She must stop thinking about the past. The man at the crossing had made a mistake, that was all. Such things happened. How many Valeries must there be in Vienna? Hundreds? Thousands? One of them looked like Norah. So what? She must calm down. She must stop dwelling on it.

And she needed a drink.

When she woke the next morning, Norah was cuddled up to Alex, her belly against his back. It was lovely, feeling his warmth in the chilly bedroom.

But like a silk dress that is shrugged to the floor, the dream slid off her and she realised that something was wrong. Startled, she moved away with a jolt from the warm body in her bed and opened her eyes. A shock of dark hair, a bare back, pale skin, a scattering of moles. It all came back to her. She’d gone to the fridge the evening before for a bottle of wine and found it empty—then stormed out of the house and into the first bar she’d come to. She remembered the barman with the lovely dark eyes, apparently from his Japanese mum, and the gorgeous Viennese accent (from his dad).

What was the matter with her? Why was she suddenly acting like a ditsy student?

You’re trying to get Alex out of your system. And you’re failing miserably.

Norah rolled onto her back, trying not to think of Alex, and faked sleep until the man had gone.

Then she went into the bathroom to have a shower. In the mirror she looked at the new tattoo, which was now almost completely healed and only slightly itchy. She suddenly remembered the guy asking her about it in bed. Is it a swallow? She had only shaken her head.

Over a cappuccino and croissant in the corner bistro, Norah skimmed the newspaper. In the culture section she found a brief obituary of the actor Dorotea Lechner. A photo showed her—presumably some time ago—on the stage of a small independent theatre. An actor who fell on hard times and took to drinking, then ended up having to beg to make ends meet. The story Norah had been chasing was so much sadder than she had expected. And so much shorter.

Somehow she got through the day, doing her best not to think of anything but work. In the late afternoon, she had an appointment with a local politician who had set himself the task of getting as many homeless people off the streets as possible. Norah interviewed him in his office, then headed for the nearest tram stop. It was growing dark and she had to pause for a moment to get her bearings. She was in a part of Vienna where she’d never been before. To her left was a busy road and to her right a park, which now, in February, was more grey than green. Behind the trees a big wheel rose up into the sky. The Prater!

Curious, Norah set off across the grass and was soon standing at the foot of the big wheel. She stared up at the vast construction, imagining the cars full of shrieking teenagers and soppy couples. Then her eyes strayed over the surrounding area. Stretched out before her with its booths and rides was the fairground—the Wurstlprater to those in the know, although it was what most tourists meant when they talked about ‘the Prater’. Norah wandered off down the twisty lanes between the booths. Rides, food stalls, Test-Your-Strength, souvenirs.