No, she didn’t want to think about it. She looked for her phone, but couldn’t find it and switched on her laptop. Two new emails were waiting in her inbox: a reminder of her dentist’s appointment the next day from a practice she’d found online, and a note from a friend in Berlin who’d had a baby a few months back and been too busy to see much of Norah since. It was a short email; Francesca came straight to the point.

Norah, my dear,

Sorry not to have been in touch for so long. Hope things are okay with you. I saw Alex yesterday afternoon when I was out pushing the buggy. He was with a woman, but it wasn’t you, and I suddenly realised how long it is since we last spoke. I didn’t even know you’d split up. Do hope you’re well.

Lots of love, Francesca

Norah read the email twice, then shut her laptop. Alex hadn’t lost much time, had he? Cue toothache. The pain was real enough now; she had to get out.

The streets were empty, which probably had more to do with the cold and rain than the time of day. Dark, shimmering asphalt, shuttered shop fronts. A little way past the Paulanerkirche, Norah stopped and took a photo for Instagram, but discarded it as too gloomy. She passed an elderly couple—the man long and thin like an exclamation mark, the woman plump in a fur coat and hat—then a young girl in a far-too-thin leather jacket walking a far-too-large dog. Norah crossed the road, wandering aimlessly. If she got lost or walked too far, she could always hail a taxi. She fell to thinking; she always found it easiest to put her thoughts in order when she was walking. Anita’s words in the office kitchen came back to her. Had she really mentioned an Arthur Grimm, like the woman with the begging bowl?

The face Norah had seen on the internet popped into her head—the piercing eyes, the narrow lips, the square chin. What was it that made that handsome face look so menacing? Why the ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach?

It was strange. She was sure she didn’t know him. She had an excellent memory for names—maybe it was being a journalist—and if she had ever heard the name Arthur Grimm, it must have been a very long time ago. But something about him unnerved her.

The traffic lights changed and Norah crossed the road. A man passed her on a bike. It had stopped raining, but the damp cold was stubborn and insidious and found its way in, however well wrapped up you were. Norah drew in her head and put her numb hands in her coat pockets. Not a soul anywhere now.

The next street sign told her she was in the seventh district. All at once, the cold seemed unbearable. Then the tiredness kicked in. Norah walked faster, desperate to be back in the warmth. There were no taxis in sight. She took a left, then a right, meaning to retrace her steps, but soon realised she was lost. How stupid that she’d misplaced her phone. Norah stopped to think for a second, then on a sudden impulse she took a left and found herself in a street she knew. It was wide and slightly sloping; if she followed it uphill and turned right, she’d come to that lovely cafe where, in another life, she’d once had breakfast. She knew her way home from there.