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I reach Oxford Circus tube station, fly down the escalator and disappear underground.

Back at the Airbnb, I screw the top off a wine bottle and hunt for a glass. It doesn’t take long – the kitchen is tiny, and I only have a choice of four cupboard doors. I take a large swig, then splash more in my glass and slump against the bench, fresh tears spilling. The flat suddenly feels too small and I can’t breathe. Desperate for fresh air, I drag a dining chair over to the window and hoist it up, gulping in the cool evening breeze.

My phone rings. I don’t bother checking it. Casey has been calling since I left her standing on Regent Street. I was tempted to switch it off, but I want her to know how it feels to have your calls ignored. Eva enters my head, perched on the bar stool, perfect and poised, cool and calm, ready to protect her prized possession. Even through the thick glass, the fiery determination in her eyes was clear. Then my brain conjures up an image of Casey and Eva in bed, and a bitter jealousy rips through me.

I reach for more wine, desperate to wash away the vision, but instead it’s replaced with a reel of Casey and me the past week. Five nights together, skin on skin, lips on lips, hands and mouths trailing over each other’s bodies. To me, it was more than physical; our souls were connected. I thought she felt that too. What did she say that afternoon we were in her gallery? I stare at the darkening street and search my mind … The same, I feel the same, because you ruined me for everyone else too. I scoff. God, I’m an idiot. Stupid for letting myself get caught up in something so unrealistic, for spending my entire twenties thinking about her, for putting her in this idealistic bubble of perfection, for comparing all my relationships to this person I’d made her out to be.

‘So. Fucking. Stupid!’ My words disappear into the night sky, just like the relationship I thought I was about to embark on. The silence in the flat is too loud. I slam the window shut, turn on the TV and collapse on the couch. My phone rings again. Casey’s image flashes up at me. I turn up the volume on the TV and drown her out.

Chapter 31

Holly, London

Abuzzing on the bedside table wakes me. The left side of my head throbs and my skin is clammy and hot. I throw off the doona and reach for the glass of water I don’t recall pouring. As I drain it, memories of last night filter into my mind. I turned the heating up at some point and forgot to turn it down. That, combined with the sunshine beating against the windows, makes the flat feel like a hot yoga studio. My phone stops and starts again a second later. I grab it, expecting it to be Casey, but it’s Adam. I bolt upright – it’s 7 pm in Melbourne on a Saturday evening and he wouldn’t normally call at this time.

‘Adam?’ I say, my voice urgent.

‘Hi, Hols.’

His tone is heavy and I stiffen. ‘Is it Mum?’

‘Yeah.’

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall.

‘They think she’s had a stroke. About an hour ago. She’s okay; don’t freak out. It was small, apparently, but she’s in the ambulance to the Royal Melbourne. She’ll need to have MRIs and stuff because, well, you know what another stroke could mean for her.’

My body relaxes with the relief that it’s not worse news. ‘I’ll come home as quick as I can.’

‘You don’t need to. I just wanted you to know. We can maybe call you later, once she’s settled into a room or something?’

‘Yes please, but I’m coming. I’ll check flights now. Let her know I’m on my way.’

‘Are you sure? You only just got there, and it’ll be expensive to get a ticket at short notice, won’t it?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Righto. I’ll call when I know more.’

I hang up, take two painkillers, make coffee and hop back in bed with my laptop to search flights. The first available isn’t until early tomorrow morning. I book it and message Adam the details.

Then there’s that silence again, the enormity of it swallowing me. I peer at the empty space beside me where Casey should be. Would she be sleeping peacefully? Maybe she’d be walking around naked or in the shower, singing. No, she’d be holding me close, murmuring caring words in my ear, keeping me calm about what’s happened and urging me to return home as quickly as I can. The thought makes my chest ache, and I jump out of bed to prevent myself from curling into a pathetic, miserable ball. I can’t visit my relatives because they’re out of London this weekend, but I can’t be alone in here all day. I switch on the TV for background noise while I shower and dress, then head out with my camera.

On the tube, I read through the string of messages Casey sent last night. Short messages pleading for me to give her a chance. Long, rambling sentences explaining herself. I read the last one she sent at 2 am.

Please let me explain. Please forgive me. I love you.

I run my thumb across those last three words. I didn’t want her to tell me that in a message. I wanted her to whisper it in my ear while we were entwined in bed, or as we walked the streets of London hand in hand, or when we were drinking nice wine in a bar. But most of all, I wanted her to tell me at the right time, if and when we reached that point, not because she thinks she needs to.

I shove my phone back into my bag, burying the reminder of her, and get off at Westminster. Above ground, I grab a triple-shot black coffee and a savoury croissant and wander to the Abbey – one of Mum’s favourite landmarks. I lose myself taking a series of wide shots capturing the magnificence of the building and the contrast of stone against blue sky, and close-ups of the intricate carvings of martyrs framing the entrance. Next to me, a group of teenagers snap each other on phones, trying to get themselves all in the frame. I intervene to help them out, circulating their phones for different photos, and for a short while, the joy of what I’m doing numbs my heartache.

Once they’re gone, and I’m happy with my own photos, I take my time walking through St James’s Park and the old London streets until I find myself in Trafalgar Square and stop for more food. While I eat, I select a few images and upload them to Instagram, knowing that Casey will see them. Maybe Eva will too. Maybe they’ll see them together, back in their shared home, wherever that is. A sourness rises in my throat, but I force it down and focus on the shots I’ve taken today, scrolling image after image.

In the afternoon I walk around central London, absorbing the architecture. I want to go into the National Gallery and the Tate but the idea of seeing art without Casey hurts too much, so I head back to my Airbnb to hopefully sleep ahead of a 5 am journey back to Heathrow, not even forty-eight hours after I’ve arrived. I take the tube to Angel. The bus would’ve been nicer, but I crave the darkness of the underground, the tight tunnels, the rocking carriage, and the anonymity of a crowd.

Back at the flat, I heat up a chicken curry ready-meal that I grabbed at the Tesco Metro on the corner and sort out my clothes and luggage for the morning. My phone rings and my stomach lurches when I see Casey’s image flash on the screen. She hasn’t called all day and I had started to think if she’d given up that easily, then I really meant nothing to her. My head tells me not to answer but my heart overrules, and my hand shoots out to snatch up the phone. ‘What?’

‘Oh God, you answered. Can I see you?’