One of the first things I saw on induction day at Levin-Bell Rowing Club was a bare bum. A thrusting bare bum.

I’d got to the boathouse far too early, which is apparently a cardinal sin when your son is sixteen, nervous as hell and already in a mood. To give Pip some space, I left him in the car to stare at his phone and took myself for a walk along the river.

A little way from the car park, it suddenly became necessary to run into a thicket. (A passing cyclist was a man from my past who I didn’t really care to see.) Once inside the thicket, I found it was quite nice beneath the weeping branches of the newly budded willows – peaceful and pretty, and a relief from the mood in the car, so I decided to stay under there until it was time for the induction to actually start. Soon enough, though, I heard some grunting and a gaspy sort of shriek, which prompted me to turn around, and that’s when I saw The Bum.

It was pale, firm, hairless, slightly spotty and jerking enthusiastically against some slender, tanned legs. The owner of those legs had pointy blue nails on at least one hand, which was raised against the trunk of a willow, apparently propping up proceedings. I stood there for a good few seconds too long because it took a while to register what I was seeing, then I hurried away.

This was perhaps the moment – it being full of red flags such as bonking youths and regrets on bikes – that I should have questioned the wisdom of encouraging my son to take up rowing. Instead, my first thought was, Bit early for that, isn’t it? It’s not even seven in the morning! Since turning almost fifty, these involuntary old-lady thoughts have become commonplace.

My second thought was, Wait, was that the distinctive blue of a Levin-Bell uniform I saw bunched down around those tanned ankles? I was thrilled. I already had some intel on the club, and I wasn’t even trying!

I made my way towards the boathouse, trying not to appear gleeful or pervy. Or stupidly early. There was a handful of adult rowers near the roller doors, and some younger ones carrying a boat in from the water. No one took the slightest notice of me.

I wasn’t keen to retrieve Pip from the car quite yet, so I just sort of milled about, feeling dumb. Everyone seemed to be fiddling with something on a boat or muttering about technique and teamwork. I began to feel a bit lonely, but also amused by how earnest they all were about paddling skinny boats backwards. Absolutely absurd, I said to myself. Humans are so weird.

I was deeply invested in this thought when the next red flag entered the scene, in the form of assistant coach Jupiter Fournier. He was far too beautiful to be anything but trouble. He had tanned, glossy skin, a blinding smile and flashing dark eyes, all packaged in a lycra rowing suit and tied up with a FRENCH ACCENT.

He approached the boathouse shouting to someone I couldn’t see. ‘He is the perfect number two! Not too big, very quick, smoothon the catch.’ He caught sight of me, smiled and said, ‘Ah, you are with the opens support crew? It is very nice to meet you, I am Jupiter.’ He offered me a hand, which I clasped. It was warm and strong and somehow connected to a sudden weakness in my knees.

‘Callie,’ I said, and then I smiled back at him in the way that I can’t help smiling at beautiful men – mostly eyes and only a hint of lips.

There was a flicker of double take in his eyes, a little tilt of his head, and we squeezed hands maybe a tiny bit longer than a normal handshake. That released a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

‘It is a nice day to meet you, Callie,’ he said in his accent, and I nearly said, ‘Every day would be a nice day to meet you. Would you like a little walk under the willows?’ but just in time I remembered I was forty-eight while Jupiter looked barely thirty, and that I was there with my teenaged son…