Of course, my brain fights relaxation, accustomed to encouraging anxiety to flare up as soon as I’m horizontal. I tell myself I’ll allow five minutes of my punishing self-talk and then I will relax into the class. So: I need to talk to Mark, and soon, to have one conversation that doesn’t immediately disintegrate into yelling and insults, our ping-pong of blame, so I can beg him to drop his investigations into the commune. Sergeant Doyle thinks this conversation has already happened, even praised my good sense, and I didn’t correct him. The truth is that the universe offered me a reprieve when Mark flew to Alice Springs one day after he moved out of our house. He’ll be there for another week, investigating something about the American military base at Pine Gap. The previous Four Corners reporter who was covering the story is under arrest for trying to get inside the facility. Mark is enraged there’s a part of Australia no Australian is allowed into: ‘Satellites, radars. Do you know that more than six hundred people work at that base and our government has no idea – none – about what’s going on out there.’ He said that much when he told me he’d be gone a while, so consumed with the story it wouldn’t have mattered who was on the other end of the phone. This assignment should fill me with dread but I’m confident in Mark’s ability to keep himself safe, and glad he’s immersed in a meaty story. Also, bastard. I’m snapped away from my thoughts by the yoga teacher, who welcomes us to her class.

We stand at the back of our towels with our hands in prayer position then swoop our arms up. The woman on the phone said this was a beginners’ yoga class and perfect for my tightly wound body, but the other students seem to know what to do and are able to move from one pose to the next with ease. I am, admittedly, making it harder on myself by second-guessing the instructor. ‘Salute’ sounds aggressive to my ear. And shouldn’t we be doing this outside where we can see the sun? My body resists the chest-expansion exercises, finding comfort in curling my shoulders in. Bending down to touch my toes feels claustrophobic and brings on a rush of panic. I roll up faster than anyone else. I count the seconds when we hold a position, antsy to move.

The instructor must see the tension radiating off me and strokes my back as I try a downward dog pose. Dog, cat, frog, camel, cow. Foreign words spoken as though I should understand them. More pain than I’d anticipated. I’m not unfit but evidently I’m inflexible, in every way. The instructor’s hand is warm through my t-shirt. I try to relax, not for myself but because I know this is what she wants me to do.

By the end of the class I’ve worked myself into a tangle of annoyance and self-loathing, and want nothing more than to be home. I shouldn’t have come. But when I think we’re about to be released, the instructor walks around the room passing out thick cushions to make us comfortable for our seated meditation.