‘Not long after she joined playgroup, she told us about a horrendous eighteen-hour labour. She ended up tearing and had terrible bruising. She couldn’t sit down for a week.’

‘That’s not the story I heard.’

‘I know. A few months later, she said the birth had been great.’

I remembered Mel’s birth story because I’d envied it. Six hours with a bath, candles, heat packs, music of her choice and a gorgeous midwife. And afterwards, resting her new baby against her breast, skin-to-skin contact. My labour with Archie had been calm until the moment of his birth when the medical team had whisked him away and I’d been left terrified, with empty arms. Bella’s birth had been full of fear: a foetal monitor strapped to my abdomen, Marty barking at the midwives, two obstetricians assessing me and a neonatologist on hand to check Bella immediately. According to Mel, Sammy’s arrival had been beautifully gentle.

We all had reality as it was and the version we wanted it to be. Perhaps Mel was creating a reality that she could cope with—just like I had. A sanitised family film, with the worst bits cut out, in which we felt comfortable showing ourselves to others.

At last a sign: WIRRA WARRA. I pulled into the entrance and picked up my phone to call Marty, only to see there was no signal.

I drove on. The track entered the forest and darkness enveloped me, the gum trees blocking what meagre light managed to penetrate the heavy clouds. A strong wind whistled through the treetops. Up ahead, the track twisted and turned. Slowing to a stop, I opened my window to listen. Black cockatoos were squealing in the distance, their eerie calls mimicking an animal in distress.

Deirdre had never mentioned children or grandchildren but she doted on Bella. I was sure she’d talked about her husband, Bob, back at home, waiting for dinner—but I must have been mistaken. Most of the time, she’d discussed plants and weeding and watering: These weeds adapt and survive in the drought when everything around them is dying.

The car juddered over stones and I held my body tight against the bumps, praying that our gardener could help me. Suddenly, the track opened out into a circular driveway with three vehicles. Deirdre was heaving a swag and a tent into her Toyota HiLux; Mel had an esky and bags of food in her arms. Our kids had been talking about the same Deedee—why didn’t Deirdre or Mel mention the connection to me?

And then I saw it: Marty’s Audi was parked beside Mel’s van.

As the two women turned at the sound of my car, I came to a stop, switched off the engine and hurried over to them.

‘Where’s Bella?’ I shouted. ‘Where’s Marty?’

Mel ignored my questions and grabbed my arm.