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Chapter 23

Holly, Berlin

It’s opening night of the Queer Perspectives exhibition, and I’m almost giddy with excitement as I walk towards the gallery.

I was still half-asleep when Casey kissed me goodbye early this morning, and I’ve missed her today. I occupied myself by walking the city, taking some great shots of art on decaying buildings, then shopping for something to wear tonight. I spent hours getting ready – for Casey, for anyone who’ll see us together, and for me – sometimes it’s just nice to have a reason to dress up.

After we left her gallery on Saturday afternoon, we visited another contemporary art gallery, followed by dinner, then back to her hotel room for more brain-shattering sex. The entire time I carried the feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, like everything I had ever experienced had been mapped out for me to arrive in that very moment. Afterwards we lazed in bed, naked in fresh white sheets, watching TV and eating milky European chocolate. We parted on Sunday morning when she left for work and I stayed in her hotel bed, her scent lingering, until early afternoon when I floated back to my studio flat to edit photos and talk to Mum, Adam and Nat. That evening, Casey surprised me by showing up at my door with a bottle of wine in one hand, Vietnamese takeaway in another, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder and a coy smile on her lips.

When I arrive at the gallery, I message Casey to tell her I’m outside, and within a minute she’s there, pulling me into a kiss that has me sinking into her.

‘Hello,’ she says, resting her forehead on mine. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day.’

I brush my nose against hers and breathe her in. She smells like freshly washed skin with a hint of citrus from her perfume. ‘Weren’t you concentrating on work?’

She smiles. ‘I can multitask.’ She steps back and gives me a once-over. ‘God, look at you. You look amazing.’

I look down at my simple red dress and try to ignore the nagging voice in my head telling me that an unemployed person shouldn’t spend over a hundred euros on a piece of material with straps. The material is silk and the dress is fully lined, but a slip of material nonetheless. ‘Thought I should dress up a bit. Haven’t been to an exhibition opening before.’

Casey runs a strand of my hair through her fingertips. ‘And your hair.’

‘I just straightened it.’ I scrunch my nose. ‘Too much?’

‘No way. You look beautiful.’ She holds out her hand and nods towards the entrance. ‘Come on, lovely. Come and meet my colleague before everyone arrives.’

Inside, the gallery has transformed. The walls display the new exhibition pieces, and a small sculpture of two men caught in a tender hug sits in the centre of the room. The overhead lighting is low, with brighter display lights over the artwork, and soft music trickles through the space.

‘Felix,’ Casey calls. ‘This is Holly.’

A tall, muscular man spins around. His eyes flick to our linked hands, then cut to Casey. He smiles broadly and steps forward to kiss both my cheeks. ‘Hallo, Holly. Nice to meet you.’ He waves his hand around. ‘Welcome to our gallery.’

‘Thank you. Nice to meet you, too.’

He pulls his head back in surprise. ‘That’s not an English accent.’

‘Oh, no. I’m Australian.’

His eyes flick to Casey again and she gives a quick smile. ‘Australian?’ he says. ‘Are you travelling?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, welcome to Berlin.’ A door at the back of the gallery opens and another man emerges with a few bottles of wine. ‘That’s my husband, Matias. Let me get you a drink.’

He disappears and I help Casey with glasses and alcohol before the guests and artists arrive. As Casey does what she needs to do, I stroll around with a glass of sparkling wine, taking in the incredible art and chatting to Matias, who has cousins in Melbourne. When he goes to get himself another drink, I stop in front of the painting of the naked woman, now hung in the middle of the back wall, and indulge in a luscious memory. Heat rushes to my face and I glance around, certain that people will guess what I’ve been up to in front of this painting, but they’re all busy chatting or looking at art.

‘Hallo,’ says a soft voice beside me.

I startle. ‘Oh, hello.’

‘Gefällt Ihnen dieses Gemälde?’ the woman says, pointing to the canvas.

‘Oh, sorry, ich spreche kein Deutsch.’ I grimace. ‘Not enough to have a conversation about art anyway.’

She smiles, deep lines framing her eyes. ‘Do you like this painting?’

I glance at it again. ‘It’s incredible. I was trying to work out how the artist used oils to get a photographic finish.’

‘Ah, it’s tricky. And painstaking. It took years.’