The negligee was too small for her but she had been planning to try the paleo diet thing a work friend was doing and then she would feel more confident about flirting back with Jase and possibly even bumping bits with him and wouldn’t this sexy little pink thing be perfect for that? It was as slippery as the handbag was soft. She imagined Jase’s hands sliding over her body, how he’d comment on the smoothness of her curves. She would be wearing the mules, too, of course. They were a little tight, but she wouldn’t be taking a hike in them; just a ride. Ha. And after, the man’s shirt. Nothing sexier than an unbuttoned man’s shirt over a naked woman. Tony said that once when she had chucked on his green-and-white-striped McDonald’s uniform shirt to cover her chest while she held her own top, which had been soaked in beer kicked over while they were going at it, in front of the car’s heater to dry.

And the apron, ah, well she would save that for when the kids came back from Queensland. She imagined their sweet little faces (oh, not so little anymore, fine, but still sweet) looking up from their places at her table as she presented them with the homemade apple pies she’d baked specially for them.

A sob is stuck painfully somewhere deep in her body, caught on broken bone or flesh. The night of the garage sale she washed the negligee and the shirt and put them … And the mules are … The apron is in the kitchen, surely, waiting for the day the kids return. But when had she last seen it? She scans the room in her mind: where are those bright oranges? Buried under what? For shame, for shame. The painting smock had never been framed. The frames she tried were all wrong and she had planned to find another. In the meantime she’d put it … put it … Ah! Yes! This she knew. The painting smock is in Lena’s room, folded on the top of the bookshelf. When she gets up she will fetch it immediately, hang it on the wall frameless, its utterly beautiful self.

When she can get up. For now, to ease the shame at having misplaced the other beauties from that day, she gazes at the burgundy handbag. It deserves better than being squished in there, but it seems unharmed. If she could reach a little further, skitter forward a tad, she might be able to touch it. She heaves, that unexpressed sob punishing her attempts. She heaves again and stops.

LENA

LENA

On Saturday morning, hungover but feeling happier than she had in forever, Lena texted Josh from bed: I had heaps of fun yesterday

Texted Nic: So much to tell you tomorrow. Thigh-boy

Texted Lou, her best friend back in Brisbane: U know the boy I was telling you about?