I told her it was complicated. Whenever I returned to Sydney, I always ended up back at Marieke’s. All my research books were there as well the small but precious collection of vintage clothes and shoes I’d rescued from countless London flea markets and deceased estates. Also, I could never forget that although Marieke had never wanted children, she’d flown halfway across the world when my parents died to claim me as her own. She was utterly mad and could twist the meaning of things around until you were so tied up in knots you wanted to scream but she had a good heart and I couldn’t very well leave her on her own if we were living in the same city.

‘You should apply for a permanent teaching role once your book is written,’ Monica said, flicking her dark hair out of her face and swirling the wine around her glass. ‘There’s a generous stipend on offer for the right person and the university has an exclusive arrangement with an off-campus agency that manages a pretty impressive real estate portfolio. Of course, we’d need you to commit for at least five years. And the university publishing arm would want an exclusive option to check out this manuscript and whatever you write next before anyone else gets a shot at it. From what you’ve said, it sounds as if the research angle is quite a unique one. Academic publishing is such a brutal affair, perhaps even more so now. Social media moves so fast. Whoever breaks a story first is the person everybody remembers. Think about it, won’t you?’

As she shook her arm, her bracelet glittered in the downlights, a conspiracy of tiny winking jewels. Through the rosy haze of intoxication, I saw her intentions clearly. Settling down to an academic career and teaching meant giving up a life I loved as a textiles historian and freelance curator. It meant stepping away from meeting with ordinary people to discuss their clothes and giving lectures to theatres packed with historical costume enthusiasts. I hoped that the successful publication of my book might lead to other opportunities – television shows, radio interviews, the opportunity to work on extraordinary projects.

Liam had then asked me to send him the photos so he could view them while he still had me on the line. As I listened to his breath rasp softly through the speaker, the background noises of the airport lounge – hissing coffee machines, flight announcements – lost their sharpness and dropped away. I saw the dress in my mind and filled out the curves, imagining how the fabric would sit on hips and waist and torso, clinging in some places, falling in others. The person who’d worn the dress had been dead for over four hundred years, yet they had left this imprint of themselves behind, like one of John Herschel’s ghostly cyanotypes of the 1800s.