I walk through the automatic doors and head for departures. But before I join the long queue, filled with people clutching their boarding passes, full of hope and expectation for the journey that awaits, I read my email to Daniel once more and press send.

SEPTEMBER 2016 London, UK

JESS

As soon as I get in the door, I know Patrick was right. It’s not like I have the money to buy him out, anyway. But now, standing at the window looking at the rain pouring down outside, for the first time I feel that I want to sell the flat. I’m moving on.

It feels strange to be back in London. The air smells different, and it’s damper somehow. Not just when it’s raining, like now, but always. My skin has a sweaty sheen, even though it’s not that hot outside. My hair, which fell relatively straight during my summer in Switzerland, is back to drying in waves that I would flatten into submission with straightening irons each morning if I could be bothered – eight weeks with Julia hasn’t exactly rubbed off. It’s the humidity that comes with living on an island, I guess. Funny how I’d never really noticed before.

I open my laptop and click on the internet icon. I navigate to National Rail Enquiries and buy a train ticket to Chichester for the next day. It’s too late to reserve a seat, so I know I’ll spend the ninety-minute journey standing by the toilets, trying to close my nose to the smell of urine as I eat my sandwich, and for that joy I have to pay more than a plane ticket back to Geneva. Still, Dad’s worth it.

I start to shut the lid of my laptop but then stop. I browse to Facebook, hesitate, and then type in the name. There’s only one result – it’s a pretty unusual name after all. I squint. Her profile picture shows her in some sort of fancy dress, wearing a wig and a mask, and when I click into her profile most of it is set to private.

I feel an impatience rise up in me. I’m not going to go back on my promise to Anna. I’m not going to tell her. But I need to see her. I need to complete my closure by seeing the woman who’s the other side of my unique life story, the heads to my tails.

I open another tab, search for ‘Hedi Buchs-Wilson London’. I scroll down the page, not sure what I’m looking for, and one link stands out. I click on it. It goes to a charity website, some sort of foundation helping communities overseas. And there’s her name. Hedi Buchs-Wilson: Communications Manager, Europe. There’s a phone number, an email and a physical address for the office in Covent Garden. I drum my fingers on the table.