Midsummer Night

He removed his cap and tucked it under his left arm. Proper protocol. Even now, in the face of sudden, stunning intimacy.

He looked at me like he was memorising something he’d lose if he blinked. Fleeting. Precious. Lit by the far-off quay lights.

And then he kissed me. Unexpected. Full on.

My stomach dropped seven decks. His hands steadied me, one at my waist, one at my neck. Certainty in his touch. I forgot to resist.

For an instant, maybe two, I was unmoored. Like he’d been drowning and I was air.

That kiss. Years it kept me burning. Yearning.

When the flame finally went out, the fire still stoked. In the silence. In the years that followed.

Six hours earlier

I was on my kitchen floor, back pressed to the washing machine. Champagne gone flat. No sparkle. Just a sad, sweet fizz that had forgotten how to rise.

The machine was on, gently throttling me with its rhythmic tumble. Through the open window, Amsterdam was gearing up for the longest night of the year. Bikes clicking past on the cobbles. Someone’s radio was pumping out the Kaoma track that had infected every café terrace since May. The Lambada. Inescapable.

Summer Solstice, 1989. Earlier that evening.

The Berlin Wall was still standing. Just. Europe was holding its breath, and I was sitting on my kitchen floor, holding mine.

I was twenty-four. And I wasn’t in the mood for Midsummer Night.

Four months of forcing brightness. Four months of waking up wondering what I was building towards.

Oscar and I had ended quietly. No explosion, no betrayal. Just a slow fade to silence, like a song you loved, playing in another room, until you realised it had stopped, and you couldn’t remember when. He was fun. Mischief and laughter. But he never pulled me under. There had been someone before him who did, a mountaintop in Switzerland, forty-two nationalities, and one face I couldn’t shake. Bash. Dangerous. A rogue who made his own rules. His energy pulled me in like gravity. Until it didn’t.

After the mountain, Holland fell flat. I’d landed a job at International Travel Services, just up my street, but the contrast was brutal. Routine, grey weather, serious colleagues. Kind but uninspiring.

It wasn’t Oscar I missed. Not a man at all. It was the absence of feeling alive, a frequency I’d always carried, suddenly gone silent.

My friends called me an energy aficionado. If there was good energy in a room, I found it the way water finds the lowest point: instinctively, inevitably. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t searching for someone to fix me. What I craved was exchange. The volley of a mind meeting mine at speed. Not to be admired, to be matched. Energy as currency. That was my elixir. Always had been.

But lately, the signal had dropped.

I kept wondering what I wanted from life. Not a man, I’d never defined myself by that. Not money or status. What I wanted was simpler and harder than any of those things.

I wanted to feel alive again.

So why did I feel like this?

I believed in something more: one and one make three. The generative spark. Two separate energies converging into a third. I’d never seen it, not in my parents’ marriage, not in my friends’ relationships. But I knew it existed the way you know the sea is there before you see it.

The washing machine clicked off. Silence.

I stayed put. On the floor.

That evening I was due to go out again. A Cocker P Party aboard a visiting British navy ship. Too late to escape without letting down Larissa.

‘Even if you don’t feel strong,’ my mother used to say, ‘push yourself. Show it anyway. Pretend until you become.’

Right then, I wished I could ignore her wisdom and simply slip into my PJs.

Instead, I went upstairs.

I stripped down. Stepped into the shower. Let the hot water hit full force. Closed my eyes and let the tears roll, silent and hot. Salt and soap swirled down the drain.

I dried off slowly, hearing my mother in my head: ‘Dry between every toe, stops the mushrooms.’

That absurd, loving advice made me smile, a tiny, genuine upward flick of the lip.

I got dressed without thinking. A dark, simple skirt. A sleeveless top. A cropped jacket. Soft leather boots.

No effort. Just motion.

Slapped on some make-up, grabbed my keys, and drove to pick up Larissa. She was a relatively new colleague. My age. She had moved to Amsterdam from the Bible Belt in the eastern Netherlands, and the city was still a daily revelation to her. She wore black and white to look corporate. Even having a cappuccino seemed indulgent. I rebelled at uniform looks and always pushed the size of my earrings, golden hoops instead of pearl studs. A red cashmere top, professional with attitude, under navy. Her eyes would widen.

‘Vivika, you are wearing red.’

‘Won’t reveal the colour of my undies.’

She’d choke and beam at the same time. A whole new world opened up for her. Away from her parents’ gaze, she was delighted simply to be in the office. Could not imagine taking a day off. She looked at me as if I were the leader of the suffragettes. Bold and blazing, and honoured to follow. Her words, or words to that effect. Her heroine. Sometimes a compliment. Often tedious. I simply wanted to get on with being me.

Larissa was waiting at the kerb, practically bouncing. She dove into the passenger seat, fidgeting with her outfit, nerves fizzing.

‘You’ve been to these things a hundred times, Vivika. What if I say something stupid?’

I put the car in gear. ‘You’ll be fine. It’s just a ship reception. All the crew will be too busy saluting to notice if you mention taxidermy.’

For weeks, apparently, nothing else had mattered. This party. I knew because she’d told me. Repeatedly. I caught myself being dismissive. My irritation made me unfair. She was kind. Genuinely kind. But kind in a way I lacked the emotional superficiality to navigate, without edges, without the need to be heard or seen or understood. Without any apparent desire to step into the limelight, even a small one.

I thought of my Dutch grandmother, on my father’s side. Oma was an upstanding, outspoken, fiercely firm tour de force. She couldn’t abide two-dimensionality in any form, not in people, not in conversation, not in a single exchange. She didn’t need you to agree with her. Often it was disagreement that lit her up: the moment someone pushed back, held a position, surprised her. But you had to show up. Be brave enough to make yourself heard, seen, and understood. Step into the limelight, even with a looming shadow. ‘Hold your own flame,’ she’d say. ‘Or don’t bother.’

My father, the younger of two boys, understood that standard better than anyone. He just went quiet anyway. Not bland, never bland. But layered in ways that were hard to reach. Only time would loosen the lock.

Was I more like Oma than I had dared to consider?

I turned the music down. Smiled at Larissa, who beamed back at me.

‘Oh, Vivika. We’ll be there soon.’

I suppressed an eye roll. Could not quite manage.

We headed towards Amsterdam harbour, where the officers of HMS Carlington were waiting.

Window down. Warm air thick with West Indies spices from the Zeedijk, cigarette smoke, and canal water. Tourists in acid-wash denim snapped photos of houseboats. Boys in baggy T-shirts kicked a football against a wall plastered with peeling concert posters. Amsterdam, summer ’89. The air crackled. Revolution was brewing to the east, behind concrete and wire. Here, we drank jenever and waited.

The evening light held strong, Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. The sky still bright, the water reflecting pale gold. The ship, a mine-hunter, gleamed against the light, its silhouette sharp and steady.

I forced myself up the gangplank and into the Officers’ Mess.

The air smelt of polish and privilege. Naval officers representing The Crown, white dress shirts pressed to knife-edges, black trousers with perfect creases, navy blazers with gold buttons catching the light. Serving staff moved between them with silent efficiency.

‘What can I get you to drink?’

The officer at the door. Pleasant enough.

‘Horse’s Neck.’

A blink, then a smile. ‘Ah, you’ve been aboard Her Majesty’s ships before.’

I smiled faintly, drifted off, and left Larissa chatting.

Teenage funk in my twenties. Petulant. Standoffish. All I wanted was my cocktail and my bed.

The Horse’s Neck helped. The spicy sweetness cut through my funk like a match struck in a dark room.

Mood softening, I spotted Edward, the British Consul General, and wandered over. He introduced me to Victoria from VisitBritain, a terrifyingly well-groomed woman who launched into an unbroken monologue about the ship’s captain.

‘Oh, he’s simply divine. Dorset, two golden retrievers, puppies! And his sisters went to my school. Only the crème de la crème get in, of course.’

All packaging. No parcel.

Then the Captain arrived. He moved with an economical grace that silenced the small cluster of chatter. Not performance. Just presence. The quiet authority of a man accustomed to being in charge of things that mattered.

‘Good evening. Welcome to HMS Carlington.’

‘Thank you.’

I watched Victoria thrust her bosom forward like a show pony eager for a ribbon.

‘And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?’ His eyes, a bright, startling blue, rested on me.

‘I am Vivika. And who are you?’

He didn’t miss a beat. His mouth twitched, almost imperceptible. Not offended. Amused. The way you are when someone surprises you in a room full of people who never do.

‘I’m the Captain. Captain James Bowen-Jones.’

Tall. Sun-kissed blond. Intelligent blue eyes. Immaculate.

I nodded, utterly unmoved, and spotted Larissa curled in a corner with Officer David.

I left James to Victoria’s fluttering lashes.

A few minutes with Larissa and David, and I was bored.

I turned and almost collided with the Captain. He materialised out of the crowd with the silent efficiency of someone accustomed to navigating tight spaces.

‘There you are,’ he said. As if he’d been looking. As if I were something to find.

‘Would you like a tour of the ship?’

‘OK.’ The non-committal answer was the best I could manage.

We climbed to the bridge. Amsterdam’s harbour played theatre, canal lights flickering on, water reflecting gold and rose. The sky had turned that particular shade of late June blue that feels almost unreal. Below, Midsummer crowds drifted along the quays. Summer dresses, cigarette smoke, laughter carrying across the water.

James talked. I half-listened. But something was shifting. Not in what he said, in how he occupied the space. He stood close. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough that if I shifted my weight, our shoulders would brush.

I didn’t shift.

Neither did he.

The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Charged. Like the air before a summer storm, when the pressure drops and the birds go quiet.

I looked out at the quay.

A car moved along the water, undercover police, trying far too hard not to look like undercover police. A man inside looked up. Steel-blue eyes. Harder than James’s. Colder.

Without thinking, I grabbed the mic beside me.

‘Hey, Blue Eyes.’

Naval-grade broadcast. My voice rang across the entire harbour.

For a second, everything stopped.

My face burned. Beneath the mortification, something else stirred. A kind of reckless exhilaration. The kind that comes from saying the unsayable. Breaking your own rules in front of witnesses.

James gently removed the mic from my hand. Professionally calm. ‘Let’s go back downstairs, shall we?’

Mortified, I tried to recover. ‘You really think you’re something, don’t you? Golden-boy hair. Shoes polished to blindness. Stripes and wings like a Christmas tree. No wonder Miss Britain’s swooning.’

His mouth twitched. ‘Shall we?’

A steady hand at my back. Not overbearing, assured.

I let him. Rare.

Back in the Mess, he said: ‘I’m going to the heads.’

‘Going to give head, Captain BJ?’ I asked, the alcohol loosening my tongue disastrously.

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine humour in his eyes. ‘No. Going to pass water, as nature intends. Then wash my hands and join you. “Heads” means the loo.’

He disappeared.

I debated leaving.

I stayed.

He returned.

‘I should go,’ I said.

‘Not yet. You owe me an apology and a G&T.’

Some mysterious naval semaphore later, two G&Ts the size of pools appeared.

‘To you,’ he said. ‘A pleasure.’

I was verging on tipsy. ‘To you and all who sail in you. To absent friends, legends of the fall, and freemasons of the future.’

We drank.

‘What’s with the fire tonight?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t want to come. And then Miss Britain… bored me senseless.’

I rambled. He listened. Not politely, actually listened. His eyes stayed on mine with an attention that felt almost physical.

Until,

He opened up my boot, my perfectly polished leather boot, and poured a third of his G&T into the heel.

‘Did you just… pour your drink in my boot?’

‘You needed calming, Bossy Boots.’

My toes were sopping. ‘Bonkers.’

‘Let’s get you sorted.’

Outside on deck.

‘Lean on me.’

He removed my boot, revealing my sodden sock. One foot bare, I stood like a lopsided idiot.

I chanted: ‘Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John, went to bed with his trousers on, one shoe off and one shoe on, diddle diddle dumpling, my son John.’

He went very still.

‘That reminds me of my grandmother,’ he said. ‘She taught me that rhyme.’

‘What are the chances? Mine too.’

Two strangers. Wet foot. Shared nursery rhyme. A Midsummer night.

Something cracked open between us. Not the kiss, that would come later. Something quieter. A door neither of us had knocked on.

He pulled out a clean handkerchief. Dried my foot between each toe. Slipped a plastic bag over it. Helped the boot back on.

‘Scenario-planning. Always be prepared.’

After he’d tended to my boot, he stood. Tall. Slim. Uniformed. Facing me.

The deck was quiet now. The harbour stretched around us, indifferent. Only the soft sound of water against the hull, the distant hum of the ship’s engines, and the summer air.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, like he was reading something written on my skin that I hadn’t known was there.

He removed his cap and tucked it under his left arm. Proper protocol. Even now.

He cupped my face with both hands, warm, steady, certain, and looked at me like he was memorising something he didn’t want to forget.

And then he kissed me. Unexpected. Full on.

My stomach dropped seven decks. His hands steadied me, one at my waist, one at my neck. Certainty in his touch. I forgot to resist.

For an instant, maybe two, I was unmoored. Like he’d been drowning and I was air.

His kiss tasted like gin and intention. Not like he’d been planning it. Like the moment arrived and neither of us could stop it, two currents finding the same channel, two frequencies locking.

One and one make three. I’d said it so many times. As a philosophy. As a prayer. I’d never felt it flood through me like this.

My energy had met its match. Not a mirror. A multiplier.

‘I need to go.’ My voice didn’t sound like mine.

‘On one condition.’

I clutched back onto what I knew: bolshy stroppiness, my default armour.

‘I don’t do conditions.’

‘A kind request, then. Dinner. Tomorrow. Let me see you again.’

‘No. Definitely not. I don’t go out with anyone within seventy-two hours. It’s a rule.’

He looked amused, steady, composed, still in charge. A smile. A gentle nod.

‘Understood.’

But his eyes held mine for a long moment. Something fundamental shifted, not in the world, but in me. Like a lock tumbling open.

I looked away first.

Larissa and I left. Down the gangway. Into Midsummer Night air.

The sun was finally beginning its descent, throwing amber across the water. She was chattering about Officer David. I had never seen her more animated. I wasn’t listening. My lips still held the shape of his kiss.

‘Vivika?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You seem strange.’

‘I’m fine. Just tired.’

But I wasn’t tired. I was awake in a way I hadn’t been in months.

As we walked towards the car, I glanced back once. The ship was lit up against the dark water. A silhouette on the deck, watching us leave.

I didn’t wave. I just kept walking.

But something in my chest had already turned around and stayed behind, still on that deck, still tasting gin and intention.

I didn’t know his age. Didn’t know where he lived, or whether he’d sail out of Amsterdam harbour tomorrow and never come back.

I didn’t know he was married.