‘Whoa.’ Cat takes a long inhale of her cigarette and blows smoke up into wedding cake-style cornicing. ‘You look different too. You know, I was thinking of you yesterday. A lot of stuff has come up this week. Come on inside. Jesus, I hardly recognize you. You were all skin and bone back in the day. Now you’re like this strong, sturdy thing. And you grew your hair.’

I hold a clump of my thick, black hair. ‘Michael liked it short, right? So I grew it long. What else was I going to do?’

‘And what’s with all the tattoos?’

‘I thought I’d better take my identity back.’

‘Yeah, I know that one.’

‘I’ve changed a lot since Michael. I’ve gotten stronger.’ I mean to sound strong too, but the words crack in my throat.

‘Hey.’ Cat gestures at me with a milk-white arm. ‘Whatever pain you’re in, I’ve been there and worse.’ She offers me a cigarette. ‘You know, I think some kind of cosmic force is pulling the past back right now. Come on inside.’

‘Can I smoke inside? I gave up but … right now …’

‘Sure you can smoke inside.’

‘I read somewhere you couldn’t smoke in these townhouses.’

‘Yeah, you’ve gotta break a few rules, right?’ Cat holds out a gold-stick Yves Saint Laurent cigarette lighter. ‘All I do these days is smoke. It could be so much worse.’

‘So you’re all straight and clean now,’ I say. ‘Look at you. With your perfect fingernails and designer cigarette lighter.’

‘I’m trying to buy respectability. It doesn’t work.’ Cat blows smoke as she tip-taps down the hallway on high, red shoes with blue soles. There’s a picture on the flowery wall of Cat, dressed in saffron robes, hugging a stone buddha. On the glass she’s scrawled:

Peace, fun and freedom. Everything changes.

‘I read that you found religion,’ I say.

‘Who’d have thought, right?’ says Cat, nodding at the walls. ‘Life is crazy. Except Buddhism isn’t a religion. It’s a practice. And I couldn’t do the short hair thing.’ She runs her hand through neatly styled, platinum blonde hair. ‘Shaving it every day … you know. Just a pain.’

‘What’s the story with this place?’ I ask.

‘Oh, you mean because it’s tasteful and traditional and everything I’m not?’ Cat laughs. ‘I can’t change anything here. It’s in my ten-grand-a-month lease. Don’t change the decor. And don’t smoke.’

‘I drove past your old house this morning.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Cat nods and smokes. ‘How’s the old girl doing?’

‘Not good. Graffiti. Parts burned down.’

‘Everything changes. Right?’

‘Yeah. It does.’

Cat shakes her head. ‘Not a good time when I lost that place. Being broke is bad, but being a broke celebrity is the lowest you can ever get.’

‘No, the lowest you can get is Michael Reyji Ray.’