Axel swallows a mouthful of wine and drags his smile up on one side. ‘This is the twenty-first century, Lina, you can’t cash a cheque or rent a pushbike without a retina scan, a blood bond to hand over your firstborn and nine different forms of ID.’

Cain laughs. They all do. I push a smile to my lips. ‘I know but –’

‘It’s not so simple as just whipping up a profile and making the booking.’ He gestures with his wineglass as he speaks. ‘We’ve never had a problem. Hell, I’d even set it all up for you if you wanted.’

I turn to Cain, hoping for backup. ‘Would you do it?’

Cain sucks his lips for a moment. ‘You know I don’t trust strangers,’ he says at last. ‘But it sounds like good money, and we could do with a little more.’ The understatement of the year.

‘If you’re worried about people going through your stuff, lock it away,’ Axel says. ‘You could make a fortune. Market it as an artist’s retreat, or a quiet family weekend away, then sit back and count the money.’

‘I don’t know, it needs a bit of work.’

‘Cain could do it.’

‘Don’t pressure them, honey. It’s not for everyone,’ Claire says.

‘What if someone decided to cook P in your house?’

Axel takes a sip of his wine, pauses with the glass close to his lips. ‘This isn’t Breaking Bad,’ he says. ‘It’s the burbs in Auckland city.’

‘Or what if they go through your things and steal your passports? What if they cut your keys?’

‘And come back to murder us?’ His bark of laughter grates.

I want to remind them all about the news story from a few months ago. The murder, somewhere in the States. That was a WeStay, wasn’t it? But by the time I’ve ordered my thoughts, the conversation is moving again and it would seem petty to bring it up.

‘Tell them about the knickers,’ Claire speaks with laughter in her voice.

Axel covers his eyes with his palm. ‘Don’t scare them off, Claire, we can get a referral fee if they do it.’

Referral fee. Is that the agenda here? ‘I love a knickers story,’ I say.

‘It’s not much of a story. Just something we found,’ Claire says, one elegant hand flicking out, dismissing her own story.

‘They were tiny, lacy knickers,’ Axel says. ‘We found them scrunched up down the side of the bed when we were cleaning after someone left.’

‘No,’ I say, slowly, my hand coming to my mouth.

‘We were tempted to contact the guests to return them for a laugh,’ he adds. ‘Since then, we just pay a cleaner to come so we don’t have to imagine what took place in our home.’