Footy talk took them all the way inside the house, which had huge white ceilings and dark wood furniture. Willow itched to go look at the framed photos on the walls, but he stayed beside Eden, holding her hand. All around them, tall, blonde people milled about. He assumed they were Eden’s relatives though neither she nor George made any moves to introduce him.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a drink?” George asked.

“Definitely,” Eden said. “Where’s the bar?”

“Oh, the backyard, as usual,” George replied, not looking at her. “I’ll catch up with you soon, Sloan. Lovely to meet you.”

They shook hands again and Eden’s dad wandered away. Willow frowned. “Is your dad okay? Why didn’t he want to talk to you?”

Eden slipped her small hand into his. “Come on. Let’s go get a drink.”

The Cartwright’s backyard was huge, even larger than the front of the property implied. Its sculpted hedges and rose bushes gave it the look of Alice in Wonderland. A white tent had been erected in the middle of the lawn and more tall blondes were inside it, dancing to a Michael Bublé song. Beside the tent stood a temporary wooden bar surrounded by silver buckets of beer and crates of champagne on ice. Waiters in black tie circled the lawn with trays of bao buns and sashimi.

“Jesus,” Willow muttered. “Big party.”

“Yeah.”

“A lot of blondes. I feel like I’m at a Nazi convention.”

Eden didn’t say anything. She was smiling politely around at everyone as though she was the stranger, not him. Concerned, he led her to the bar where he got himself a Peroni and Eden champagne. She downed half her glass in one.

He smiled. “How is it?”

“It’s alcohol. Thanks for being here.”

“No problem.” He spotted a couple of skinny teenagers slouched nearby with cans of Coke. One kid nudged the other then pointed at him. Willow smiled and they went bright red. He grinned. “So, your family is into football?”

“They’re into anything that means we don’t have to talk to each other.” Eden drained another quarter of her champagne. She sighed so deeply, Willow’s lungs hurt. “Something wrong?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here.”

“What do you—"

“Hello there!” Another blonde was marching toward him. This one was tall and whip-thin. Her tight skin made it hard to tell how old she was, but he guessed early fifties. Eden choked on her champagne and Willow was sure he knew who it was.

“Hi, Mrs Cartwright,” he said, raising a hand. “I’m Sloan Williams.”

The woman’s smile was sharp as a blade. “Call me Maggie. My brother Frank was telling me you play football?”

“I do. Have you been to any games?”

“No.” She touched a hand to her chest. “I should though, shouldn’t I?”

“Ah, not if you don’t want to.”