The archival box resting on the bench looked big enough to house a body or a full-length silk dress. It had a fitted lid that Liam was in the act of securing as we entered. I caught the sheen of silk as the lid came down, a rainbow arc like the flash of fish scales in a pond. Even this one tantalising glimpse was enough to reignite my excitement. Just knowing the dress was right there, within reach again, was enough to inspire a visceral reaction in me. I felt my shoulders stiffen and my stomach tense, as if I was somehow anticipating a blow to the abdomen. I fancied I could smell the fabric, the strange whiff of cinnamon and aniseed mingled with the briny scent of seawater.

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.