Cain glances towards me, I try to keep my face neutral but even this innocuous comment feels like a splinter. ‘No,’ he responds. ‘No kids.’

‘Plenty of time for that,’ the man says. ‘Wouldn’t mind you coming and having a chat with the current team though.’

‘I’m just down for the weekend,’ he says, dismissing the idea. ‘This is my wife, Lina.’

The coach offers his hand and I take it.

‘Come down and say hi at school anytime you’re back in town, the boys would love to meet an army hero.’

‘Army hero.’ Cain scoffs.

They move deeper into the bar, the man’s jandals clap as he goes. They find a table to lean on near the screens showing horse racing. Cain lets his eyes linger for a moment on the man’s back.

‘Cleaver Phillips, quite a ring to it,’ I tease, breaking the tension.

He turns to me and smiles, gives his head a small shake. ‘It’s a stupid high school nickname.’

‘Can you at least tell me why?’

‘I was good at tackling,’ he says. ‘At cutting people down.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Makes perfect sense. Pretty clever too, huh?’

He winces.

There’s a loud noise. I drop my knife in response and it clatters against my plate. It’s just a staccato blast of rugby commentary from the TV above the barman. I turn my head towards the sound. There’s a murmur of appreciation from the three men huddled down the other end of the bar, nursing beers.

‘After our first booking we’re going out for a nice dinner,’ he says. ‘That’s what we will spend the money on.’

‘Won’t find much nicer than this around here,’ I say, spearing a flaccid prawn on my fork, and scraping it off on the side plate.

‘No, back home. Amano, or the Millhouse. Somewhere expensive.’

‘Sounds good,’ I say. We’ve got better things to spend the money on, including the eight thousand dollars in credit card debt, but I’m not about to remind him of that.

•

I’m still a little on edge when we get back that night. If I ignore Daniel, he will get the message and leave me alone. If only men were that predictable. If only he didn’t have my ring. Moths are beating themselves to death against the security light we stand under as Cain makes a show of punching the code into his new lock, on the freshly painted black door. The lock grinds open, he holds the door for me.

‘Seamless,’ he says. ‘Thought for a moment we might have locked ourselves out.’

‘Quite loud,’ I tease.