Reaching out to Nikau would be a way for Sarah – and me – to see if he still pined for her. I hoped he did, hoped he didn’t – as long as it was decisive. But for every you must forget me, his reply contained an our time was so precious. For every I’m not who I was back then, a how would it even work these days? He’d closed the door, but not emphatically. He’d left a strip of light, a lambency.

I couldn’t help wanting to be gripped by forbidden desire, but in the years between meeting Sarah and lusting after Biddy I hadn’t fallen for anyone, hadn’t even thought about it. There were attractive women, yup – but so what?

My phone was buzzing on my desk. I wiped my eyes – oh – didn’t need to, they were dry. Mel. Why was she …?

‘Hey, Mel.’

‘S’up?’

‘Yeah … You OK? How’s Josh?’

‘Have you spoken to Zac today?’

‘No, how come? Has he been fired again?’

‘It’s his mum. Have you seen the news?’

Had I seen …? Refugees sewing their lips together in an offshore detention camp, the warmest winter on record, the world’s biggest coalmine …

‘The hotel fire in India,’ Mel said.

‘Um, yeah.’

I’d scanned the story in a state of detached horror. Fifty-six confirmed dead so far, and –

‘She was there,’ Mel said.

‘Who?’

‘Zac’s mum. Someone from the Uruguayan consulate called him about an hour ago. He’s pretty upset. I mean, in a Zac kind of way. He’s not crying or gnashing his –’

‘In India?’ I said, getting up from my desk, making a bee-line for the office door.

‘He reckons it was for work or something. A singer she was collaborating with.’

‘Fucking hell.’ I took the lift to the ground floor, saw Agnë waiting with her coffee – a wave, a smile – strolled out between the columns.

‘Reporters have been trying to reach him, leaving messages and stuff. I think that’s upsetting him more than anything.’

‘Fuck, Mel, that’s heavy. Hey, thanks for telling me. And sorry I haven’t been, you know … in touch.’

I sat on the forecourt steps, called Zac – no answer – called again, left a message: ‘Man, Mel just told me the news. Call me.’

It was nearly lunchtime, I was supposed to be meeting Biddy at the Malthouse. I could maybe –

My phone ringing. Zac. ‘Hey, dude. Sorry for not answering. Someone from The Guardian has been hounding me.’

He sounded fine. Was he fine?

‘Zac, I’m so sorry. I know you weren’t particularly close to –’

‘No, that’s right, Chris. I wasn’t.’ His supercilious tone – classic Zac.