Why did it have to be Bali? Why couldn’t she get married in the Botanic Gardens and have a reception at some soulless function centre with harbour views like everyone else seemed to? I could handle that. I would be thrilled for her if she’d done that, I told myself, finishing my tea.

‘And these days, with those automated engines …’ Geoff joined in, and I wondered what would kill you first—the lack of oxygen, the impact, or just the sheer terror of those final moments.

A few days ago I’d slipped the postcard of New York into my bag, meaning to write something, to congratulate Lina and tell her I’d definitely be there, to lie and say I couldn’t wait—but I hadn’t. I hadn’t done anything.

Tomorrow, I told myself, as I tried not to listen to Glenn’s theory on the plane that had been missing in the Indian Ocean for years. I’d do it tomorrow.

Maybe it would help, I thought. Maybe then I’d sleep.

6 THURSDAY, APRIL

6

THURSDAY, APRIL

The finance boys were the worst. Private school prefects turned urban professionals, blessed by their parents with endless confidence and jobs they’d never be fired from, dressed in designer suits and pointy leather shoes, hair perfectly slicked.

Once, I’d found that confidence impressive, intimidating, something to strive for, valuable and precious, but now it was just irritating.

There were four of them in a booth near the front, trying to impress an older American client with their drinking prowess and dirty jokes. I’d been keeping an eye on them since they’d arrived for dinner, ordered a tasting menu and a round of Aberlour, neat, shotting it, with beer chasers, because somebody had taught them how to order whisky but not how to drink it. They hadn’t stopped talking all night, but not about anything. That type never talked about anything, just filled up the room with their big booming voices, making it feel busier than it really was. One of the newbs—not so new that anybody thought to introduce her to me at the start of my shift, but new enough that I’d never noticed her before—was clearing bottles off their table, her lips pressed together so tight they’d turned white.

I finished some cocktails and looked around. Dinner service was winding up, and Rachel was in the office pretending to do paperwork. The newb came around the side of the bar, two fists full of empties. Her whole body was tense.

‘Hey,’ I said, as she dropped the bottles into the bin. She ignored me, so I said it again, a little louder. Her shoulders hitched both times, but she kept her head down. My eyes scanned the near-empty dining room. Emma was serving one table—a couple on a very obvious, awkward, first date—and the rest were fine. ‘You okay?’