We went out on the deck, shawled Chris L and me, and watched Vivian march down the road, a cheese-gathering beach dad.

‘It’s so cool that you were whispering instructions into his back,’ I said. ‘Did you ever imagine having a relationship like that?’

‘No,’ Chris L said. But he was looking elsewhere, the unimpeachable view, the unswimmable sea, down, down, past the terracing tiers of this holiday town.

‘It’s too hot,’ he complained.

‘Aww,’ I said. I disagreed. But I liked the skeleton finger Chris L was extending – poking at the perfect nature of the forced-fun afternoon. ‘Are you having fun?’ I asked him, seeking out more treachery.

His sunglasses bounced back at me. Alone on the deck, in the full bright of the blue, I took the opportunity to scrutinise these glasses, to try to see through them, because with sunglasses that is often a possibility. But they were very fine sunglasses: it was all skies and zeroes. I remembered he was moody, and a bit younger than me, prone to sulking in the flickering light of nature documentaries. Maybe he was the person who disliked being asked questions, and given the baking heat of the day, who could blame him?

‘Do you want to go inside?’ I whispered.

‘Okay,’ he said, and did, and curled up on the couch again – same old year, same old him.

When Vivian returned with cheese, Chris L was still on the couch, sleeping amid the quiet noise of the TV, and we lightly and quietly moved around the kitchen slicing bread from loaf and removing cheese from wrapping.

‘Excuse me,’ said Vivian, bumping into me.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, bumping into me again.

It made me realise how much I would relish being with Vivian during something like a military occupation, where we were required to be quiet absolutely constantly. Ideally we’d be taking shelter in a larger kitchen, and he would once again be in his undies.

Vivian and I kept looking at each other – classic person behaviour – in order to coordinate the food activity, and just when we were doing this, looking silently but meaningfully, Dan and Lachlan emerged from the bedroom and Dan said loudly, ‘Sunset!’

The speed at which Chris L sat up was liquid, alarming.

‘Sorry, Chris L,’ Dan said.

I was disappointed in Dan for thinking I would ‘move in’ on a guy while my very good, admired friend was sleeping on the couch.

Dan turned off the TV on his way into the kitchen, a second presumptuous thing in quick succession.

We all moved to the deck.

It wasn’t even sunset. But the clear afternoon was softening into a long coastal dusk, the edge of day smudging up against the blue of evening. Across the bay, the city tightened into a scratch of buildings, then kept on tightening till the scratch was cleaned away.

‘Decking,’ sighed Lachlan.

‘This place is annoyingly beautiful,’ Dan agreed.