But a few steps further along the path, Stacey said, ‘The thing is, Paula, I’m not an idiot. I hear the way Matt talks—as if I’m a hundred per cent responsible for his happiness. Which I realise is unhealthy. And the kind of sludgy underside of that is he thinks I’m responsible for his unhappiness too. If anything goes wrong—like when he failed his course last semester—he can only process it by blaming me, by finding some reason that what’s happened is my fault. He thinks I’m the only person who can make him happy, but flip that and it means if he ever feels bad about himself, I must be the one making him feel bad. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. And look, you can obviously see—’

‘That’s it—I do see what’s going on. Me and Matt are working on it. Because I love him and we’ll find our way through this.’

Even way back then, Stacey had insight into what was happening. But the insight didn’t save her. She was an intelligent, capable woman with friends who cared about her, and that didn’t save her either.

By the time Cameron was five and Poppy was three, Matt had been sacked from many jobs, dropped out of courses, regarding himself as a victim of rip-offs by bad people. Stacey stuck by him, joked him out of sulky moods, boosted his confidence, financed his schemes. Really, Matt had exploited the very best impulses in Stacey—her stoicism, her generous heart, her ability to forgive. He took those strengths and twisted them back on her, made them into shackles. Paula despised him for that.

Next, she clicked on a photo from two years ago—Remy in hospital, having chemo in that ghastly floral armchair she spent a lot of energy hating, as if tasteless upholstery was the main problem they were facing. Stacey was perched on the side of the chair, one arm around Remy and the other pointing to the chemo drugs with a flourish, like a TV presenter. As soon as Stacey heard about Remy’s diagnosis, she had arranged to come down from Maryvale to visit.

In the next photo, Cameron was in the armchair, folding himself around Remy as if he could cure him through the power of his fervent wishing. Poppy sat cross-legged on the floor between Remy’s legs, her little hands planted on his bony knees. Remy loved those kids and he was so grateful Stacey had brought them down. Paula should have persuaded her to stay in Sydney then and not go back to Matt. That was what she should have done.

There was a photo taken the last time Paula and Anita visited the Maryvale property: Stacey posed in front of the new tractor, draping her hair forward to cover the bruises on her jawline.