you're as lousy a swimmer as I am. Three; this river is grim as fuck. The bottom isn't visible and God only knows what living (and dead) horrors are hiding in its depths. Four; I could really do without an opportunity to look as stupid as possible in front of gorgeous Al Potter, who is currently submerged to his very sexy shoulders, and shaking water from his glossy dark hair.

Honestly, it should be illegal to have a body that sculpted and hot. I'm surprised the river isn't evaporating around him. Where he finds the time to develop such a defined torso and toned limbs is beyond me.

"It's too hot to sit here," says Saffron happily, pulling off her clothes to reveal a navy and turquoise swimsuit. "I LOVE open water swimming! Don't you fancy a dip, Sunny?"

"No I fucking don't. I can barely swim," I reply. "Sitting on the grass is safer. And warmer. That river will be bloody freezing."

"Ah, come on! Everyone else is already in - look!"

I glance over to where Saffron is pointing, to see Veronica and Judith laughing and flinging water at each other. Some people have simply stripped off without a care in the world, wading into the water in just their underwear. One or two seem better prepared, and, like Saffron, have removed their clothes to reveal trunks, swimming costumes or bikinis underneath. Orla, of course, looks like a fucking goddess in her silver swimwear, and watching her dive neatly into the Cam, it's obvious that she's a fantastic, fearless swimmer as well as a model of physical perfection. Yoshi and Leonard are right in the centre of the pool where the water must be at its deepest. I'm the only member of our little social group to remain on the riverbank.

"Hey, Sunita!" Al's shout momentarily startles me out of my daze. "Jump in!" He pats the surface of the water in an enticing manner.

Shyly, I shake my head. "I'm fine here, thanks," I reply, hiding a smile. And it's entirely true; I can admire him far better from this vantage point.

Anyway, there's no way I would want to bare my body and, more to the point, my shabby greying underwear in front of him. It's just not happening. Judith swims over to where I'm sitting and waves her arm.

"Ah, come on, Sunny. It's lovely and refreshing in here," she calls out.

"Jude, you're an excellent swimmer," I reply. "You like the wet stuff and I don't. Honestly, bricks swim better than I do, and there's nothing refreshing about the Cam. It's full of effluence and old bicycle tyres."

"Mate, you're missing out. Oh well; your loss." Judith shrugs and plunges back into the fray.

"Watch out for turds," I yell as she cuts effortlessly through the water. I recline back against my elbows and watch the antics, deliberately trying not to fix my attention on a particular person.

I must have dozed off for a while under the sun, because I'm startled out of a vague dream by the sudden increase in volume of background noise.

"Piggy-back race to The Crick!" screams some burly guy who I don't recognise, as he clambers ungracefully out of the river and up a shallow section of the bank. "Last one to the bar buys the round. Go go go!"

A tidal wave of students follows him, crashing out of the river towards where I'm sitting; squealing and yelling and jostling for riverbank access. I scramble to my feet and brush the dried grass away from my backside, hitch my bag over my shoulder and make my way sedately to The Crick pub like a normal, civilised person.

Several minutes into my stroll, someone gently jolts my elbow. I turn and, to my surprise, find myself looking into Al's oceanic eyes, more mesmerising than ever under their canopy of dark lashes. He's close enough for me to see a glimmer of topaz around his pupils, golden like the halo of an eclipsed sun.

"Come on, Sunita; hop on." He has the same irresistible expression he wore when he asked me if I wanted to dance back in February. The one that almost sent me into ventricular tachycardia. The one that got my hopes up, only for them to be dashed to the ground when nothing happened between us. I crashed and burned once; I mustn't let myself do the same again. Learn goddammit, Sunita; learn.

"Thanks, but I think I'll just walk," I reply reluctantly, turning away to hide the rising tide of crimson creeping over my face.

He laughs and shakes his head, as though he's unwilling to accept my answer.

"Al?" A long-limbed copper-haired girl reaches out and twirls a hopeful arm around him. "Give me a piggy-back? Please?"

He flashes the girl - Marnie, I think her name is - his trademark heart-stopping grin. She flirts back with enthusiasm. Averting my eyes, I leave them to it and carry on walking, my chest slightly heavy with the ever-familiar weight of disappointment. I begin to wonder where Orla is, and whether she'll shoot daggers at Marnie when she sees her clinging to Al's back.

I hear the patter of footsteps behind me and assume Al is about to run past with his new admirer, but suddenly the floor disappears from under my feet and I'm being lifted into the air by a pair of muscular arms. I let out a small gasp and hear Al's low chuckle.

"Oh my God, Al!" I shriek. "Put me down!"

"Nope," he replies, as he slings me unceremoniously over his shoulder, wraps an arm securely around my thighs and begins to jog forwards. "Got a race to win."

"At my expense?"

"If this is what it takes, then yes."

"Bastard."

He laughs, his breath coming out in short bursts. "Aw Sunny, come on! I turned poor Mary down to give you a lift instead."

Immediately, I pounce on his mistake, pummelling his back lightly with my fists as I reprimand him loudly. "Her name's Marnie, you idiot; not Mary! I can't believe you actually got something wrong for once!"

"Actually, it's Marley," yells the copper-head from somewhere behind us. I let out an involuntary giggle.

"Ah." Al's hold tightens around my legs. "Let's get out of here," he mumbles.

"Jesus, okay, but please don't throw me in the river."

"As if I would. Don't you trust me?"

"No!"

It's a bit of a lie. Of course I do. For reasons beyond my powers of explanation, I've never felt safer than when I'm with him.

*****

As soon as we reach the pub, it's clear that there's an issue of some sort. Al lowers me gently to the ground and we survey the scene.

"The Crick is packed. Not even standing room," grumbles a tall, chestnut-haired guy, who I recognise as a Churchill college medic. A number of students are milling around outside in the pub car-park, debating where else to go instead.

I narrow my eyes. "But The Crick has a beer garden 'round the back. There's got to be space there, surely?"

"Apparently, they've hired it out for a function today." Churchill college guy draws air quotation marks and raises a cynical eyebrow. "In March. Yeah, right."

"Guess they didn't fancy a shed-load of wet, half-naked students rocking up and mingling with the locals," I reply. "I can't think why that would be."

Al pauses for a moment. "What about The Green Man?"

"The whole of Catz boat club's in there. And 'Orchards' is shut for refurbishment, so that's a no-go too."

"Hmm." Al turns to me. "We could try "Nobody's Inn? That's a nice little pub. It's just down the road from here."

"Sounds great to me. Let's round up the troops and go."

"What's Al short for, by the way? Or is it just Al?" I ask, sudden curiosity getting the better of me. It's a quarter past eleven and we're walking drunkenly hand in hand through Grantchester meadow with a smattering of other students, all returning to our respective colleges after an evening spent at Nobody's Inn. Judith and Yoshi left the pub before six, citing triathlon training and orchestra practice as their respective reasons for an early departure, leaving Saffron, Veronica, Leonard, Al and I to carry on drinking. Then, Veronica headed for a night out clubbing with some of her college friends, and fuck only knows what happened to Saffron and Leonard, who we lost about an hour ago.

Now that the air temperature has dropped to almost freezing, the city of Cambridge has never felt so far away. We tried phoning for a taxi, only to find none available for the next three-quarters of an hour. Fortunately, there's something exceptionally heartwarming about being in Al's company under the stars, which makes this completely mad idea far more bearable.

I give Al's warm fingers a light squeeze. "Not going to tell me, then? What's Al an abbreviation of?"

There's an extensive pause before he clears his throat and answers my repeated question. "Nothing. It's just Al."

"I don't believe you. You spent too long thinking up a reply to a simple question about your own name. You're clearly hiding something. Is it that terrible?"

His eyes are starting to crinkle, a sure sign he's stifling a laugh. "The name's Al, okay?"

"It can't be just Al. There's got to be more to it than that."

He laughs. "I'm not saying."

"A-ha! So it is short for something!" I say triumphantly.

"I've told you; I'm not saying!"

"Ah, go on. Tell me!"

"If you guess correctly, I'll confirm." he said. His voice is lilted with embarrassment.

"Oh, I'll guess it," I reply happily. "I bloody love guessing games! Is it Alastair?"

"Nope"

"Albert"

"No!"

"Alphonso"

"Hell no!"

"Algernon. No, wait! Alan!" I cried.

"Wrong and wronger."

"Alfred"

"Not even close"

"I give up."

"I thought you loved guessing games?"

"I used to love them. Can I have a clue?"

"No."

I muse out loud. "Okay, let's try place names. Maybe your parents named you after the location of your conception, like the Beckhams did with their eldest son, Brooklyn." Al simply stares at me in bemusement as I carry on in a drunken ramble.

"Hmm, let's see. You were lovingly created in Alicante? Or meticulously planned in America somewhere. Your mother ovulated in Alabama? Felt fertile in Alaska? Your folks did the horizontal tango in Albuquerque? Shit. Don't tell me you're the result of a dirty weekend in Aldershot?"

By now, Al is looking horrified and laughing at the same time. "What will it take to get you to stop, you pisshead? Oh for fuck's sake, I'll give you a hint. I'm named after a dead guy."

What help is that? Billions of people have died over the years! I roll my eyes. I'm not giving up easily, though.

"Dear beloved Alexander, cherished family member…" I begin sombrely.

"You'll have to try harder than that."

"Aladdin, now clad-in, a coffin, poor boffin."

"You are fucking insane."

"Gimme a better clue, then!" I wheedle, swinging on his arm like a hyperactive child.

"It's derived from Latin."

"Alimentary. Algorithm. Alimony," I reel off smoothly. I knew GCSE Latin would eventually come in useful and today is it's day. "Albino. Albumin."

Al freezes for a second, like a startled hare caught in headlights.

I'm close, and I know it. I can almost smell victory.

"Ha! Albu…" is as far as I get before he interrupts, the tips of his fingers lightly supporting my jawbone as the ball of his thumb skims over the surface of my lips.

"Sunny."

His voice is like a honeyed warmth in the cold night, snaring my heart with longing. I fall silent, not daring to hope that this might be…it? Tilting my chin upwards, I hesitantly curl a hand around the back of his neck, letting my fingers furrow through his dense, surprisingly soft hair. He lets out a soft groan as his forehead tips forward, mouth hovering over mine as though waiting for permission to connect. I waste no further time in closing the gap between us, lightly touching the tip of my tongue to his lips.

He responds with tantalising gentleness.

I try to hold back initially, suppressing the overriding instinct to kiss him back as fiercely as possible, in case this is some sort of cruel, alcohol-induced mirage, but within seconds I've succumbed; returning the action with fervour. Like a greedy child with hungry eyes only for their favourite sweets in a pick-n-mix selection, I am powerless against my own gusto. My only hope is that Al is taking this attack to his face with the same level of enthusiasm as I'm bestowing it. He's certainly not trying very hard to push me away, at any rate.

Nothing beats the feeling of wild imagination growing into reality. If I could preserve only one moment in time, it would be this bewitching, euphoric experience. Although maybe I shouldn't wish that; this night is cold enough to freeze us solidly in place as we stand, locked in this union of tongues and lips and hands, whilst the river Cam flows sluggishly by and a melancholy owl hoots overhead.

Eventually, we break lip contact, our breaths misting the air together; pastel grey vanishing into the velvet indigo night. There's no need for words; as though in psychic synchrony, we carry on walking, silently in step with each other, the weight of Al's arm comfortingly draped around me.

I can scarcely believe I have just kissed Al Potter, and am now wearing his arm across my shoulders; it's been on my secret bucket list for a while now.

"What, get pissed in Grantchester and stagger back to Cambridge in the cold?"

Fuck. What exactly did I let slip? Thankfully, it's too dark for him to see how red I've just gone.

"Naturally," I reply, hurriedly trying to cover up the embarrassing admission. "I've been longing for a long, drunken walk back to college with someone I don't know the name of. This is the stuff dreams are made of."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope. "

"Then neither am I."

"Glad we've sorted that out, Alabaster. You don't have to escort me back to College, by the way. Pembroke is closer; I'll be fine to walk alone from there."

"That may be, but I'm going to do it anyway so don't bother protesting."

"But…" is all I manage to articulate before Al cuts in, his smooth voice bristling with insistency.

"You are not walking back to St John's on your own. End of."

I wrap my arms around his waist and hastily change the subject. "Are you going home tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I was planning on heading back in the morning. What about you?"

"Not leaving 'til Sunday. My Dad can't pick me up any earlier."

"I could delay until Saturday evening, I suppose," he muses thoughtfully. "I mean…would you fancy meeting up for lunch tomorrow? You know, if you've got nothing butter to do."

It's impossible to stop the grin from stretching across my face. "Sure. I'll roll with it."

"Well, that's a wrap. But lettuce not get curried away, yeah?

"Oh cheesus. Must you make a meal out of everything?"

Deliriously happy by Al Potter's side, suddenly the walk back to Cambridge doesn't seem anywhere near long enough. As the orange spheres of city street lamps loom ever closer, I comfort myself with the thought that there is going to be a tomorrow after this perfect, perfect day.