‘You have my attention.’ His voice had lost its teasing edge. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes would be hard and focused, alert to the possible acquisition of precious knowledge.

I was seized by a sudden, panicky desire to keep the knowledge of the artefacts to myself. But I couldn’t do the work alone. Liam had the contacts and the experience. We were a good team, despite our differing approaches to conservatorship and curation. Liam preferred the quiet sanctity of the chem lab while I liked to fall down historical rabbit holes, pinpointing an artefact’s origin story. From the moment we’d met, we had recognised in each other the same fierce ambition, a desire to achieve something truly unique with our time on earth. I just had to give myself permission to trust him.

I took a deep breath and launched into Bram’s story.

‘Wow,’ he said, when I finished. ‘That’s some find. I can’t think of any extant examples of textiles surviving in water for that long. This is so exciting!’

I could tell he meant it and I was suddenly glad I’d shared the story with him. The discovery felt real, not just something I’d dreamed up. With his impressive publication record, Liam could drum up funds from sponsors whose support I could only dream of securing. Relocating to Sydney to work on my book last year had also taken its toll on my freelance career and years of renting in one of London’s flashiest suburbs meant my finances weren’t as healthy as I’d have liked. I’d been thrilled when Sydney University emailed to advise that my application for a research fellowship had been successful. The offer, which included access to their extensive historical archives, also boasted a quiet office set back from the main teaching buildings with a private courtyard and a view of the lawn sloping down to the pond. Teaching an occasional class was required but a pretty standard condition, so I’d accepted the role gladly. It seemed idyllic, the perfect opportunity.

Soon after moving to Sydney, it had became apparent the role carried with it certain unspoken opportunities, at least for the right candidates. At the end of my first fortnight, the faculty head invited me for drinks at a dimly lit restaurant overlooking the harbour. Monica Rosetti was extremely flattering, laughing easily at my bad jokes, groaning when I described the situation at home with Marieke, how she drove me crazy with her cleansing rituals, her crystals and dried herbs, dwelling on the constant fears and anxieties that half a lifetime of my reassurances had been unable to extinguish.

‘She sounds like a nightmare. Why don’t you just get your own place?’