‘How nice to see you. This is my mother, Barbara. And, oh, I can’t remember a thing right now.’

‘Abby.’ I am being eyed off by two generations of prim.

‘Abby, yes. I was pregnant last time we met, wasn’t I?’

As I stand up, I feel the squelch of my wet bather bottoms ungluing from the bench. I fold one arm across my body as I look into the pram. It’s lined in pink satin, and the baby is lying on a pink sheet and wearing a pink dress. The little girl’s skin is flushed from the heat. The cavern smells of sour milk and laundry detergent. I pull my head out as fast as politeness allows.

‘She’s lovely,’ I say. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Ellen. Ellen Barbara Wilson,’ Eliza replies. ‘The middle name is to honour her grandmother.’

‘You’re friends with Lou, dear? I’m her aunt.’

I smile at Barbara, wishing I had a towel to cover all this flesh I’m baring. ‘We came here together. She’s over there.’ I gesture with the hand that’s not draped across my stomach.

‘Ah, and your children?’ Eliza asks.

‘They’re swimming.’

‘Abby has three,’ Eliza says to her mother.

‘In good time,’ Barbara replies, patting Eliza’s arm. And then, to even the score, ‘Eliza and Ted had good news this morning. He’s been made state divisional manager. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s an early Christmas present for us all.’

I can’t put a face to the name Ted, but Eliza and her mother are staring at me, beaming, waiting for me to respond.

‘That’s great. Congratulations.’

‘He’s been working so hard,’ Eliza says. ‘He’s earned this. And more.’

‘More, yes,’ her mother says. ‘We’re making a roast for dinner, to celebrate. All the trimmings.’

I feel a pain in my gut. I never think to do that when Mark’s stories go to air, even though he works on them for months. I could do it tonight – say in front of the kids how important his work is.

‘So,’ says Eliza. ‘We best say a quick hello to Lou.’ They offer synchronised smiles of farewell and walk away. Eliza pushes the pram while her mother carries a large canvas bag. From behind they could be the elephants from Fantasia, bulbous bottoms perched on comely legs.

Lou rises and meets them halfway. Unlike me, she is unselfconscious about wearing what is essentially underwear. I stay in the shade and watch them talk. The little boy who’d been smacked runs past me and dive-bombs into the pool.

‘Mum!’ Sarah stands in the shallows. Even from this distance I hear her exasperation. Someone has behaved unacceptably. ‘Make him stop.’

Petey’s head pops to the surface. He spits water at Sarah, and she shrieks. I can’t believe he still finds this funny. Unbeckoned, I remember myself and Charlie at Noosa when we were young: Charlie mucking about on the sand, the waves breaking far behind him, swivelling his hips and pretending to be a hula dancer while I worked – worked – at making a sandcastle, digging a perfectly square moat, matching the height of my turrets to one another.