Kate and Amy squeal, throwing themselves against the seat with uncharacteristic physicality. Dean grins and jumps out of the car, then disappears into the restaurant.

‘My hair is still wet,’ Amy says. ‘Mum used to say that you can get a cold if you have wet hair for too long.’

Oli squeezes her eyes shut briefly. ‘I think that’s just an old wives’ tale. I’m pretty sure it’s not true.’ In the rear-view mirror, she sees the girls exchange a glance. ‘I’m serious,’ she says, turning around. ‘It’s just one of those things people say, but it’s not scientific.’

Amy and Kate exchange another look. ‘Okay,’ Kate says.

‘The swimming carnival was fun, wasn’t it?’ Oli says enthusiastically. ‘I can’t believe it’s the last day of term tomorrow! Are you excited about going away?’

‘We won’t be able to visit Mum when we’re in Lakes Entrance,’ Kate says solemnly.

Oli looks at her blankly. ‘What?’

‘We can’t visit her at the cemetery,’ Amy clarifies. ‘Sometimes we go on Sundays.’

‘You do?’ Sundays are when Oli meets up with friends or catches up on work, and Dean usually takes the girls out. He’s never mentioned visiting Isabelle’s grave. Oli glances up at the restaurant—no sign of him. ‘Do you go with your dad?’

Amy nods. ‘And Grandma Mary goes too, every Sunday at lunchtime.’

‘Well, that’s nice,’ Oli manages to say.

‘Why is Nina coming over tonight?’ Kate asks abruptly.

‘Um, your dad and I are going out for dinner.’

‘He’ll probably take you to Liane’s.’ Amy’s pale eyes glow in the half-light.

Dean returns, cold air flooding into the car as he gets in. He passes a brown paper bag to Oli. ‘Can you please keep these safe from the barbarians?’ He winks at the girls and rubs his hands together. ‘Right. Let’s get you two home and into the bath before you catch a cold.’

Liane’s is small and cosy, and less than five minutes away. Animated waitstaff in crisp white shirts and red aprons dash around madly, delivering wine and food to tables with aplomb.

‘Smells delicious,’ Oli says, realising how hungry she is. ‘Have you been here before?’

But Dean is chatting to the heavily made-up maître d’, who nods enthusiastically and gestures to one of the staff. Her eyes rake over Oli with interest.

‘This way, this way,’ calls the beaming waiter, leading them to a corner table. He takes their coats, and they slide into their seats. Dean orders a bottle of champagne, which arrives almost immediately.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Oli says, smothering a yawn with a smile.

They clink glasses. She keeps her eyes on him as he takes a sip.