Leonard had lent them his car for the trip, convinced that Andrew’s ancient Morris would make neither the distance nor the climb. Andrew had protested, but Galina was quietly pleased. Leonard’s car was large and comfortable, with air conditioning and a cassette player. Andrew’s car sounded like a lawn mower, and its beige-and-green Bakelite radio functioned better as an aesthetic object than a music machine. Andrew had made a selection of cassettes, a variety of rock and folk as well as a range of classical music that was weighted — she guessed with considerable care — to the Russians: Tchaikovsky, Scriabin, Stravinsky, Rimsky-Korsakov. There was no denying that Andrew was a thoughtful man, and easy company too. Like the brother she’d always wished for. But Andrew didn’t want to be her brother, she’d known this for quite a while. Sometime and, to be fair, sooner rather than later, she’d have to tell him there was no romance in the way she felt about him. But when to speak? And how? She didn’t want to spoil what they already had.

The traffic was relatively light and they reached the outer suburbs quickly. A short time later, they entered the rural township of Healesville.

‘We should stop for morning tea,’ Andrew said, as he drove slowly up the main street.

Galina was laughing. ‘But we are less than an hour into our holiday.’

‘Holidays require holiday food.’ Andrew pulled over and parked. ‘And that means cakes from a country bakery, whether you’re hungry or not.’

They shared a sticky coffee scroll with lashings of icing and swirls of cinnamon, washed down with a fizzy passionfruit drink. She’d never known of passionfruit until she came here, but they now counted among her favourites. She watched as he rolled a cigarette. A rollie and a ciggie: two more Australian words to add to her list, although given the widespread campaign against smoking here, probably not to her new book.

It was not that she didn’t find Andrew attractive, but what she had been needing from him since that day she picked up the telephone and called him, was the reliability of a friend. If there had ever been the possibility of anything romantic between them, the moment had long ago passed.

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.