Alexandra slowed down to take a sip from her water bottle. She’d overslept that morning and had decided to make up for it with a welcome run through the leafy streets of the former French Concession and Fuxing Park. The morning was crisp, and the air considerably thinner than in the evening. Still, when she looked at the sky, it was a faded blue-grey—not dull like in London, or variable like in Melbourne, but murky, as if it needed a good wipe.

Similar to the streets of the old French Concession, Fuxing Park had a French feel to it. There were clipped hedges and topiary, large swathes of lawn. Alexandra walked past a European rose garden towards a paved area with pergolas and wisteria. Under the thick green canopy of an enormous tree to her right Alexandra could see people doing tai chi, and beyond them, under the pergola, a crowd of elderly men and women were smoking, chatting, laughing and playing mahjong and chequers. Their faces were dark and lean, with eyes that disappeared when they laughed. Like hers.

Pudgy little children—grandchildren, she supposed—wove between tables, receiving tickles, presenting bouquets of blades of grass and stolen roses, and copping a ruffle of their hair in return.

This mix of old and young charmed Alexandra and made her recall tagging along to Opa and Oma’s mahjong tournaments.

A grandmother turned and grabbed a little girl wearing sneakers that flashed coloured lights from the heel like a disco ball every time she took a step. The old lady blew a raspberry on the girl’s chubby cheek and the child wriggled and squealed with delight before she was released to play hide-and-seek with the other children in the rose garden.

Two elderly men in matching faded brown Adidas tracksuits, engrossed in a game of chequers, sat on an octagonal bench seat built around the mottled trunk of a plane tree. The older of the two scratched his head and made a move as the other man laughed and threw his hands in the air, yelling. At their feet they each had a small thermos, presumably containing tea. Both wore socks and slides with their tracksuits. Two men of a similar age hovered nearby, shorts pulled high at the waist and arms folded behind their backs as they watched the game, nodding in approval or offering advice by pointing furiously as they waited for their turn to play.

On the bench beside the raucous old men was a young man with headphones snaking from his ears to his smartphone. Also sharing the bench was a couple, probably in their twenties, deep in conversation. It looked personal; the woman appeared upset and kept shaking her head and pressing her hands to her eye sockets as dirty brown pigeons danced at her feet.

Alexandra looked down the boulevard of plane trees that ran the length of the park. Every seat and garden wall was occupied. Runners weaved between the walkers, toddlers fell about in giggles. Fuxing Park was heaving with people. The energy was exhilarating.

In the south-west corner, she wandered past a sign with a waterfall symbol: JARDIN DU STYLE CHINOIS. Alexandra paused, chiding herself for expecting Shanghai to be, well, more Chinese. What had she expected, men in robes instead of tracksuits, lion and dragon statues where there was tight green topiary?

She strolled through the gates to the Chinese garden, past a rockery where grasses spilled onto a lovely terrace paved with river stones in alternate hexagons and squares. In the middle stood the mandatory plane tree, and underneath were round concrete tables filled with people playing board games and their spectators. The terrace overlooked a pond covered with lily pads and lotus flowers, and there was a sweet arched wooden bridge. The far side of the garden was bordered with a forest of dark green bamboo, and she thought of Romy’s wall of bamboo at home. Relaxing, Alexandra took a photo of the lake and sat on the only vacant bench seat to send a text to Romy.

Fuxing Park. Loving the Chinese garden. Wish you were here. A x

She chuckled to herself, knowing Romy would be pleased. She’d always sent pictures to surprise her grandmother, whether it was the over-the-top window dressings of Sloane Street during the Chelsea Flower Show, or frost on a blade of long grass beside the Serpentine on a misty morning.

As Alexandra texted Romy, a man about her age slowed his jog to a walk, yanked his earbuds out and sat at the other end of the bench. She bristled, yet it was crazy to think she could have this space to herself. Twelve hours in Shanghai had taught her that much.

The man stretched his arms out along the bench, running his fingers along the lines of the wood and dropping his head back to enjoy the sun hitting his face. Black skins covered his long muscular legs and a sweaty green singlet top stuck to his chest, revealing broad, well-defined shoulders. Since his eyes were closed, Alexandra took a second to admire his strong jawline and messy shoulder-length hair with the slightest wave. He was handsome, in a raffish, nonchalant way. Like Hugo…

No, Alexandra chided herself. No more rakes. In fact, no more men. She was here for work, and to find out where her mother came from. That was quite enough.

She glanced back at the jogger, who looked even more relaxed as he continued to breathe deeply with his eyes closed.

Alexandra was still staring at him when he suddenly opened his eyes. He blinked twice, adjusting to the light, and then smiled at her—a broad, lopsided smile that reached his eyes. She felt her cheeks burn; nobody liked to be caught staring. He ran his hands through his hair, and Alexandra admired the chiselled lines of his face. He looked tanned, and healthy.

‘Good morning,’ he said, sounding a tad British.

Her stomach lurched as she realised the last man she’d seen with such a radiant smile, who seemed so relaxed and comfortable in his own skin, was her Opa.

She breathed in, trying to stay calm.

Alexandra spent most of her time with men on the trading desks, who walked around the office with their jaws clenched, veins pulsing at their temples. They smelled of adrenaline, expensive aftershave and fear.

Though this man was sweaty, he had a sweet earthy smell about him that Alexandra couldn’t place. She couldn’t resist saying, ‘I thought you’d fallen asleep.’

He threw his head back and laughed as he ran his fingers though his hair again.

‘Ha!’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I try not to make a habit of sleeping on park benches.’ His accent was hard to place. Transatlantic, she supposed. ‘Actually, I was meditating.’ He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes a fraction, as if watching for her response.

Alexandra looked at him and tried to guess what he did. Trader? No, too calm. He had fine hands. Strong, like a pianist or cellist, but mottled and calloused. He caught her staring at his hands and he offered one to her.

‘Zhang.’

She shook it. A warm, firm handshake. A confident man.

‘I’m Alexandra. You’re the first person I’ve met in Shanghai. Well, other than Barbara, my relocation realtor.’ She laughed.

‘Wait. You mean Barbara Chen? You must be Alexandra Laird. My new neighbour from London. Except you don’t sound British.’ He wrinkled his nose in confusion.

Of all the people she could run into in this city of twenty-four million!

‘Yes, that’s me. I’ve been living in London for work but I’m Australian.’ She waited for him to ask where she was originally from, or where her parents really came from. But there was nothing except a broad smile and quiet acceptance. She stared at him.

‘So what do you think?’ His eyes were dark and clear.

She looked at him, puzzled.

He nodded at their surroundings. ‘Of the garden.’

‘Oh, it’s pretty. I like the little lake—the water’s peaceful.’ She recalled her long walks along the Thames and the beaches at home, where she felt most calm.

‘I’m heading back—can I walk you? I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to see much of Shanghai since you only arrived yesterday.’ He paused, as if deciding whether to ask her a question. ‘I’m meeting a couple of my cousins for dinner next week. Very casual. I have to warn you, though, Peta and Petra talk non-stop, like true teens, but you’re welcome to join us.’

‘Sounds great,’ she lied; the last thing she felt like was a cheery family dinner. ‘But I’ll probably be working, I’m afraid.’

‘At dinnertime?’ Zhang raised his eyebrows.

Probably. ‘I, uh…’ She paused, reluctant to tell him she was a trader. It seemed so trite given he had designed her magical courtyard. She didn’t want to see disappointment in those eyes. Not yet. ‘Okay, sure. Dinner would be great, thanks.’ Why not? It would have to be better than skulking at home.

‘Great.’ He beamed. ‘Give me your mobile number and I’ll text you the details. Shall we walk?’

They meandered back out into the shady streets of the former French Concession, past the hawkers selling balls of wool, plastic toys and newspapers on grey tarpaulins, laid out on the footpath outside elegant boutiques with restored Art-Deco facades. They wove through a number of birdcages dangling from the low bough of a plane tree, parrots squawking within, and by food stalls where people were queuing for dumplings, soups and fluffy white rice buns.

Alexandra asked, ‘How do you know which are the good stalls? I’m always a bit nervous—’ She tried to avoid street food as much as possible. When she was away on research trips she’d hold on to her hunger until she was back in the safe confines of her plush hotel room, and then call down for a BLT, Caesar salad or her post-flight staple of chicken wonton soup and a glass of decent pinot.

Zhang stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘You don’t eat street food?’

‘Well…’ She felt her ears start to burn. Now was not the time to tell him she’d once had the runs so badly after a satay on a Kuala Lumpur stopover that she’d been hospitalised for twelve hours and put on fluids.

Zhang said gently, ‘It’s okay. Look how many people need to be fed every day in Shanghai.’

Alexandra eyed the teeming footpath.

‘Most people here have tiny apartments. Little more than shoe-boxes. Many still share with their extended families. It’s just cheaper, and easier, to eat out.’ He shrugged. ‘Get away from Grandma and Grandpa,’ he joked.

Alexandra half laughed, but was aware of a pang of grief. She felt for her pendant. Was that what she had been doing all those years ago when she moved to London to do her PhD? She’d thought she was following in her mother’s footsteps, trying to make her grandparents proud. But had there been a piece of her that was trying to escape? Sensing her unease, Zhang touched her arm and said softly, ‘Look, I’m only here for a few more months before I head to Singapore briefly, then back to Hong Kong. I’ve got a few gardens to finish and some planning for new projects to do. I’ll be working long hours.’ His eyes were open and kind, and his eyelashes the longest she’d ever seen. ‘But I’d love to show you around. Shanghai’s a crazy town. So much history.’

Alexandra swallowed her nerves and guilt and let herself enjoy the smell of ginger, garlic and herby chicken broth wafting from a food cart with only two massive silver pots and a ladle. Just beyond the footpath, lines of black four-wheel drives clogged all four lanes of the road while an endless stream of scooters and bicycles poured from gaps in the stationary traffic, ignoring the honking cars and scooting through red lights. Surrounded by petrol fumes, smog and tantalising spices, Alexandra looked up at the soaring canopy of the plane tree above them. The bright green leaves shimmered with the breeze, allowing slivers of sunshine to slip through to the streets below.

It was a lovely gesture. What was the harm in taking up Zhang’s offer? Just for a second she imagined running her finger down his jaw, touching those full lips. He was leaving soon, and she’d never see him again.

Alexandra smiled. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’

Zhang grinned back. ‘Okay. But I warn you, I take my role as tour guide very seriously.’