Ali dropped Tahnee off at her building, and watched until she was safely inside, then she swept the car round in a U-turn to head back. In the well of the driver’s side door, her phone gave its muted buzz, and she knew it’d be Cass saying Call me right now, so she didn’t rush to check the screen and instead waited until the next red light to pick it up. Dan Lawrence sent you a message, she read. Liquid golden relief washed over her and right through her, startling in its purity, and at the same time she knew she shouldn’t have doubted him; like Beatriz, she thought, she should trust in a higher power, practise the healing art of steady patience. She pulled over and parked to look at his message, feeling good, feeling light and bright, thinking she’d play the song, whatever he’d sent, and let it accompany her home, but there was no link to a song, only a message. Hey, Alison, I’m at the bar of the Exeter Hotel in Rundle Street, saving you a seat xxx.

The world outside – cars, shops, petrol stations, pubs, people – hurtled backwards into infinity, rushing and streaming away from her like falling water, retreating entirely, until she was quite alone on the Port Road, hands shaking, heart banging, staring with disbelief at his words, but they didn’t alter, they didn’t mutate or melt away to prove themselves a figment of her imagination. They remained exactly as they were and the time beneath the message showed 22.17, and now it was exactly twenty past ten, just three minutes after he’d written them, from a bar stool in a pub on Rundle Street. He was here, in Adelaide, and he was here for her.

Don’t freak out, she told herself. Don’t freak out, don’t mess this up, don’t hide, don’t run, don’t let him down, don’t, don’t, don’t forget to breathe.