There was a driver waiting for us in Sydney, who wasn’t half as friendly as Bianca had been but was only employed for that one trip instead of for the next twelve days. He drove us right to the water in the city, where our hotel had views of the opera house on one side and the harbour on the other. The lobby was cool marble with huge pillars that ran up a triple storey and plush areas for drinks and business meetings in velvet chairs and on battered-but-expensive-looking leather couches.

I’d worn flip-flops and cut-offs to fly in, which had been fine for Margaret River, but fell a little short in the fancy Sydney hotel with its fancy guests. Where we’d spent the past week had been relaxed and informal. Our new hotel was the poshest place I had ever had a room in – I could tell that even from the uniforms the staff wore. Everything was perfectly arranged and polished, and I swore I could smell jasmine and patchouli, as if even the air was fancier there.

‘It’s a twin room, right?’ Patrick asked the clerk at reception.

The clerk looked from Patrick to me and then back again, assessing our dynamic. It must have seemed odd that we were in one of the best suites (God bless Fernanda and Charles, yet again!) but sleeping separately.

‘Twin room as in—’

‘Yeah, we need two beds please,’ Patrick said, and he shot me a nervous smile, almost apologetic.

‘You’re in the penthouse suite …’ the clerk replied, prompting Patrick to shoot me a second look that said of course we are without him having to do anything other than lift one corner of his mouth. I couldn’t help but notice that whilst we were getting closer, there were boundaries about our friendship that he often gaffer-taped on the floor for everyone else to see. But then, I was also allowed access to tiny moments and in-jokes with him, where nobody else existed. Half the time, me and my friend Patrick had our own little language, our own little world for two.

‘… And the penthouse suite has two king-sized rooms joined by the living quarters. I think you’ll be quite comfortable Mrs—’

‘Ms,’ I interrupted. ‘Ms Wiig is fine, thank you.’

‘Very well, Ms Wiig. If you’d like to head to the private penthouse lift at the very end of this corridor, one of our porters will follow with your luggage shortly. And if you use this key card—’ he slid a small embossed paper envelope across, two shiny black key cards poking out of the top ‘—the lift will open directly to your quarters. Enjoy your stay, won’t you?’