‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘But I actually feel hungover.’ I force a huff of laughter. ‘Despite not having anything to drink last night.’

‘Maybe it was the dodgy prawns at DT?’

Then we hear something we usually only hear in summer.

‘Fuck me,’ he says.

I plug my ears with my fingers. A jet ski is ripping across the lake.

‘Summer has come.’ He feigns checking his watch. ‘A couple of months early.’

‘It must be cold out there.’

He stands, peers through the gap in the curtains. ‘He’s got a wetsuit. Mind if I open these?’

I squint in anticipation. ‘Sure.’

The light floods the room.

‘I need water,’ I say, sitting up, turning so my feet find the cool carpet.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

He goes downstairs, I follow him.

‘Go lie down on the couch,’ he says. He’s got a grimace and I notice now his right leg won’t straighten fully.

‘You’re in pain.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Take a tramadol?’

‘I already have,’ he says. ‘I’ll be right.’ That Kiwi hardman, stiff upper lip nonsense doesn’t help. He needs to get back to the physio or on stronger painkillers.

I shower and Cain swims out a few hundred metres then back. Some Scandinavian cold-water therapy he heard about on a podcast to help with his pain. After he dries off he goes about readying the place for the first guests. He spreads one more layer of stain on the deck. He dusts every surface. He restacks the firewood beside the barbecue then deadbolts the back door and locks all of the windows. He lines the tiny boxes of milk up in the fridge, straightens the toaster and kettle. He drops the blinds so they are half down. He sets the fire ready to light. And finally places a single bottle of pinot on the table for the guests, a yellow Post-it note on the neck of the bottle screams ‘Drink me!’

I use my iPhone camera to take new photos of the house, now that it’s ready for the guests. The mid-morning glow provides perfect lighting, pillars of sun passing through kitchen windows, burning bright squares on the floor tiles, illuminating the entire room.

‘Place has never looked so good,’ Cain says, watching me move about the room, trying my hand at photography.

When we go to leave, I check the letterbox. Nothing there. I stare up along the road and again the guilt hits me like a wave. I swallow and try to block out the memories of that night with Daniel. Find a way to pretend that woman, Anna, was someone else. The apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree; maybe I am just like irresponsible, selfish Lianne.