Some version of that encounter played out every time we met Jim, and none of my efforts at changing the dynamic had made a scrap of difference. In fact, now that there was another woman involved, even the most cursory attempt at inclusion vanished. Both Jim and Mark seemed relieved to be able to sink into the velvety depths of whatever subject they settled on, knowing the women had one another.

Tonight, though, is the first time we’ve seen Jim and Karen since I decided to go back to uni. Tonight, I have a chance at impressing Jim and letting him see the relaxed, confident me.

But the evening takes its usual path without me finding an opening. Jim talks about himself, his work, Mark, Mark’s work, the glory of them separately and the glory of them together.

‘And blow me if he didn’t say yes,’ Jim roars.

‘We had him in a corner,’ Mark says with a smile. ‘He couldn’t deny it anymore.’

Jim hits the table in glee, making his plate jump. ‘Classic. Incredible piece of reporting. Four Corners should be showering you with gratitude – booze and broads. No offence, Abby.’

They relax back, spent, at the end of each anecdote, and guzzle beer while Karen and I bring out food, fill glasses, and talk about the smalls of life.

Mark tells Jim he’s investigating where the traffickers are getting their drugs. ‘Every illegal club, brothel and gambling joint is selling dope. Every legal club is selling it. And the police are turning a blind eye, must be getting kickbacks. But I want to know where it’s coming from.’

Jim nods energetically. ‘Exactly, mate. Where’s it coming from?’

In the kitchen, while Karen is scraping steak bones into the bin, I say, ‘It’s like being Alice in Wonderland, isn’t it? Your Mogs can be the Cheshire Cat.’ I point to Karen’s tawny cat, who is rubbing himself against her legs. ‘All this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea.’

Karen straightens up. ‘They put you off your food?’

‘It’s from the story.’

She frowns slightly and counts out four dessert plates and spoons. ‘I made a pavlova.’

‘Of course you did.’

She winces, confused by my words, by me.

‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious,’ I say. ‘I wish I could cook even half as well as you do.’

By way of apology, I compliment her remodelled kitchen with its orange cupboard doors and gumleaf-patterned tiles.

‘Finally made use of my engineering degree.’ She looks around the room and smiles. ‘It felt good.’

‘You have an engineering –’

‘Melbourne Uni. Can you bring the plates?’

Karen carries the pavlova into the dining room as though it were a crown on a cushion and places it in front of Jim.

‘What’s this then?’ he says, one hand squeezing her bum through her skirt.

He and Mark marvel over Karen’s culinary skills then return to their conversation. Jim is prodding Mark to share insider information about how he’d managed to get one of the watch-house staff who’d been in the room with John Stuart to talk about the faked confession, how the TV voice-disguise works so you can’t tell who it is, what’s likely to happen next, and shushes Karen when she raises the serving spoon and asks if anyone would like more dessert.