He finished his cigarette, and they took what he described as a mandatory stroll through the main street, up one side and down the other. There were several handicraft shops selling homespun wool and bulbous pottery, creams and soaps made of eucalyptus oil and lanolin. After three such shops all with similar wares, Galina suggested they stick to the street. She was drawn to the quaint exteriors of the buildings and the village atmosphere of the place. She could imagine herself living here; then realism kicked in: she’d be lucky to last a week before dashing back to the city.

Andrew stopped to buy film, and they returned to the car. As he started the engine, he turned to her with a smile. ‘You can now cross Healesville off your “Getting to know Australia” list.’

Once they were on the road again, Galina selected a tape of Rostropovich playing cello classics. The music filled the car, that majestic mellowness of the cello. Her mother had loved the cello, as had her mother before her. Perhaps everyone loves the cello: full-bodied, strong, secure, lyrical, but always with underlying gravitas — rather like home, she thought, and friendship, too. She looked across at Andrew. He was sitting erect, as he always did when driving, looking straight ahead at the road. But he must have felt her gaze, because he smiled, and then to her surprise he reached out and squeezed her hand. A moment later both his hands were back on the steering wheel. He was such an odd, endearing mix of a man.

If the cello were the metaphorical musical instrument for home and friendship, what, she wondered, would be the instrument for lovers? And it came to her immediately: electric guitar. Exciting, energetic, loud, blood-boiling, and definitely not restful. This cello was restful, this car was restful, and again she looked across at Andrew, this man was restful.

The last few months had been exhausting: Mikhail’s sudden appearance and her collapse — the most accurate way, it now seemed to her, of describing what had happened; then her picture book launched, and with Mikhail’s departure, the restoration of the saddlery as her home. It had been a huge task and a heavy one, and she’d been grateful for Andrew’s help. It had been his suggestion they put the unwanted furniture on the nature strip. Someone will take it, he said. And he was right. They put the stuff out one evening, and by morning all of it was gone. She found it disturbing that her rejects could be useful to others; she had met no poor people here, but clearly they existed. It was Andrew who reminded her that she had furnished the saddlery with second-hand items, and although she had paid for her various pieces, they were still other people’s cast-offs.