‘But?’ Helena said.

‘I didn’t say but.’

‘I heard a but.’

‘Ja, I did too when he told me. But he never said what happened. The conversation kinda went elsewhere. We started talking about our families…’

‘Oh.’ Helena nodded. ‘Like family family? He’s not married, is he?’

‘Ha ha. No. But I think he’s got a daughter.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah. He started saying so, but he didn’t say much else. The conversation moved away.’ Looking back now, it was funny how that conversation did seem to swerve back to her every time they veered into certain details. Like about his personal life. The only family member he seemed happy to talk about was his grandfather. She started pushing the plunger down.

‘Oh. How old is she?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ She was pushing too forcefully. The filter was clogging and the pressure was pushing back at her. She should just ease up a little.

‘Where does he live? Here in town?’

‘Jesus, Mom. The real third degree.’ It was unlike her mother to grill her like this – maybe she really had been spooked by the operation. Maybe she was feeling mortal after all. Realising this, Petra knew she could just be kind and let it go, but she was needled on Vincent’s behalf. It was probably the sort of coded grilling he’d get daily. Do you live here in town? really means Are you financially stable and reliable and bourgeois and obedient? Do you fit in? Leamington was expensive, and ‘living in town’ involved unspoken implications. ‘What are you actually asking here? Has anything I’ve told you given you any reason to mistrust him?’ She was asking herself, wasn’t she? Looking for confirmation. She had fallen deeply and heavily for Vincent, without her usual passion-stifling period of due diligence. Now the coffee spurted up and splashed out of the spout. ‘Shit. Dammit.’

Helena stepped over, grabbed a washcloth, and rinsed it in cold water and wiped the spillage. ‘I don’t mean anything. I’m just interested. You know me: I don’t judge you.’ She pressed her cool, damp hand onto Petra’s.

‘I know, Mom. I’m sorry.’

Petra poured her milk and stirred half a spoon of brown sugar into her coffee – Helena took hers unadorned, like a real frontierswoman – and they went back into the living room.

‘I don’t want to set you off again, but if you’re serious about Vincent – and it looks like you are – you should find a chance to go and see his house, get to meet his daughter. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he speaks to his children.’

‘Hm. If that’s true, I wonder what meeting Dad at home would have told anyone.’

‘I think you know, darling.’

‘Yup,’ Petra sighed.

8 Back home after work, Petra shucked off her boots and her coat and sprawled out on the couch. The flat still smelled of sweat and food and cologne, even though she’d washed the sheets and dishes on Saturday night. It wasn’t bad, this sensory reminder of the very pleasant night, but she wasn’t a teenager anymore and probably wouldn’t be crushing the towel Vincent had used to her face anytime soon.