A few times back in Sydney, I’d heard Marieke’s gallery friends recounting the first time they’d seen a Rembrandt or Van Gogh or Picasso in the flesh. Some described it as a fever – chills and a dry throat and heavy, aching limbs. Some swore it was like falling in love, like coming face to face with the person you knew you were destined to be with forever. I’ve never felt that way about paintings. For me, it’s always been clothes. I had to resist the urge to go over and prise off the lid just so I could bask in its reflected brilliance.

‘There you are,’ Liam said, stepping around the workbench to kiss my cheek. ‘I was expecting you an hour ago. Everything okay?’ He pushed a pair of oversized, gold-rimmed spectacles up his nose. He didn’t need to wear them – his vision was perfect – but he felt they suited his style, which was a combination of relaxed vintage seventies attire and conservative academia, skinny ties and tweed blazers. ‘Ted Hughes on acid’ was how he’d once described it to me. I’d been trying to purge the disturbing comparison from my memory ever since.

‘You can blame Marieke,’ I said. ‘She called to ask why I hadn’t replied to her last email. Then we got into a fight about… something. And by the time she hung up, I’d missed the ferry. I had to hang around waiting for the next one to arrive.’ I could feel my palms growing hot again, the frustration boiling over.

The conversation had started amicably enough, Marieke accepting my explanation of the delay – that I’d been too busy coordinating transportation of the dress to the mainland to respond to her email – with unusually good grace.

We’d chatted for a few minutes about the family who’d moved into the terrace next door. The woman had just given birth to twins and Marieke was enjoying playing the role of friendly neighbour, ordering the bewildered husband around, writing out shopping lists and shouting advice to him over the communal front fence. Apparently he seemed shell-shocked. He walked around wearing a worried frown and said very little when Marieke appeared on his doorstep with homemade herbal teas and a raft of criticisms. Knowing Marieke, I suspected the man’s recalcitrance had less to do with his abrupt induction into fatherhood and more to do with working out how he could avoid her attentions in the future. I didn’t voice this opinion aloud but maybe Marieke had an inkling because she said, ‘Your mother swore an infusion of mint tea from the garden with a few drops of clove helped her regain her strength after she gave birth. She was back home with you within the week. She didn’t like staying on the mainland. Said the hospital was full of people from the cities and one of them might steal her purse while she slept. I suppose you’ve been to see the house?’

‘No,’ I said, shortly.