It was only just over a kilometre from Jeffcott Street to her house, but still, Ali walked briskly, knowing she was probably pushing her luck to get home and then across to Collinswood in time for the interview. She could have – should have – stayed put with Cass, had a second coffee, then be driven in her smooth, silent, air-conditioned company Merc up to the ABC studios, to arrive serenely on time. But she’d faced three presenters today already, and a whole battery of personal questions, and she had an overpowering desire to shut the door on the world for a while, shut it even on Cass. She half walked, half ran, head down, full of purpose, through the streets of North Adelaide, and by the time she reached the house, her face and throat, and her bare arms, were covered in a fine layer of sweat, and she experienced a swell of pure relief as she put her key in the front door and opened it. Once inside, she closed it again and stood for a few moments on the burnished parquet floor of the hallway, breathing in and out, in and out, letting the house calm her, absorb and dissipate her tensions, hold her steady between its solid colonial walls.