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‘Well done. Least they could do after messing you about. Are you still doing that radio interview tomorrow?’

He nods. ‘That’s at eleven. I’m also on the art weekly podcast that will be released over the weekend.’

‘Okay. We’re almost there.’ I peek at the clock on the wall above his head. ‘Anything else you need me to do?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.’ He smiles and brushes his floppy, sandy hair from his face. ‘I’m glad you’re here. It’s been a huge help.’

I return the smile. ‘No problem. It’s a nice change, actually. Done me good to get away from London this week, and I love this exhibition.’ I set my laptop to sleep and slip it into its bag. ‘Mind if I get going?’

‘You don’t want to come for a drink with me and Matias? There’s a good bar a few doors down; we’re meeting there. We’ll probably grab something to eat, too.’

‘I don’t want to take you away from your new husband.’

He grins. ‘We get plenty of time together at home.’

I sling the strap of my laptop bag over my shoulder. ‘It’s okay. I was up late last night working, so I’m pretty tired. Thanks, though.’ This isn’t untrue, but the park is calling me, and I’m jittery that six o’clock is nearing and I’m not there yet.

‘Planning a wedding is tiring.’

‘Oh, erm … yeah.’ I’ve known Felix for years now, but I don’t recall talking to him about Eva or the wedding in any recent work conversations, and I’ve intentionally not mentioned it this week.

He tsks himself. ‘Sorry, that sounded like I’m in your business. I follow Eva on Instagram and she posts about it a lot.’

‘Ah.’ I nod. ‘Right. Well, you probably know more than me since I don’t bother looking at her feed much.’ My words have an unintended bitter edge, and I throw in a quick smile to put him off the scent.

He cringes. ‘Sorry, have I said the wrong thing?’

I forget how perceptive he is sometimes. ‘No, not at all. It’s just a bit … well, a bit complicated.’ I head for the office door. ‘Have a good night.’

‘Tschüss,’ he says as I pass.

‘Tschüss.’

I leave the gallery, walking at a fast pace and glancing at my watch every few seconds. I turn onto Tucholskystrasse. It’s thrumming with peak-hour traffic – people exit buildings and swarm to the S-Bahn, hop on bikes or scurry along the footpath. At the corner of Oranienburgerstrasse, the bars and cafés are busy outside despite the heavy grey clouds and patchy rain.

I cross the road and after another minute’s walk, I’m at the entrance of Monbijoupark. My mouth turns dry and I dig in my bag for a bottle of water, downing a few gulps before stepping inside the park boundary. I pass the fountain and head along the concrete path that runs through the centre, then turn onto a dirt path. It’s wet from the rain and the heels of my boots sink into the muddy earth. People laze on the grass – alone, reading books, chatting in groups or throwing balls for their dogs. Music floats up from the river and it helps to relax me for a minute until I spot the tree and my body tenses. I was only here a few years ago – when I first got this job and Josanne sent me to Berlin to see the gallery. Back then, I walked from tree to tree, searching for the right one, but once I found it, I knew.

I sit on the damp grass with my back pressed against the trunk, legs stretched out, the image of Holly and me lying here filling my head. So much has become hazy over the years, but that afternoon has remained vivid. Wanting to reassure her that I really did care but not knowing how, and instead giving her a ridiculous plan to find each other. The Bode Museum is there. The Berliner Fernsehturm is there. The fountain is there. And the Alte Nationalgalerie, where I met the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, is over there. I’ll remember. This spot. On this day. At this time. At least I told her one truth that day – that I’d remember. I press my hand to my heart, the regret burning thick, mingling with the constant ache of what-if and the grief of cutting all ties with her.

I glance around, but no one looks like Holly. Of course they don’t. She’s in Melbourne, taking photos of the city, busy in her project manager job, living life with a handsome lad called Tom. Is she happy? Has she had a good life? Has she thought about me or tried to find me? What did she do with those photos of us from that final night?

I pull out my phone and bring up Holly’s Instagram profile. Her last post is from Saturday night, at a wine bar with someone called Nat. Holly looks incredible. Her hair still has the same honey tones and falls loose and wavy past her shoulders. Her smile is wide and genuine, her pale blue eyes glimmering with warmth. My gaze shifts to her throat and I zoom in for a closer look. It’s the same necklace – a silver chain with a tiny H pendant. I can almost feel it, the smooth silver between my fingers.

While I’m glad she’s alive and well, I have a strong feeling that I’m supposed to be the one sharing life with her. My finger hovers over the ‘like’ button. Is receiving a like on a post from a ghost from your past creepy? Would she respond? Mum’s voice is in my head: Don’t contact Holly until you sort things with Eva. Then I hear Chandice: Stop stalking, you total saddo. I exit the app and slip my phone away before I can do anything stupid.

I close my eyes and try to focus on the present, tuning into the sensations of the park. The birdsong above me, the warm air on my face, the voices floating on the breeze. But it doesn’t work; the past continues to haunt me because I’m in the exact spot where I felt such intense emotions for the first time in my young life, emotions that overwhelmed me so much that I had to run. And if I’m honest, emotions I’ve never experienced again.

Emotions I’ve never experienced again.

My eyes open. Everything is sharper. I have to end things with Eva, like, completely. Not half, not ‘maybe we should delay the wedding but stay together’. I’m in a park thinking about someone else. That’s not fair on Eva, and it makes me feel like a shitty person. I give a silent cheer to Holly and head in the direction of my hotel.

Back in my room, I kick off my boots and settle on the bed with my pizza and bottle of Warsteiner, then FaceTime Jaz.

‘All right,’ she says, her face filling the screen. ‘Did you go?’ She shovels a forkful of noodles into her mouth. A few strands stick to her chin and she slurps them up.

I take a bite of pizza and nod.

Jaz frowns. ‘She wasn’t there, I take it?’