Messing About on the River by Kumquatqueen

“Is there somewhere we can sit down and chill?” she asked. “Can’t have you dead on your feet when you need to push a punt for an hour!”

“Hour and a half, depending on the flow and crowds. It’s against the current.” He gave up, stood, and stretched. “Yeah. There’s ambient music in the main marquee, chamber music in the bar, or the casino. Oh, we should give that a go!” He carefully tugged Emily’s skirt back to where it was meant to fall.

“I’m not throwing money away! Besides, I don’t have any, being your kept woman.”

“No! They give you chips. There’s probably prizes for whoever cashes in the most by the end of the night.”

“Lead on, then! Give me the whole James Bond black tie experience!”

“Bad puns, I can do. Suave seduction, not so much.”

Emily jabbed him in the chest. “I think you just did. We can do the follow-through later, as you said. I mean, you never see exactly how it goes with Roger Moore in the films, do you?”

Richie shrugged, yawning. “Down here.”

“Oh, this is fabulous! I’ve always wanted to play the rich gambler… £500 in chips! Want to play poker?” A huge cutout of Athena, goddess of luck, watched over them. A painting on another wall might have been intended as the Fates.

Despite Richie having a serious deadpan face most of the time, he was terrible at hiding his emotions behind it, Emily concluded. He lost most of his chips in ten minutes, followed by idly throwing chips away at roulette, until giving up, tossing his last plastic tokens at Emily’s increasing pile, and telling her, “I’m having a snooze in the corner. Wake me up when you’re done. Or if you get near those amounts on the board up there.” He indicated a scrawled leaderboard in chalk. £1.2 million was the current score to beat.

Emily moved to a blackjack table, which seemed more peaceful. Her luck continued, though she woke Richie half an hour later. “They’re closing in ten minutes. I guess I need to go big. I can’t concentrate much more, anyhow.”

Richie counted. And looked at the top amounts cashed in. Some people were pooling their winnings, to be in chance of a prize. “You’ve got over £400,000! If you put it all on a roulette three-to-one, you could win one of the prizes.” Richie yawned. “Or do red or black, twice. Might even get top prize.”

“Mm. Yeah. I’m not going to be in the running any other way. Right. 21 to 40. Half of it.”

She lost.

“OK. Everything on… Red. Yay! Back to before. And red again. Oh, wow!” She waved her arms in the air in glee.

“One more…” Even Richie couldn’t help slight nerves and excitement.

“Black. Everything on black.” It took a minute to pile up all the chips, even with seven glossy black ones denoting £100,000 each.

Emily watched the metal ball roll on its angular path across the wheel. She sucked her breath between her teeth. The ball slowed, swinging from the green 00 to a black segment, to another…

“Number fourteen. Red.”

“Fuck!” She punched the table in disgust.

“Mm. Damn. I’ve always wanted to go on a balloon ride.” That was the top prize.

“Ah, well. We’ve lost nothing.” She did appreciate his hand taking hers. ‘It’s quieting down, isn’t it?” The clay pigeon man was dismantling the stall.

“There’s that chamber music.” A small hall had cushions and bean bags scattered all round gym mats on the floor, and a string quartet. A new tune began. “May I have the honour of this dance?” he asked, politely.

Emily giggled. “Is there no end to your talents? You said you couldn’t dance!”

“I can’t. I’m pure embarrassing on a dance floor, I’m told. I can’t do formal ballroom, either. I can sort of manage a basic waltz, though.” With his hand around her, and an audible ‘one, two three’ until he remembered how it worked, they traversed the dance floor, Emily doing most of the steering. If anything, they were more dignified than most other couples, who simply stood on the spot, hanging onto each other, some so drunk that that was an achievement. Emily, now mostly sober, pulled Richie out into a spin. He laughed, and tried to do the same. She didn’t fall over, which he took as a win. But as soon as the music changed, they collapsed onto a vacated sofa.

Emily leaned on his chest. Both fell asleep. Until Richie’s phone woke them, with the most unpleasant alarm it had.

“Ug. Fuck. Survivors’ Photo, then I’d better get to work. You can snooze all the way to Grantchester.”

“Mm?” She followed him to the massing crowd, the Georgian buildings behind them. An enterprising coffee stall was passing out cups as fast as they could be filled. Neither Richie nor Emily waited for milk.

“Let’s see if they manage to take the pic in the next ten minutes, or I’ll have to run.”

“I’ll come with you. In the meantime, let me re-do your hair!” She was stern with him.

He knelt in the courtyard, so she could reach. “It’s fine. These trousers have been through way worse.”

“I think this dress needs stitches before it’s fit for going out again, but I wouldn’t have missed that assault course for anything. Your face, as you fell backwards…”

Richie’s face relaxed into a slow smile. “I knew you’d cope.” He nodded as she smoothed down her own hair. Behind them, a pair of presumably-students rushed a retching companion away. “You happily went along with the idea of a ball, even without perfect shoes or jewellery or anything, sorted out what you needed, didn’t whinge or worry – and now look – six a.m., been through the wringer, pretty literally, and look – you’re all perfect and ready for the photo!”

“Oh, hush! You look fantastic yourself. Come on, turn to me a bit so the photo gets your hair. Crowning glory, you know.”

“No morning glory at this time, I tell you,” he muttered. Which meant in the first shot, Emily was guiltily giggling. In the second printed picture, she’d just pulled him down so she could kiss his lips. He’d stood up again, but his face was all wonder. Though they wouldn’t get to see the published photos until the following week.

“Anyway, that’s done. Don’t we need to run, now?”

After some discussion, where Richie refused to chauffeur a punt without Emily in it, the trip organiser was very relieved to find a party of six happy to lie three and three, allowing Emily to ride alone in the narrower two-man section in front of Richie. Even more so, when Richie pushed off and poled along smoothly, catching up with some less-experienced chauffeurs upriver.

“Don’t we get the tour guide experience?” one wag called out, attempting to break Richie’s silence.

In his flattest voice, Richie replied, “Welcome to this 6:15 cruise to Grantchester, Cambridgeshire. Our expected time of arrival is 7:30 a.m. We shall be cruising at a height of approximately zero feet, at a speed of about 2.5 miles per hour. And the safety briefing. Please remain seated at all times. Seriously. If anyone falls out, I’ll laugh. Emergency exits are that way and that way,” – he gestured to each side just like any air steward – “and if anyone feels sick, an entire river is there for you to puke in. Happy now? Good. Please fall asleep.”

Emily looked up at Richie, stoic and impassive at the back of the boat. “You rehearsed that, didn’t you?”

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