Solstice

I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty-six. Thirty-six long minutes past the hour. And I'd arrived early of course. Just in case. So all in all, I'd been sitting on the steps of the Buttercross for a bottom-numbing forty-nine minutes. It was time to face facts.

I'd been stood up.

Blowing out a sigh, I got to my feet and brushed down my dress. Maybe he'd turned up, taken one look at me and bolted. Or maybe he'd just forgotten.

Yeah, right. I snorted at my own naivety, startling the pigeon that had landed by my foot. Who'd forget they'd been set up on a blind date? I certainly couldn't have forgotten. Bloody Lisa and her great ideas.

"I'm going to set you up with my boss," she'd said, last Saturday night when I'd been bemoaning my lack of love life. "I think you two would get on really well."

"Your boss?" I'd stared at her in disbelief. "You mean Mike?" She couldn't mean Mike, I'd thought, panicking. Yes, I knew he was single, but he had to be at least twenty years older than me, had a beer belly and a white beard. Father Christmas material. I knew beggars couldn't be choosers, but still…

"No!" She laughed merrily. "Not Mike. Griff."

"Griff?" I frowned, trying to remember if she'd mentioned him before.

"He's been supervising a project in Aberdeen for the last year -- he's been away since before I started working at ASG. Seems like a nice bloke, though I don't know that much about him."

"Then how do you know he hasn't got a wife and two kids?"

"Because I asked him."

"Well then he's probably gay."

She shook her head adamantly. "He isn't. I asked him that too."

I groaned. "Lisa! You can't -- you can't ask things like that!"

"Why not?" She looked bemused. "If you don't ask, how are you supposed to find out?"

And that was the fundamental difference between Lisa and me. It would never occur to her to baulk from the nitty gritty question. Never occur to her not to speak up if someone said anything she disagreed with, no matter what their creed, colour or status. I'd known her my whole life -- her parents owned the semi-detached house adjoining my parents' -- and she'd become less and less bothered about what anyone might think of her candour with every passing year. To my constant wonder -- and secret admiration -- this hadn't resulted in Lisa lacking friends or male attention. In short, she was the person to ask whether your bum looked big in your jeans.

Even though I'd protested that at twenty-eight I was much too old for blind dates, she'd gone ahead and arranged one anyway. I still couldn't quite believe that Griff had agreed. It spoke volumes about Lisa's impressive powers of persuasion – or more likely, her uncanny ability to brow-beat someone into submission.

So where was he?

I lifted a hand to shield my eyes from the evening sun and stared down the street. Though there were numerous people milling around, wending their way to the bars and clubs, there was no sign of a six-foot man with blond hair and blue eyes carrying a book of poetry with a pink carnation tucked between its pages.

"A book of poetry?" I'd spluttered when she told me that part. "That's such a cliché."

"So?" She'd grinned. "What's your problem? It is a blind date, after all."

Well, maybe he'd had a problem with it. Or maybe he'd simply been unable to locate any Wordsworth or Keats.

At least I hadn't missed the last bus home. As I turned to walk back up the street, I noticed the guy standing outside the bank opposite. I'd seen him earlier but discounted him as Griff immediately. For a start, he was under six feet tall -- taller than me, but definitely not six feet. And his hair wasn't blond -- it was light brown. Most tellingly of all, he wasn't carrying a book, let alone a pink carnation.

He'd been there when I arrived, and judging by the way he'd been looking up and down the street, he too had been expecting to meet someone. I sent him a sympathetic glance as I approached.

To my astonishment, he smiled. "Been stood up?" he said softly.

"Uh --" I felt heat flood into my face. I'd been watching him -- no doubt he'd been watching me too. It was no use denying what was patently true. "Yep. I guess he got a better offer." I forced a smile then found the courage to reciprocate. "How about you?"

"Looks like it." He shook his head. "Never mind. It's their loss, right?"

"Definitely." He certainly didn't look like someone who should've been stood up. Okay, so he wasn't movie star gorgeous but he was good-looking nonetheless. In his early thirties, at a guess, with well-proportioned features, a strong jaw and twinkling dark eyes. "Anyway," I said, my discomfort returning as I realised I'd been staring, "hope you still have a good evening anyway."

He nodded. "You too."

But before I'd taken more than a few steps I heard his voice again.

"Hey?"

Figuring that I should probably keep walking, I looked back over my shoulder.

"I've got a reservation for dinner at the Mill House Hotel." He shot me a speculative look. "By all means, say no, but I was wondering -- seeing as we've both been stood up -- whether you'd care to join me?"

My feet had stopped moving. The evening thus far had been a disaster. There seemed little point in hoping that it might actually get better. I was tired after a long day at work and now my limbs were stiff from sitting too long. So this was the moment to politely decline his generous offer, cut my losses and go home. Besides, the illogical part of my brain reasoned, he could be an axe murderer.

"I'm not an axe murderer, if that's what you're worried about."

I gave a startled laugh. "Of course not," I lied hastily. "It's just -- I really don't know you from Adam."

"Of course you don't. Allow me to introduce myself." He moved towards me and extended his right arm, grinning. "I'm Adam."

"Oh." This was so implausible it was impossible not to smile back. "Well, I s'pose that's okay then." As I took his hand, his fingers closed over mine in a warm, firm grip.

"And you are?"

"Me?" For a moment, I gazed up into his face, mesmerised by his dark eyes. And all at once -- I have no idea where it came from -- I felt the desire to live a little dangerously. To be daring. Reckless. "I'm Eve."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Of course you are."

There was a pause and I realised he was still waiting for me to accept his invitation. "Well," I heard myself say, not quite believing that it was me saying the words. "It'd be a shame to waste a reservation at the Mill House."

He gave an earnest nod. "It really would. They need all the customers they can get, I'm told."

I couldn't repress a smirk. Following a major refurbishment a few years ago, the Mill House Hotel was generally acknowledged to be the most luxurious hotel in the city. And I'd heard that in order to secure a table in its Michelin-starred restaurant you had to book weeks in advance -- and then secure a small mortgage to foot the bill.

"I'll be paying," he cajoled, once again demonstrating a rather unsettling ability to read my mind. "Please?"

"Oh --" And in a flash, my misgivings were back. "Maybe I shouldn't. Thanks, but --" He was a total stranger. This was a crazy idea. "They probably wouldn't let me in anyway. I'm not exactly dressed for a posh meal." I glanced down at my lemon sundress, a reluctant concession to the heat wave, chosen only after a fruitless search for something less revealing. It was so warm that adding a cardigan to camouflage my curves had been completely out of the question. He, on the other hand, was wearing smart dark slacks with a pale blue shirt, a jacket that matched the slacks over his arm.

He chuckled again, a low rumbling sound that I was beginning to find rather attractive. "Are you kidding?" As his eyes travelled the length of my body, heat flashed to parts of me that these days only grew warm when I was reading the steamy pages of a romantic novel. "You look stunning."

As I stared at him, open-mouthed, he held out his arm. "Come on."

And that was all it took. A moment later I was at his side, strolling down the High Street towards the river.

"If it's any consolation," he said, taking a sideways glance at me, "I don't normally do things like this."

"No?" I murmured, still trying to rationalise my decision. All I'd done was swap one blind date for another, right? We were going to a public venue where there would be plenty of other people around. If necessary, my carefully considered escape-from-the-date plan would still work despite the change in personnel. The mobile phone in my handbag was fully charged and…

I looked stunning? Chubby, ample-bottomed me?

"No. And don't laugh, but I was supposed to be meeting a blind date this evening."

I stared at him in surprise. He didn't appear to be the sort of guy who'd need to resort to such drastic action -- but what a coincidence that he'd been waiting there for exactly the same reason. Unless, of course, it wasn't a coincidence… "Your name," I faltered, needing to be sure. "Is it -- is it really Adam?"

"I'm fairly sure. That's what it says on my birth certificate, anyway."

"Right." I bit my lip. "Because – my name isn't really Eve."

"I kind of guessed it wasn't." He looked amused. "But I'm fine with that. Why not have an evening where you can be who you want to be? Do what you wouldn't normally do? Who says we have to be our boring selves all the time? Not that you're boring, I'm sure," he added quickly.

"Well, no, of course not," I agreed with solemn fervour. He was right, of course. There was no reason to be my usual insecure self. This -- if I could only manage to let go of my reserve -- could be the most fun I'd had in ages. Besides, we were only going for a meal together. I'd expected that eating would feature somewhere in my date with Griff too, though admittedly, the venue was going to be rather grander than the burger bar I'd been expecting.

"So," I began, confident that Eve would be better at making small talk than I was. Only she wasn't. I cast around for a suitable topic, growing more frantic with every passing second. "Er…"

Come on, Eve -- say something interesting!

"Hasn't it been hot lately?"

Oh dear God. The good old British stand-by…

If Adam had noticed my inner turmoil, he didn't show it. "Apparently," he said amiably, "we're on course to have the warmest June for fifty years. And the forecasters say the weather's set to stay like this for at least the next couple of weeks."

"Really?" I pulled a face. "I know I shouldn't say this, but I've kind of had enough of it all now. Being hot and sweaty all the time and not being able to sleep." When he grinned, I regretted my choice of words. "Well it's true!" I gabbled, covering my embarrassment with a laugh. "It's not like the dry heat you get in countries like Spain or Greece. It's -- "

"Wet?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"No --" I knew I was blushing again. "You know what I mean. Muggy. Clammy -- no, that's not it."

"Moist?"

"No!"

He was laughing now. "Actually, I think the word you're after is ‘humid'."

"Humid, yes. Thank you." Groaning under my breath, I looked back over my shoulder. There was still time to make that escape. "You know, maybe this isn't such a good idea after all --"

"No -- wait." He caught my hand and a tingle of electricity raced up my arm. "I'm really sorry. We've only just met and I'm teasing you already. Please -- forgive me?" Though he was still smiling, his remorse was obvious. "I've got three little sisters -- well, not so little these days -- the youngest is twenty-six now -- but when we were kids I used to wind them up something terrible." He shrugged his shoulders and looked a little sheepish. "I still joke around when I'm nervous. If I'm honest, it's been a long time since I've taken anyone new on a date. In fact, I was this close --" he let go of my hand to indicate an inch with his thumb and forefinger "--to chickening out of tonight."

My hand felt oddly bereft without the warmth of his fingers. "And then she didn't even have the decency to turn up." I hesitated. "Actually, I was supposed to be on a blind date too. He didn't turn up either."

For a moment Adam surveyed me in silence. "Then he was a bloody fool," he proclaimed at last. "Look," he said as I shot him a grateful smile. "The hotel is just there." He waved across the street. "Are you hungry?"

Before I could answer my stomach growled loudly. I hadn't eaten since noon. He grinned as I nodded.

"So let's go and eat. We're brave enough to do that, right?"

The hotel was an imposing three-storey building on the city centre side of the river. Flagpoles jutted out from its ivy-clad walls, displaying colours from an array of countries -- some of which, due to my shameful knowledge of geography, I didn't recognise. Beneath the canopy was a double row of hanging baskets, riotous flowers spilling over the rims.

A doorman appeared as we climbed the steps, welcoming us into the blissfully cool, air-conditioned interior. But before I could take a look around, a bearded man in a dinner jacket came striding towards us, beaming his pleasure. "Adam!" he exclaimed, clasping his hand and pulling him into a hearty embrace. "How wonderful to see you!"

I detected an underlying accent. French, perhaps?

"You too, Anton. It's been a long time."

"Too long, my friend, far too long." Anton released him, his gaze landing on me. "And this lovely lady is?"

Cowering under his appraising stare, I found myself momentarily incapable of remembering my pseudonym.

"Eve," Adam supplied with a grin.

"Eve. Wonderful to meet you. But then --" he gave an odd little smile "-- that means you are Adam and Eve. How --"

"I believe we have a reservation for nine o'clock?" Adam interrupted hastily.

"Mais oui - bien sûr," Anton agreed at once. "Your table is available now. Or perhaps you would prefer to begin with an aperitif in the bar?"

Adam glanced at me. "Oh, I think we're ready to eat."

We followed the maître d' along the wide hallway. Though my eyes swept eagerly from left to right, it was too overwhelming to gain any more than an impression of highly polished glass, ornate archways and sumptuous red carpet. Over the years, I'd heard much about the hotel's magnificent decor and lavish furnishings but this far exceeded my expectations. And as we rounded the corner into the dining room an astonished gasp tore from my throat.

A working water wheel dominated the room, shimmering water cascading like golden rain over the blades, driving the wheel at an impressive speed. The dining area, itself circular, was laid out around the wheel, meaning that it could be viewed from every beautifully dressed table. But as Anton led us past the other diners, I noticed I couldn't hear the roar of water above the hum of conversation. It was only as he ushered us to an empty table right beside the wheel I understood why. It was completely encased by thick glass.

"I hope this is to your satisfaction."

"It's beautiful," I replied, so transfixed by the silently turning wheel that I didn't realise Anton was actually asking whether the table was to our satisfaction until both men chuckled.

"I think that's a yes," Adam said, grinning as Anton pulled out my chair. "Thank you."

"However did they do this?" I breathed as the maître d' bustled off to find a waiter.

"I believe it required a considerable amount of ingenuity," Adam said, looking pleased at my enthusiasm. "It's a replica of the original mill wheel. Unfortunately when the building was extended a few years ago the old one disintegrated when they tried to move it."

"It's incredible. The way the light catches the water…" Now that I was alongside, I could see streams of yellow light pouring through the slats, the spray refracting the beams and making the tiny droplets glitter like stars. "It's like watching fireworks -- like a Catherine Wheel."

"I'm glad you like it."

"Does it ever change colour?"

He laughed, clearly surprised. "No. Why, d'you think it should?"

I tipped my head on one side, still watching the spray. "Yes, I do. On special occasions. You know, Christmas. Weddings."

"Bar mitzvahs? Funerals?"

"Absolutely." I was laughing now.

"We'll suggest it to Anton when he comes back. He and his wife Isabelle own this place."

"Really? No, don't! It's fabulous just as it is. Oh --" I'd glanced down at the menu, noticing to my horror that it was written in French. "Um -- what's good here?"

"It's all good."

"Right." I chewed my lip, almost drawing blood when my eye fell on the prices. Oh dear God… "Okay."

"But I recommend the chicken." Adam reached forward and prodded at a line of incomprehensible writing halfway down the page. As I looked up he winked. "I always have the chicken. Don't tell Anton, but I have no idea what anything else is."

I grinned, relieved. "Chicken sounds great."

"Mademoiselle. Monsieur." A jittery-looking waiter appeared at our table, a bucket of ice in one hand, a bottle in the other. "Champagne? It ees --" his accent was much stronger than Anton's "-- on the 'ouse?"

"You eat here a lot, don't you?" I ventured when he'd taken our order.

Adam shook his head, wiping the condensation off his glass with the tip of one finger. "Not any more. I used to come here with my wife, but I don't think I've been here in over a year -- maybe longer."

His wife? He was married?

"So I think maybe this --" he gestured at the ice bucket, "is because they're pleased to see me again." He smiled. "Anton and I are very old friends."

"Right." My mind was whirring frantically. Was he still married? No, he had to be divorced, surely - he'd been waiting for a blind date to show. Although I remembered reading somewhere that a lot of married men joined dating agencies, just for fun. For the chance of illicit sex, fun and frolics… "So, Adam," I faltered, disappointed to find that once again, Eve wasn't brave enough to ask a question worth asking, "what do you do for a living?"

"Hmm." He shot me a quizzical look, leaning back in his chair. "Nah. Let's make this more interesting. What do you think I do?"

I gave a nervous laugh. "I've no idea. Something that earns you enough money to eat here, obviously."

"Not necessarily. Maybe I just enjoy washing up." He grinned as I sent him an anxious glance. "I'm kidding. Come on, have a guess."

"Oh -- ah." After a moment, I blew out a small sigh, scared of being way off the mark. "I can't. I don't know."

He nodded slowly. "You know," he said, his expression solemn now, "my Granny always used to say that you can tell what someone does just by looking at their hands."

"Really?" I frowned, glancing down at my own.

"Really. May I?" Before I could answer, he reached forward and picked up my right hand. "Hmm." He turned it over, studying my palm with the intensity of a fortune teller. And beneath his inspection, beneath his touch, that alarming tingle in my fingers returned, rapidly spreading up my arm and straight down my spine. "Well," he said at last, pausing to smile at me, "I think you work with children. You're a nursery school teacher -- something like that?"

For a moment I couldn't speak. Then, realising my mouth had dropped open, managed to gulp, "You got that just from looking at my hand?"

He chuckled, wiggling my forefinger. "She was a wise old bird, my Granny."

I snatched my hand away and stared at it furiously. "How?"

He tapped his nose. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Come on." He proffered his own hand. "You have a go."

Finding his hand between mine was a disturbingly heady experience. I slid my much smaller fingers over his, their dry warmth seeping into my own as I tried to gauge the length of each digit, noticing the way each tapered to a gently rounded end, the almond shaped nails. "You're an artist," I said finally, not at all sure but aware I needed to make a guess.