Casting Off Read Online Free

little way off. I don’t know if it was nerves or jet lag but everything seemed to be moving in fast forward.
    I followed him down the narrow companionway steps into the innards of the boat. It was boiling hot even though all the fans were on. And cramped. My bags seemed to be taking up all the room. I
turned round and round, not knowing what to do with myself. The confidence I’d felt in London had totally vanished.
    ‘Drink?’ Steve asked.
    ‘Yes please. What do you have?’
    ‘Everything.’ Which actually meant not much, unless I wanted alcohol. I took an orange juice and then, because I was so hot, another one, and somehow started to feel guilty. Steve
was nervously pacing around the boat moving things. Neither of us really knew what to do or say. Maybe a beer or at least vodka in my orange would have been a good idea, I thought. Bit of social
lubrication and all that.
    I perched in silence on a blue sofa and looked around, feeling more and more uncomfortable. The interior was made of dark wood, like in many older boats, and that made the space feel even
smaller. To my left were the steps up to the deck; in the centre of the saloon was a large table and the mast, which had a flat screen TV bolted to it. There was another blue seat opposite me.
Cupboards lined two walls and washing was hanging from a line that had been strung up across the room, including a pair of extremely large faded jeans. They looked way too big to be Steve’s,
unless he’d lost an extraordinary amount of weight. Or possibly he just liked the baggy 1990s NKOTB look.
    To my left, past one side of the stairs, was the galley, and to my right the forepeak cabin, which was a triangular sleeping platform with cupboards along each wall, and a bathroom. I could see
a shower curtain through the open door.
    A tabby cat wandered into the saloon. ‘That’s Layla,’ Steve said. She stared at me with her yellow eyes and settled herself down on the top step. Cats bring out a kind of
broody instinct in me. Dogs I can’t deal with, but cats I like. I always say hello to any I come across in the street. Friends’ pets usually seek out my lap to sit on because they know
I’ll lavish them with attention. One day, a few decades down the line, I imagine the neighbourhood kids will refer to me as ‘the mad cat lady’.
    I decided it would be a good idea to make friends. ‘Hello, Layla,’ I crooned at her as I approached, right hand lifted ready to stroke her soft, stripy fur. No miaow in reply.
‘Don’t touch her bum or she’ll bite you,’ Steve advised. I stopped, my fingers inches above her back. I eyed Layla; Layla eyed me. She didn’t look friendly. At all. I
retreated and sat back down on the sofa, sans cat on my lap.
    I fidgeted, waited and sweated in my jeans, watching Steve pick things up and put them down again. He seemed vacant, unable to concentrate on anything or finish his sentences.
Why am I
here?
I asked myself for the nth time.
This man is odd, borderline rude. Even his cat is standoffish. At the regatta I’ll have to meet other people and jump ship.
Not a good
start to my adventure. I took off my boots and socks, coat and cardigan, as much to have something to do as to cool down. Finally Steve broke off from his pottering to offer me a shower.
    Although I was desperate to have a wash, it felt odd to shower while a stranger was nearby. While the door to the head (bathroom) did close after a lot of rearranging of the shower curtain, the
one for the cabin didn’t. I prayed my small travelling towel would not fall down while I rooted around in my bag for some clothes, painfully aware that I was in plain sight. Despite the cold
shower, the embarrassment and difficulty of trying to find underwear with one hand while the other clutched at the towel was making me hot again. The humidity in the bathroom while I dressed
didn’t help.
    Steve showered after me and undressed with his back to me in the cabin, dropping his shorts