Half the cake was still in my hand. I could see the muscles in her jaw moving up and down while she chewed and swallowed. Her toes pattered on the pillows in front of her. In one of the jam jars the small solitary spider had begun to rock, white and tender like a cameo brooch, a miniature Carral.

Later she turned on the TV. From behind the jars I saw the blurry images of a body, and when I looked up, I saw a muscular redheaded man on the screen.

‘Do you watch this series?’ Carral asked and stuck out her index finger.

‘What series is it?’

‘Charmed. Maybe they don’t show it in Norway? Three witch sisters …’

‘Yeah they do, I don’t watch it though.’

‘I know, it’s trash. I like the witch stuff though. You should know the kind of stuff I read.’

I looked down. Carral continued:

‘And that guy’s really hot.’

The man appeared on the screen again, this time with a woman. She was showing a lot of cleavage and had big inflated lips.

‘He kind of looks like Pym,’ Carral said. ‘Weird, I hadn’t thought of that before!’

‘Pym? Who’s that?’

‘Oh, he’s our neighbour.’

‘Pym,’ I said. ‘What a strange name.’

‘It’s a nickname. I think it’s actually his last name. Anyway, you’ll meet him soon enough,’ she said and took another bite of cake while staring at the TV.

Above our heads, at the bar of the Sealion, a happy hour sign blinked in garish pink. I stood among necktie-knots and hairpins that were gradually giving up their hold.

‘This is Jo, she’s the new girl in my flat,’ Carral said to the others, smiling with her nose high. ‘She’s so young, so young, little Jo, only twenty, young and innocent.’ I was about to protest, but Carral just kept talking about me, like you’d describe an old photo of yourself: young and serious, fearless and faded, a frozen moment long past.

‘How are you finding the brewery?’ Carral’s manager asked me, over the blaring music. He was older than everyone else, maybe forty, and wore a suit. I felt his heavy breath and the warmth from his skin against my cheek. He’s a real jerk, and pretty desperate too, Carral had whispered in my ear. I pulled away a little.

‘The brewery?’

‘Yeah, the building you live in is an old brewery,’ he said, and added, ‘at least that’s what Carral says.’

‘I didn’t know,’ I answered and looked over to Carral. She’d turned to face a tall, gangly boy.

‘The whole Hawthorn district was abandoned for years,’ the manager said. ‘Until they realised they could renovate the old factories as apartments. That was just a few years ago. Some are pretty nice too. Not for me, of course. I like new-builds. And fresh meat.’

He leant closer again.