‘Oh, right.’ I knew the place. It was near the edge of town and seemed to belong to a free-spirited hippy with an artistic bent. I’d noticed garden sculptures encrusted with sea-shells. Wind chimes made of Tooheys bottles. Herbs growing out of old boots. Birdbaths. Dreamcatchers. Concrete frogs.

‘Joyce reckons he’s a hoarder,’ Beth continued. ‘She got the council involved but it didn’t go anywhere.’

‘He’s not a hoarder.’ Catching her husband’s eye, Deb grunted. Some silent message had passed between them. ‘Sorry—I need to go and help Drew.’

‘Have you seen inside his house?’ Beth asked. But Deb was moving away, so Beth turned to me. ‘The thing is, I can understand why Joyce is worried. I wouldn’t want Amber visiting Aaron there. It doesn’t look safe.’

‘Aaron lives with Mitch?’

Beth nodded. ‘Mitch took Krystal in when she left Scott, though I hear she just applied to rent one of those townhouses in Bridge Street. Ingrid mentioned it. Do you know Ingrid? She works at P&W.’

I didn’t know Ingrid. Or the townhouse on Bridge Street. I felt completely at sea, and things didn’t improve as lunch was served. The conversation revolved around people I’d never met and places I’d never seen. There was also a lot of talk about children: toys, potty-training, sleep problems, runny noses.

I was the only person there who didn’t have kids. It was hard. Just a few hours earlier, I’d been on Instagram stalking Annette: her baby bump, her glowing skin, her gleaming teeth. Lurking behind her in every shot, my ex looked a bit crumpled—more like her father than her fiancé.

I particularly resented her flawless skin. Three rounds of IVF had left me with a bad case of acne that hadn’t quite cleared up.

‘Sorry, Deb. Sorry, Robyn.’ Sammy, who had been talking about anti-vaxxers, flashed me an apologetic grin. ‘You’re surrounded by kids all week; you probably don’t want to talk about them on your day off.’

I smiled and shrugged. My personal life was none of her business. By this time it was after three, and my headache had flowered into a migraine. But some of the children were already being rounded up, and when one set of parents said their goodbyes, I felt I could safely leave too.

Driving home, I passed Mitch McCall’s house. It was a standard seventies brick box, low and brown and basic, but I couldn’t help admiring the garden ornaments. A totem pole made from bits of furniture. A plaque that said, Be at peace with yourself. A crazy mosaic sundial. None of it looked particularly dangerous, though I did notice that one of the beer-bottle wind chimes was broken. Could Aaron have done that?

Probably, I thought, and roared off.

2019

2019