‘I already have an idea for my next book,’ Galina continued. ‘I want it to draw on Australian English, Aussie English. Pollie, dero, smoko, brekkie, rellies, drongo, and’ — a snort of laughter escaped down the phone — ‘miseryguts.’ She paused. ‘Do you think I should mention this when I see the publishers tomorrow?’

Galina sought her opinion as no one else did. Sylvie was about to say she had no idea as to the best way of pitching a new book when common sense took over: Galina seemed to be on a roll with her publishers, and her Australian English book sounded appealing. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if there’s an opportunity to mention it, I would.’

The next day was sunny and clear. In her pre-Galina days, Sylvie would have absorbed her disappointment by baking, or visiting the sick, or sewing a few aprons for the annual Royal Children’s Hospital fête. But now she had her letter project, and what a godsend it had been. Sitting at her desk, she could forget about Leonard and her marriage, she could forget about their uncertain future; for hours, she could separate from her usual life, and when she returned to it she felt recharged. Of course she was disappointed not to be seeing Galya, but she was happy for a day of work.

She collected the washing from the machine, and went outside to hang it on the line. It was one of those late-blooming days of May that surprise like an early birthday gift; the sun still had some warmth and there was not a cloud in the sky. She bent down to the laundry basket and stretched up to the line, relishing the movement and soaking up the warmth. By the time the washing was neatly pegged, she had decided to forgo her work in favour of the original itinerary. She would drive to the other side of the city, she’d stroll through the cemetery, she’d have a meal at Galina’s favourite café, and she would do all this alone.

She dressed light and bright in slacks and a pale-pink cotton jacket, and in a similarly light mood drove across town to Carlton. She parked near Melbourne University, at the opposite end of the cemetery from where Galina lived. As she locked the car she was struck by the unlikely neighbours: all those bright young people spending their formative years next door to the city’s dead. It was a geographical oddity that seemed vaguely perverse.