‘Willy’s Filly has done well at the distance before, but I do like the look of Great Days.’

‘Here’s some money — try not to lose it all.’

I stuff $100 notes into his hand.

‘Fucken hell!’

‘Don’t wave them about.’ I sidle over to the bookies handling the city races. In between pretending to do something else, I bet on every favourite they chalk up, at every venue. My pocket is bulging with betting cards, and it is only the first race. I go and join Mick at the rails. He is very excited.

‘How much did you put on?’ I ask.

‘A grand. You?’ He isn’t looking at me; he is leaning over the rail, trying to see what is happening at the barrier.

‘Two grand,’ I lie.

‘Well, here goes.’

It is a small field: six horses. They stay bunched together for most of the race, but towards the end, one chestnut breaks from the pack. Mick is jumping in the air, banging his program against his hip. ‘Go, you good thing!’ His horse, apparently the chestnut, wins. He leaps about, saying yahoo. When he has stopped, he says to me, ‘What percentage are we working on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said we’d share the winnings. So who gets what?’

‘The profit is yours,’ I say, and he starts to leap around again, and then ricochets off to collect his winnings.

I feel a hand squeezing me lightly on the upper arm. A woman, my age, short, dark-haired, robust, with large features, says, ‘Fancy seeing you at the races.’

It is Helen, the wife of Marko, who’s one of my best mates. She has tried very hard to be a good friend. As he has. But I know they don’t know what to do or what to say to me. I can’t stand hearing their conversations about their kids and their kids’ friends. It’s like they don’t talk about anything else.

‘My brother-in-law is visiting. He loves a punt.’

‘Well, he’s very clever if he can get you out. You never come to anything we invite you to.’ She puts an arm around me and gives me a little hug — playful, but pointed.

I don’t bother with an excuse. I tell her I promised to put money on in the next, and she takes the hint. ‘Come for a drink later on, will you? Please? We’re just on the grass in the carpark. There’s food, friends.’

‘Thanks, I will.’ Not a chance. She walks away, and I head back to the bookies.

None of the horses I bet on gets a place. I try again.

Mick bets, and wins. I bet, and lose. I am beginning to feel that betting is not much better than sticking the box back in the mailbox. My small pile of notes is diminishing. I go back to the ute to grab a stash more.