They were in a bar on Pirie Street. Grungy, crowded, loud. She and Cass hung out here on occasional Fridays – late, live-music nights, where genius and mediocrity rubbed shoulders on an upstairs stage. Tahnee Jackson was on tonight, half past ten, and Ali had come only for her. She was the Aboriginal girl who, twelve or so years ago, had brought them to their feet in a pub in Port Adelaide, and whenever she’d played in the city since, Ali had tried to be there. Tahnee was twenty-eight now; her voice had matured into something even richer, fuller, more knowing. Her gigs had the feel of confessionals, as if there was nothing she wouldn’t share, and when Ali heard her she thought of Joni Mitchell, Nina Simone, Carole King. But also, Tahnee was entirely herself: unique, a Northern Territory troubadour, singing to a devoted following of strangers, of her life, her thoughts and the desert land in which she’d grown up. Ali had already talked to a guy at Arts South Australia, a development officer for young indigenous musicians, and they were meeting on Monday, before the McCormack household left for Burra. Cass asked would they still be friends when Ali was a music mogul, with a smoked-glass office and Kanye on speed dial?

They were sharing a bottle of white, biding their time in the bar, waiting for the music to start upstairs, gossiping and larking about. Ali felt light-hearted, almost giddy. The proposed trip to Lismore Creek had gone down well with the girls, and it was so good to see Stella smile. As for herself, she was going to try to do some writing when they got there, she said; or rather, think about doing some writing, in the hope that writing would follow. The fact was, Tell the Story, Sing the Song didn’t really lend itself to a sequel, and she felt dragooned by what Cass called her ‘people’ in Sydney – agent, editor, publicist – who always wanted to talk timescales and titles.

‘Don’t sweat it,’ Cass said, ‘you can call the shots now you’ve hit payola. Or do a Harper Lee and write nothing else, ever.’

‘No, I will write another book.’

‘So what’ll it be?’

‘Dunno. A love story, maybe.’

Cass raised her eyebrows.

Ali grinned. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Who doesn’t love a love story?’ She pushed her glass forwards for a refill. ‘This is a very fine Riesling,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ Cass said, ‘especially considering the state of the bar we’re in.’ She tolerated these dingy, cramped venues that Ali dragged her to, but would always favour space and light and exclusivity, a rooftop cocktail bar or some new restaurant with a waiting list for tables.