He took the cue and pulled her close against him, but gently, waiting for her to confirm that this was what she meant. He was restrained, not wanting to presume or push her or take advantage, so she would have to make it even clearer. She lunged forward to kiss him.

For a moment, she worried she might have been the one to misread the clues—maybe he was merely offering kindly physical affection to a sad woman. But no, when he kissed her, it wasn’t in a kindly way. He kissed her in an unrestrained and lustful way. Even then, he didn’t want to take anything for granted beyond the kissing, so Anita knew she would again have to offer a clear invitation. She led him by the hand into the bedroom.

The next morning, because there was only insipid light leaking in around the window blind, Anita realised that it was early, not long after dawn. Rohan must have assumed she was still asleep because he was very quiet as he fished around to find his clothes on the bedroom floor.

Anita should sit up, switch on the light, offer to make him breakfast or at least a beverage. But instead she lay there pretending to sleep while she rehearsed what she should say.

Possibly she should say, ‘Good morning, Rohan Mehta. Thank you for noticing I was a mess in that car park yesterday and driving me home without being pushy or patronising or fussy about it. Thank you for staying and thank you for a really good night, including the—look, I have to say, the great sex. Also, I slept surprisingly well—so it seems you’re an ideal person to share a bed with as well as an excellent sexual partner. I’m pretty sure you’re a truly good man. But the problem is, this whole thing feels strange—kind of off—because of the way we know each other, so this can never be a relationship.’

But she didn’t say that. She stayed curled under the doona, eyes closed, as she listened to Rohan pick up his shoes and slip quietly out of the apartment.

Only when she was sure he was gone did she emerge from the bedroom. After a shower and coffee, she tried to ring Paula, but her friend’s phone was switched off. She must be seeing patients. Hopefully she’d had a decent restful night.

SEVEN

THE FLOOR WAS ROLLING SLIGHTLY UNDER PAULA’S FEET. The woozy seasick sensation of jetlag. Elevated levels of cortisol and insufficient sleep the night before. The accumulated minutes of flimsy dozing might have added up to two hours, but the whole night had been infested with visions of Stacey and the kids—the ones Paula already carried in her head, now spliced together with imagined moments from the video on Matt’s phone.