It shocked her a little, this sense of how simple it would be to allow her feet to sink into the mud like the roots of water lilies and remain there. Never before in her twenty-nine years had she felt any kind of urge for permanency or stability. After university in Paris and her stint at the gallery there, she’d traveled through Europe for two years, living off her wits, travel articles that she sent back to an editor of her mother’s magazines, and occasional poorly paid stints on low budget arthouse films. She’d taken a grunt job over summer to show tourist groups through an art museum in Rome and had an affair with a much older Italian art handler, which had given her the idea that art handling would be the perfect job for somebody like her.

When her money had run out, she’d returned to Australia. She took up a position as an art consultant for a new hotel chain that wanted art to be its point of difference, then hopped to an art auction house, which brought her into contact with galleries, before finally landing an assistant curatorship. After a year, they trusted her enough to start doing the art handling. After another year in a permanent role combining curating and handling, she quit to freelance. Sometimes she had to worry for a day or two about where her next paycheck might come from but she’d always been able to fill any gaps between art handling or curating contracts with freelance writing. It meant she could take off to Europe whenever she wanted and she was beholden to no one. She loved waking up every morning knowing she could do whatever she wanted.

Just as she loved standing in the river right now, and she knew it was only because she’d pursued freedom with such zeal that she was here in France, in bliss. An art handler or curator with a permanent position at a gallery would have to rush back, whereas she could enjoy the sunshine.

Her eyes snapped open with the sudden, curious sensation that someone was watching her and she whirled around. Nobody was there. But the faux—the eccentric trees—around her now appeared to be impenetrable, as if they were cradling something precious beneath their canopies.

A minute later, Josh appeared.

“I bet you’ve never waded in the canal,” she called out.

“You’re right,” he said.

She bent down and scooped up a palmful of water, which she flicked at him. “You said you were being a daredevil…”

He was in the water before she could finish her sentence, scooping up an even larger handful of water and pouring it down her back.

She gasped and let go of her skirt, which tumbled into the water. She looked down at it ruefully. “Luckily it’s a warm day so I won’t have to take it off and drape it over a bush to dry.”

He actually laughed. “That is lucky,” he said dryly. Then he put his hands lightly on her waist and spun her around to face the bank, propelling her forwards. “Besides, wearing a damp dress will cool you down, which it sounds like you need. Let’s eat.”