Dan looked up, startled, and the woman behind the counter laughed at him.

‘Och, only teasing, my love, what can I get for you?’

Dan smiled and put his phone away, to prove how very trivial his business with it was, compared to the matter in hand – coffee, KitKat, a bottle of water. He ordered in a steady voice, and engaged in mild banter as his heart rate slowed to normal. But God almighty, he thought when the woman turned her back to deal with his order, what would Katelin think? And what’s the game here? And why was it so fucking important, so paramount, that Alison Connor didn’t slip away from him for a second time?

9

ADELAIDE,
16 NOVEMBER 2012

It was all wrong, really: Ali, Michael, Thea and Beatriz downstairs, Stella upstairs in her room. But she wasn’t speaking to any of them, so this unhappy domestic apartheid was difficult to avoid. Thea had flown home from med school in Melbourne, adding to the atmosphere of extreme crisis. Ali wouldn’t have told her – at least, not yet, not so soon, not if it implied she was somehow needed at home – but Michael had made the call, clued her in, and sent her airfare when she insisted, in spite of looming exams, on joining them for a weekend of unhappiness. Thea was her father’s daughter, a McCormack through and through: possessed of an inherited, unshakable belief in her own indispensability. The pair of them had yet to face a problem that couldn’t be solved by the application of good sense, hard cash or sheer strength of will. But here was Stella, not quite eighteen, furious with everyone, fiercely defensive, and eight weeks pregnant by a boy she wouldn’t name. She was determined, she said, to keep the baby.

‘Well, she’s not in her right mind,’ Thea said now. ‘Or she’s just being provocative.’

They were in the kitchen, gathered around Beatriz, who was peeling potatoes with steady hands and a peaceful expression. She was the calm, still centre of their lives, thought Ali. She gave the impression that nothing in the world was more urgent right now than this simple task of preparing dinner. It was an illusion; they all knew that. Still, the smell of onions caramelising over a low heat was comforting, in its way.

‘You need to book a termination, and tell her it’s a done deal.’

‘Thea, be quiet,’ Ali said.

‘Mum, get real. Dad agrees, don’t you, Dad?’

‘I certainly don’t want her to continue with this pregnancy,’ Michael said, and looked at Ali, who looked away.

‘Well then.’ Thea held out her palms, as if the issue was resolved, easy as pie. She was brisk and bright and organised; never in a million years would she have got herself in this pickle, thought Ali.