So it was going to be a date. And I just turned it into a non-date with my question. I think about trying to retract (It doesn’t HAVE to be a group. It can just be the two of us if you like), and my toes curl. Better to leave it. If it goes well, we can have a one-on-one date some other time. And it’s not as though our one-on-one dates have gone well up to now. Perhaps the presence of other people will change our chemistry for the better.

Lucy: Sounds great. I’ll confirm with Moira and you can ask your cousin. Olifantsbos is the one with the shipwrecks, right? I’ve always wanted to walk there.

Now I’m enthusiastic about this weekend. Moira and Raz will save us from awkwardness. We will find common ground and fruitful topics for discussion. And I will get to look at shipwrecks. It will be good.

* * *

But first, another home invasion.

The doorbell rings. I worry that it may be the trendy imp again—my fictional mixed-race child come to save South Africa from its troubled past. I don’t want to talk to him.

It’s the police.

I panic and try to close the door in their faces, but one of them steps forward and plants his foot in the gap so the door bounces off his shoe.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I have nothing to hide.”

It is a man and a woman. They are wearing the quasi-militaristic, belted uniform of the local police force. Khaki trousers tucked into combat boots. Blue shirts tucked into the khaki trousers and wrapped around with gun holsters. I last had contact with the police two years ago when they took my statement and collected my rape kit and clothing at the hospital. The associations aren’t good, but they aren’t terrible either. They did their jobs then, and they did them with reasonable competence.

“Are you . . . uh . . .” the man glances down and consults a notepad. “Lucy Lurie? Are you the daughter of David Lurie?”

“Yes, I am. Please come in.” I am anxious to show them that I didn’t mean it when I tried to shut them out. I wave them into my sitting room and offer them a choice of beverages. They accept tea with powdered milk and sugar.

When we are all sitting around with teacups balancing on our knees, they get down to business.

“Your father’s insurance company is processing a claim for damage sustained during a fire at his property near Worcester. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” This is just about the insurance claim. What a relief. “It has taken them an unconscionable time to process the claim. Unconscionable.” I don’t think I have ever said the word “unconscionable” out loud before, and now I have said it twice in a few seconds.