This, right now was the point. The blood stiffening her undies while she calculated the unit price of discount tampons.

Probably some of the bags she’d tossed from Nic’s room had brand-new undies in her size, too. There had been a lot of clothing, tags still attached.

From behind her came a tut-tut, which she didn’t know was even a real thing that people did. She spun, ready to unload on the cow tutting her slow tampon contemplation, but the cow—actually a tiny, grey-faced woman with Amy Winehouse hair—was shooting daggers at the screaming, thrashing child who’d just been wheeled into the aisle by a serene-faced woman in a West Tigers jersey.

‘A good slap’d sort that out,’ the cow said as the trolley rolled past. If the Tigers fan heard, she didn’t show it, continuing up the aisle and stopping in front of the painkillers. Then, as though her hearing worked on delay, her head snapped towards Lena and she blinked, looked back at the pills, peeked to the side as though she wasn’t.

I didn’t say it, Lena wanted to tell her. Instead she knocked the cheap, giant tampons into her basket and took off for the tinned food aisle.

At the checkout, the toddler was doing its best to maintain the rage one aisle over. It was like those old battery ads with the drumming bunny; the kid kept kicking the sides of the trolley and shaking its fist, howling incomprehensibly at the floor, but ever slower, ever quieter. Winding down down down.

Lena felt the mother’s eyes on her. She glanced over … Yep, still staring. Fuck. Did the woman think the slapping comment had come from her or … Fuck fuck fuck. Even here? Even fucking everywhere. That’s the point of the internet, hey.

If the checkout chick hadn’t already started scanning her shopping she would’ve taken off. She willed the girl to go faster, shoving the items into her backpack as soon as they were through, smashing her card against the reader before the girl could mumble Nineforty-sixcashorcard.

She had one foot out the door when she heard her name. She turned and saw the trolley—with half-a-dozen canvas shopping bags and the toddler now slumped, hiccupping, with eyes half closed—wheeling straight for her.

‘Lena! Bloody hell! Lena Harris! It’s been like eighty-seven years!’

Jersey tight against enormous breasts and several fat rolls, slicked-back blonde ponytail, black roots regrown to her ears. Something familiar about those green-grey eyes, though, and the dimples now she was smiling.

‘Shit! Kylie?’

‘In the flesh, mate.’

‘Shit!’ Lena laughed, slapped a hand over her mouth.

‘You’re blocking the entryway, girls,’ a man’s voice said, and without looking or responding the two of them moved out into the shopping centre, Kylie gripping Lena’s arm with her left hand, steering the trolley with the other until they were clustered against a railing.