The article might be the beginning of her new life. The commission was some kind of blessing, a second chance, a good thing in a bad time. Isabel at reception arranged for the rental to be brought to the hotel on Victoria Street. Emily called Lucky and asked if he were available for a brief interview that afternoon.

‘Come over!’ he said. ‘I haven’t spoken to a soul all day.’

Driving down Cleveland, glancing around, the sun in her eyes, she thought the street was architecturally pretty one moment, ugly the next. The terrace houses were painted egg-carton colours. Each of the pre-tuned radio stations shouted at her.

Lucky lived under the flight path, on a long street in the suburb of Tempe. The parked cars were the colour of dirty running shoes. Cockatoos picked themselves up from the powerlines and flew north. In the middle of the street the road shone with tiny glass particles. Emily sat in the car outside his building, a few minutes early for their meeting, and in one hand she held her mobile phone, in the other a Go Bananas calling card that offered discounted calls to thirty European and North American countries. She wanted to tell someone that she’d arrived in Australia, but it was 2 am in New York—too early to ring Liam. They’d spoken last week, after Condé Nast’s travel agent had booked flights and a hotel for Emily. ‘This will be fabulous,’ he’d said, before adjusting his evaluation. ‘I mean, it’s a good premise,’ he continued, and here Emily could picture him sucking in his cheeks. ‘Not without risks, but no doubt you’ll luck on to something in Sydney.’

He had a few suggestions: he asked Emily to situate the Third of April within the country’s history of mass murders by firearms, ending with the Port Arthur massacre in 1996, after which the federal government further restricted gun ownership. He said American readers were interested in gun control legislation. ‘We’re intrigued by the shooting,’ he explained. ‘And, to be honest, without that element we might not be keen on the article.’

‘Do your colleagues have reservations about this commission?’

‘No, no. I passed around your clippings and people liked them. They made approving sounds.’

‘You still have the clippings I sent you? From a hundred years ago?’

‘I’ve kept them. Is that weird?’

If it was 2 am in New York that made it 7 am in London. Emily called Michael instead, because she was still, somehow, in love with him.

‘It’s me,’ she said.

‘You’re in Australia?’

‘I don’t know why I’m calling.’

‘You must be exhausted. It’s such a long flight!’

‘Where is Therese? Is she staying at our flat?’

‘She’s not here.’

‘You must think you’re a good liar.’

‘I’m not lying, Em.’