On the phone Lucky suggested they meet at the Stanmore restaurant; Valia said it didn’t matter where. In preparation he bought a new shirt, visited the barber and went for a run early in the morning, seven laps of the Camperdown cricket oval. His staff waxed the floors and put out new tablecloths. Of the thirty franchises, the Stanmore joint remained his favourite, the most realised in its resemblance to the Achillion. Above the counter was the sign: our motto: cleanliness and civility.

Following an untraceable rumour, all the franchisees suspected that the Lucky’s empire, if it could be called that, began with a benefactor. Not an inheritance, but a gift. There was disagreement concerning the size of that gift and the reason it had been bestowed. Relying on hearsay, some wondered if Lucky had acquired this benefactor during the war, through an act of trickery or bravery.

After reading Asquith’s letter of confession, a message that bombed away Lucky’s day-to-day preoccupations, he waited for Valia to get in touch, despite a definite urge to pick up the phone and call her, which he somehow pushed to one side. Lucky didn’t want any contact that was unwelcome. He went to bed full of trepidation. Probably, if Asquith was on the verge of taking his own life, he had mailed the two confession letters about the same time. Or maybe Valia hadn’t received any letter. And maybe Asquith hadn’t killed himself. For a few days Lucky cancelled all meetings, all his planned visits to his other outlets, and stayed either at home or in the office, near a phone, expecting—hoping—to hear Valia’s voice again at any moment. In the mornings and afternoons he rang various Sydney franchises, in case she’d called one of his other businesses and left a message.

‘We must meet,’ Valia said when she called him at home.

The day she was due at the cafe, the employees were instructed not to disturb them, and the staff did their best to avoid looking at Lucky and Valia overmuch, pretending not to know who she was when she turned up and the pair modestly embraced, before sitting at a booth. Her face loomed olive and cold. Lucky looked at the back of his hand, the bumpy spots.

‘Of all the cafes,’ he said, ‘this one is still my favourite.’

‘Tell me the truth,’ said Valia. ‘Did you already know Ian Asquith had set the fire, or did you even for a second suspect him before receiving that letter?’

‘I would never have accepted his gift. He would be in jail.’

‘All this, your success, begins with Penelope’s death. With his money you bought three cafes.’

‘Yes,’ he said. Lucky felt contaminated by the letter. The contamination spread to all his businesses.

‘If there were any justice, this place wouldn’t be here. Someone should come in and throw you out.’