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on my mouth, but certainly not a comprehensible English-speaking man’s voice. Sexy, and with an owner who must be right behind me. Looking around in the dark I am disoriented and confused. And no longer alone. A man is standing in the middle of the road behind me, his head tilted back, looking up at the gallery. He has appeared from nowhere. The road was empty up and down, still is. I don’t think he has seen me. I stand up and move towards him, still without him seeing me, and laughter and excitement tingle through me because it feels silly, a bit like playing Grandmother’s Footsteps. I am so close now, and I still haven’t been seen.
    I am aware of stepping into the unknown when I open my mouth to speak. ‘It’s a gallery.’
    He swivels to face me, and he is so near to me I could touch him, and I want to touch him, even though I don’t know him. We look at one another, careful, like startled cats. ‘You’re English?’
    â€˜Yes. And so are you.’ I can’t see him properly, I don’t know what he looks like, but he has an air of being stopped in his tracks. Slowly we circle one another, and it hardly feels like moving, but it is something to do, almost instead of talking, as we take one another in. ‘I don’t live there.’
    â€˜Oh. What a shame. I live in London on a boat.’
    â€˜Did you come here in your boat?’
    He laughs and the frisson of tension leaps like a sudden kick of a pulse. My eyes are adjusting now and I can see him better as he speaks. ‘No, it’s moored in Little Venice, it doesn’t go far. Though actually, I did come here on a boat, so in a sense you’re right. But what about you?’ He has a smile in his voice, and it has become a game between us because he echoes my words, ‘Did you come in your boat?’
    Somehow his words sound intimate, gentle, almost as if he is stroking me. I blush and press my fingers to my face over my smile.
    â€˜No. Mine was an airship. I’m working here, that’s why I came.’ I am playing with my hair, rolling a lock of it around my fingers. I am trying to have a straight face, but my grin breaks out in a flash.
    He ducks his head and looks at me again, a matching smile all over his face. He is handsome and rugged, unshaven and tall. ‘Me too, but I got distracted by something on the quay, and it turns out it was you.’
    I gasp, laughing, excited. ‘How did you see me? It’s dark.’
    â€˜I don’t think I saw you immediately, but I sensed you were here,’ he says, and in the street light I catch a shadowy glimpse of smiling eyes. My heart thumps but I like it. The chemistry between us is exhilarating, I can hardly believe this is happening. Flirtation is instinctive; I catch myself flashing him a saucy look, and I giggle, excitement bursting out of me.
    â€˜You’ve got an instinct for finding people, have you?’
    He is closer now. ‘Not sure, really, but I must have an instinct for finding you.’
    He is backlit between me and the building and it is like being in a movie, the two of us alone in the dark by the glittering water.
    I like his voice. Maybe I have heard too many American accents, and he sounds familiar and English. I have a sense of warmth from him, and I love the potent intimacy of his interest in me. It’s not what he has said, or not said, it’s the feeling of being next to him, the sense of him near me. I could listen to him talking for as long as he likes.
    Talking myself is more difficult: ‘I’m Grace Hart, how do you do?’ Oh. A nervous shiver slips out as a gasp and I bite my lip, staring at the ground. He holds out his hand and I put mine in his, conditioned for shaking a greeting. But, instead, he puts his other hand on top. He has a scar like a seam running from the base of his thumbnail straight down to his wrist. It’s sexy.
    â€˜Hey, Grace,’ he says, finally,