I was happy for Lina. She had been my best friend for over half my life and she’d always, always wanted to get married. Despite everything, she’d always believed in getting married as some sort of fairytale ending, everyone riding off into the sunset and living happily ever after, like in the movies.

When I put the phone back to my ear Mum was saying something about family. About making an effort.

I exhaled softly, closing my eyes. ‘Yeah, brunch is fine,’ I said, wanting her to stop. I pulled on the shirt and buttoned it over my dark purple bra. ‘I’m closing Friday, though, so not too early.’

She suggested nine as I doused myself in deodorant; Flirt—a baby-pink can of musk and drunk fourteen-year-olds. I coughed, countering with ten, in the city somewhere so I could get to work for eleven, and we agreed on nine thirty. In Petersham. ‘That’s fair, don’t you think? Parking is impossible closer in,’ she said.

I wedged the phone back between my neck and shoulder and pulled out my ponytail.

‘Fine,’ I said. My head hurt. It had been hurting all morning but suddenly it was throbbing. I gathered my hair with my fingers, and twisted it tightly around itself, until I could feel it sting at my scalp. ‘Anyway, I’ve got work. I’ll talk to you later?’

Mum sighed. It was like that was all she ever did. I could see her, closing her eyes and pinching the top of her nose with her fingers, a tiny shake of the head. ‘Take care of yourself, okay?’ Despairing. What had she done to end up with a daughter like me?

I twisted again, tucked the ends under and wrapped an elastic band around the resulting bundle of hair until it stayed put. ‘Always. Bye, Mum.’

I didn’t wait for her to answer, throwing the phone into my locker as I hung up. It landed on a pile of clothes and slid down onto the floor. ‘Shit,’ I said, bending to pick it up.

A short raspy laugh from the doorway made me freeze halfway back to standing. I hadn’t heard that laugh in months, but I recognised it straight away. The throbbing intensified, a blood vessel fit to burst.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, standing up and putting my phone back into my locker.

More laughter. ‘I don’t know, Winona. I thought I’d drop by, do some reading, maybe get a bite to eat. You?’

I turned around. Dex—our former head chef and my ex, if I had to find a word for it—was leaning on a locker near the door in his chef’s jacket and pants. He looked like he was posing for a photo.

‘It’s nice to see you too,’ he added.

‘How long have you been there?’

He smirked. ‘Long enough.’