16. Holly, Berlin

My hand flies to my mouth. A person who looks very similar to the image I've carried with me for eleven years stands in front of me. Cropped curly black hair, dark soulful eyes, warm brown skin, tall, lean body. She looks even better with age. I lower my hand to speak, but my throat is tight and my tongue feels thick in my mouth, and all that comes out is, ‘Casey?'

She nods and awkwardly adjusts the bag strap over her shoulder.

‘Oh my God.' I place my palm against my forehead and turn away. ‘Oh my God.' I face her again and press my hand to my chest. ‘Oh my fucking God.'

‘Hiya,' she says.

I give a short, incredulous laugh. ‘Hi.' My gut twists and turns. My heart explodes. My limbs weaken. ‘You're here. In this spot. On this day. At this time.'

‘I am. Although, you're twenty-four hours late…'

I shake my head. ‘No, 23 August, 6pm.'

‘22nd,' she says.

I scrunch my nose and laugh again. ‘Well, one of us has the date wrong.'

Casey smiles. ‘Seems that way.'

And there's that smile – the one that warms everything around her. I shake my head as though it will help everything make sense. ‘Um…what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here. That wasn't the plan.'

Her brows lift. ‘You had a plan?'

I nod. ‘A plan to get you out of my system, but here you are.'

She's silent for an agonising beat. ‘You're not supposed to be here either.'

Without taking my eyes off her, I take a few steps off the path and lower myself onto a bench. She joins me, sunbeams breaking through the leaves and highlighting the gloss of her black hair and flawless skin. ‘Erm…' I search for words. ‘Have you … you haven't been coming here every year since?' I feel a rush of sadness, picturing her waiting for me every year, my what-if being answered years ago.

She grins. ‘No. Have you?'

I relax. ‘No.'

‘I've been here once before, though,' she says. ‘A few years back.' She pauses. ‘You weren't here.'

I'm taken aback and suddenly the rejection I've carried all these years doesn't sting as badly. ‘I've been here once before too,' I say. ‘Three years ago, but not in August.'

We gaze at each other, like we're trying to work out if this is real or a dream. Above us, a bird chirps, breaking the silence and reminding me to speak.

‘Do you live in Berlin?' I ask.

‘Um…' She blinks like she's been concussed, then finds her voice. ‘No. Still in London. I work in an art gallery and we have one here too. I'm here to help with an exhibition.' She twists and points behind her. ‘The gallery's just over there actually, on Auguststrasse.'

‘Art history,' I say.

‘Sorry?'

‘You were studying art history at uni.'

She smiles. ‘That's right.'

‘That's amazing you turned it into a job.'

She nods. ‘It is. What about you? Still in Melbourne then.'

‘Oh,' I say a little surprised, because that sounded like a statement and not a question. ‘Yes. Did you?—'

‘Your accent,' she says quickly. ‘Sounds like you've been in Australia all this time, is all.'

‘Ah, yep, still in Melbourne,' I say.

‘Are you here for a holiday, or a job?'

‘Oh, just a holiday.' I scrunch my nose. ‘Kind of lost my job. Redundancy, not because I was shit at it.'

Casey laughs. It's heartfelt, authentic and comforting, and it warms my spirit. ‘That's good to know.'

‘I wanted to get away from everything. So' – I hold up my camera – ‘I decided to travel and take photos.'

‘Creative arts. Photography was your favourite.'

I turn gooey. ‘You remember that?'

‘I do.' Her voice is tinged with nostalgia and she flashes me another smile before she glances around the park. ‘Are you here with friends? Family?' A pause. ‘Partner?'

I shake my head, my gaze fixed on her, too scared to look away in case she vanishes. She waits for my reply, watching me with those eyes … those fucking eyes. ‘Just me.'

There's an imperceptible rise of her brows. Or is that me imagining things? Reading too much into every facial movement?

‘Here on your own?' she says. ‘Good for you.'

‘I take it if you're here for work, you're travelling alone?' It's a question I immediately regret, because I don't want to hear that she's here with her partner. I want this new-found hope to last longer than five minutes.

She breaks eye contact. ‘Ah, yeah, just me.'

My heart lifts, and I take the opportunity. ‘I was thinking about taking this stuff back to my flat and grabbing some dinner.'

‘Yeah?' she says.

Her curious tone encourages me. ‘If … I don't suppose you'd want…' I swallow. ‘Do you want to join me?'

A slow smile spreads across her face, making her eyes shine, and I'm right back in that gallery, about to melt to the ground.

‘I'd love to.' She points to a large bag by her feet. ‘I might drop this off first, though. I don't really want to lug around a laptop. And I've been at work since eight this morning, so it would be good to change.'

I have to stop myself from pouncing on her so she can't leave, like a puppy with separation anxiety. ‘Oh. Okay.' I bite down on my lip so I can't say any more, because those two tiny words were loaded with desperation.

She scans my face, like she's trying to read my mind. ‘Why don't we exchange numbers and pick somewhere to meet?'

I remember to breathe. We can meet, no need for clinginess. ‘Good idea.' I dig into the pocket of my shorts and pull out my phone. ‘I'll message you.'

Casey reads out her number, I type it into my contacts and send a message. ‘And there's mine.'

Her phone beeps. ‘Got it. Where are you staying?'

‘In Mitte. Near the Naturkundemuseum. I've got a studio flat thingo for a couple of weeks.'

One side of her mouth lifts and she taps her phone screen. ‘A studio flat thingo? Well, let's find somewhere near your thingo,' she says, deliberately pronouncing ‘thingo' with a hard G. She opens Maps and zooms in. ‘There're some good restaurants in Mitte. We can meet at the end of Friedrichstrasse, near the river. Like, around here.' She leans closer, tilting the screen toward me, and I catch her scent. Still cedarwood. I swallow and stare at her profile, our shoulders only centimetres apart. When I don't respond, she lifts her gaze, eyes piercing mine.

My breath catches and I look down at the screen, heat rising in my cheeks. ‘Yeah.' It comes out as a whisper, and I clear my throat. ‘Yeah, good. We'll meet there.'

‘About seven-thirty?'

I nod.

‘Okay, see you soon, then?'

I nod again.

‘We should' – she points in the direction of the road – ‘like … leave, if we're going to drop stuff and meet up.'

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, we should,' I say with a small laugh, and gather up my bag and camera.

She stands and hoists her laptop bag over her shoulder. ‘Call me if, you know, you're late, or change your mind or something.'

‘I won't change my mind,' I say quickly.

Her eyes narrow – trying to read my mind again. ‘Good.' She gestures diagonally across the park. ‘I'm headed that way.'

I point in the opposite direction. ‘And I'm that way.'

She starts to walk away, then stops and turns. ‘You'll be there, yeah?'

How could she doubt me? ‘I will. Call me if I'm not.'

We stare at each other a moment longer. I ache to touch her, to wrap my arms around her, press our bodies together, bury my face in her neck.

‘Later, then,' she says and heads off, glancing back over her shoulder, eyes crinkling with a smile just for me.

I watch until she's almost out of the park. ‘Holy fuck. Ho-lyfuck,' I say far too loudly.

A couple of teenagers sitting on the grass nearby stare at me.

‘Can you believe that?' I say to them as though they have any clue what I'm talking about. They shrug and laugh, and I start towards the exit, a huge grin stuck to my face.

Almost ten minutes later, I jog down the stairwell at the U-Bahn station, moving quickly through the crowds just as the bright yellow train comes into view. I squeeze into the carriage crammed with peak-hour commuters. It's been a warm afternoon and the crowded carriage smells of body odour, but nothing can quell the excitement that's sparking inside me right now. I want to tell everyone on the train – the elderly man by the doors rocking gently with the movement of the carriage, the woman trying to pacify her screaming toddler, the two guys sitting side by side giving each other loving looks, the teenagers talking animatedly behind me – anyone who'll listen to this incredible, amazing thing that just happened.

I hop off a stop later and walk the short distance to my studio flat. Dumping my gear on the tiny dining table, I head straight for the fridge and pour myself a glass of riesling, take a large gulp, then jump in the shower. I scrub and shave and wash my hair. ‘A bit presumptuous, Holly,' I sing to myself. But deep down, it doesn't feel wildly presumptuous. There was something there – a crackle of unfinished business. It can't have been all one-sided. I can't have misread that.

Washed and dried, I slip on the only sexy underwear I brought with me – a matching cream-coloured bra and underwear set that leaves nothing to the imagination. Then I find some clean jeans and a fresh white T-shirt. It's the best I can do at short notice. I dry my hair, choose a musky perfume and apply some make-up. Suddenly, a panic that Casey might not show up grips me. No, she found me. Not the other way around. I pump the mascara wand and slick it across my lashes. She wouldn't have done that just to ghost me again; she wouldn't have told me to call if I changed my mind.

I banish the thought, slip my feet into a pair of black ballet pumps and grab a lightweight jacket. At the door, I turn and survey the flat. The bed's unmade, clothes are strewn around the room and my empty wine glass is on the dining table. Is she likely to come back? I have no time to tidy, but I rush over to the bedside lamp and switch it on. Mood lighting is good, just in case. I switch off the overhead light and head out into a Friday evening filled with new possibilities.