He managed a smile. Classic Jac, one minute picking you up off the floor, the next kicking your ass. His little sister was irrepressible, a twenty-nine-year-old live wire who ran a highly successful boutique travel company. From deserted islands in Indonesia to shady hotels in Marrakesh, she had carved out an original niche in a crowded online market.

She smiled back at Nash with perfect white teeth. Sassy and vivacious, Jac was an attractive woman with no shortage of admirers, but she had never been able to put up with a man for long, the standard complaint being that they slowed her down. Her self-confessed major weakness was idolising her big brother. And Nash’s apparent indifference to the demise of his illustrious career was driving her crazy. She’d been bombarding him with books and DVDs on post-traumatic stress syndrome, trying to tee up shrinks, offering him work as a travel guide for her air safaris . . . anything to get him up and firing again. Today, he was relieved to see she was carrying nothing but her handbag.

Jacquie began picking up his discarded clothes and throwing them in a pile.

‘For God’s sake, Rob –’ she scrunched up her button nose – ‘this towel stinks. When did you last do the washing?’

‘I don’t know,’ he told her truthfully.

She looked at him closely. ‘Have you seen the front of the house recently?’

Before he could stop her, she’d pulled open the blinds.

‘Don’t –’ he began.

‘Fuck them,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Stop behaving like a criminal.’

‘Jac . . .’

‘Look,’ she told him. ‘The grass is waist-high. It’s a firebomb waiting to go off. You want the council over, too?’

‘I’ve got to eat,’ he said, shutting the blinds again. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? There might be some milk.’

As he wolfed down the porridge, Jacquie expended more of her pent-up energy loading the dishwasher. Then, she made them both a cup of strong tea and sat down opposite him.

‘I know you never want to talk, Rob. But don’t you think you should? How long can you go on like this?’

He took another spoonful.

‘OK, so I’ll talk. Did you ring the bank? What’s happening with the mortgage?’

Jacquie followed his gaze to the letter stand by the phone. It was overflowing with unopened letters, many of which bore the Bankwest logo. Her voice trailed off in frustration.

Nash tried to say something and gave up. Since Natalie’s death, he had become increasingly inarticulate, as if the synapses that enabled conversation had been cauterised or withered away.

The clock on the kitchen wall was ticking off the seconds in an interminably slow motion. A great lethargy came over him. The ocean paddle had done its job. All he wanted now was to crash and forget. Why hadn’t Jacquie just come tomorrow as arranged? Inadvertently, he let out a loud yawn.