Norah never failed to be astonished at how perfectly people’s names seemed to suit them. Did parents know through some form of clairvoyance what kind of person their newborn would turn out to be? Or was the secret that all children gradually adapted to their names, in the same way that liquid precious metals hardened and set in the shape of whatever mould they were poured into?

‘It’s a nice name,’ said Norah. ‘With or without an H.’

‘Thanks.’

Theresa got up.

‘Feel like some music?’ she asked, releasing her curls from the untidy bun with a flick of her wrist. She flung her hair band into a corner and went over to the record player. Then she turned back to Norah, staring at her through narrowed eyes as if she could read her music taste in her face, opened the cupboard door and pulled out a record.

‘Oh my God,’ said Norah, as the first notes rang out. ‘I love Arcade Fire.’

‘Thought you might,’ Theresa said, smiling. ‘One of my talents.’

‘I’m impressed!’

Theresa took a stage bow. When she threw back her hair, something flared up in Norah’s hippocampus again and her heart tightened.

‘More music, more wine!’ Theresa cried, as if a whole troop of liveried footmen were waiting in the wings, ready to rush into the room and serve them with the best burgundy. She turned up the volume and topped up their glasses.

An hour or so later the bottle was empty and Katinka had left the rug for Norah’s lap. Norah now knew that Theresa came from Innsbruck, was a few years younger than her and still studying. She’d met Maurice at uni. Exciting sex with him had helped her get over a messy break-up, but as time went on, he’d become increasingly clingy and jealous.

‘Vienna’s full of weirdos,’ said Theresa, and Norah told her the story of the woman with the begging bowl who had prophesied that she would kill a man called Arthur Grimm.

‘Whoa,’ said Theresa. ‘Creepy.’

That made Norah laugh. ‘D’you think?’

‘Completely. Who is this Arthur Grimm?’

‘No idea. But he kind of keeps popping up.’

‘How do you mean?’

And in a few words Norah told her.

‘Oh my God,’ said Theresa, when Norah had finished.

She chewed her lower lip.

‘Maybe you should talk to him.’

‘To be honest, I’m more interested in the weird fortune teller.’

‘Why?’

‘Hard to say. There’s something about her. She kind of fascinates me.’

Theresa screwed up her nose.

‘I think you should let this Grimm have it.’

She pulled a fierce face and clapped her fist against the flat of her hand. Norah laughed again.

‘Really? Why?’

Theresa shrugged.

‘No idea. But maybe the old fortune teller knows more than you.’

‘You’re drunk,’ said Norah, smiling.

The cat rearranged itself on her lap, then decided it was time to move on. Norah stroked its soft black fur one last time and set it carefully on the floor. She immediately missed the creature’s warmth—and, at the same moment, realised that she was no longer entirely sober herself. Then—who knows why—a thought came to her.