She arrived home slick with perspiration. Her sandals had chafed, and there was a blister on her smallest toe. She stripped to her underwear, and grabbed a jug of cold water from the fridge; she did not bother with a glass as no one else would be drinking from it. Wisps of hair had escaped the plait; her neck itched, and she swiped and scratched, then leaned over the sink and emptied the rest of the jug over her head.

She straightened up and let the water run down her neck and over her shoulders. Within seconds her bra was soaked: if only she were as porous to Australian life. The day had brought no unforeseen difficulties; the only unexpected happening, her introduction to the stationery cupboard, should have brought only delight. Yet she felt miserable and, as hard as it was to admit, lonely. No denying it any longer: she was lonely.

She wondered if she had been too tough on herself, that the independence she had demanded had been self-defeating. Or perhaps it was more dire than this: that she would never adjust fully to life here, that she was simply too Russian for Australia.

She opened a folder lying at the back of her worktable. There was the Australian man’s card, this Andrew Morrow who was the reason she was now living in a country the very existence of which had never entered her mind before he had bumped into her.

Too Russian? So use it, she told herself, be a Russian. Work out what you need and take it.

Andrew Morrow’s card was in one hand and the telephone receiver in the other. Theirs had been an accidental meeting two years ago. He might not remember her, and even if he did, he had a life here — family, friends, girlfriend, perhaps even a wife. What need would he have for a lonely Russian treading the slippery slopes of immigration?

She replaced the phone in the cradle and stood staring through the window at her patch of garden. What was the worst that could happen if she were to call him? The very worst? That having been reminded of who she was, he told her to fuck off? (Australians were champion swearers.) Compared with her experience of the past couple of years, this would be tantamount to swatting a fly.

She picked up the receiver again, and dialled his number.

5 UNSTUCK BUT NOT UNDONE

5

UNSTUCK BUT NOT UNDONE