For the past six weeks, she’d been working in the city centre, three streets away from Gillian’s old office. Each morning she’d called into the café downstairs to buy a cup of tea and a ham-and-cheese croissant for Hector, the elderly homeless man. She’d been surprised when he’d recognised her. ‘Where have you been, Lofty?’ he had shouted the first morning. ‘Who stole your hair?’

Her phone pinged. It was Sullivan, playing a word and sending a message. Is Lawrence here yet?? he’d written. Not yet but soon, she replied. He sent back a row of smiley faces and a heart.

The previous week, at Sullivan’s insistence, she’d taken him for tea at the boutique hotel Lawrence would soon be managing. It was in South Yarra, close to Melbourne’s Botanic Gardens. Bigger than the Montgomery, but smaller than the hotel he’d been managing in San Sebastián. Sullivan had given the building and public areas a close inspection – after googling the hotel’s website for photos of the bedrooms and suites – and announced his approval. ‘Very nice. Elegant without being showy.’

It wouldn’t be Lawrence’s first trip to Melbourne. He had visited Eliza for a fortnight in October. They’d talked so much. Laughed often. Made love often. Gone on two weekends away, to a house on the Great Ocean Road and then a cottage in the goldfields of Castlemaine. They’d spent a Sunday at Rose’s house, where he had put up with teasing from Rose’s older children, some ribbing from Harry and an interrogation from Rose. She’d texted Eliza her glowing approval that same night. Eliza had read it to Lawrence as they lay talking in bed.

There was so much she still wanted to learn about him. He seemed to feel the same about her. He was still one of the kindest men she’d ever met. He made her laugh. He was so interested in the world. She’d enjoyed seeing Melbourne through his eyes.

She had been touched when he asked if she’d show him one of the towns she’d lived in with her mother. She could have taken him to ten towns, ten houses. She took him to the last one, in Heathcote, two hours away. He drove. She’d only just got her learner’s permit.

They parked outside. The house still looked run-down. She told him about her life there. About that terrible last night. About the desolate days packing it up. Then she took him to a different town, to Maryborough. They walked down the country road to the cemetery, to Mr and Mrs Quaker’s grave. She showed him where her mother’s ashes lay. They stood there, arm-in-arm, as Eliza told him more about her mother. There were still so many stories.