‘That’s different,’ I said. Crossing the harbour always felt like crossing into another world. One with wider streets and more pearls, with pastel cardigans and sturdy shoes. I hadn’t been there in years and I didn’t miss it.

‘A bit.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘I was living with someone, and she liked it.’

‘She?’ I asked, curious, teasing. ‘And where does she live now?’

He laughed, a little nervously. ‘Still in Cremorne, last I heard.’ He gave me a look. ‘Anyway, you had a story.’

‘It can wait,’ I said. ‘How long were you together?’

He paused, still nervous. ‘Nine years.’

‘Nine years?’ I exclaimed. The idea was completely foreign, both impressive and horrific. ‘How can you be with someone for nine years?’

Our eyes met, and he laughed at my expression. ‘Surprisingly easily. Too easily.’

I frowned, not understanding, not sure I wanted to. ‘So, what happened?’

He opened his mouth, hesitated. ‘Life, death, the usual.’

I went to ask a question, but he stopped me. ‘So, your story …’

I shook my head. ‘There’s no story.’

‘There’s always a story.’

‘There’s really not.’ Only there was, and again I considered telling it.

‘Okay,’ he said, not entirely convinced. ‘So, why hospitality? Why Sawyer’s?’

‘It’s a job.’

‘You seem to like it. You’re good at it.’

‘Yeah,’ I admitted. ‘Sometimes. But it’s not exactly a career.’

‘So what is?’ he asked, with a playful smile. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

I grinned, playing along. ‘I am grown up.’

That made him laugh, kind but sad. ‘I know.’ He nudged my arm with his. ‘But you know what I mean.’

‘Yeah …’ I wished I didn’t. I picked up my drink, took a long sip, again fighting off that urge to tell him everything. The way he was looking at me made me feel strange. Safe. Not safe at all. ‘My parents think I’m going through a phase.’

‘Are you?’

‘I don’t know. When I was a kid, I guess I wanted to do things. All the normal stuff. I wanted to be a writer, for a while, and a marine biologist, because dolphins are cute, a dancer …’

‘A dancer?’ His eyebrows hitched up.

I looked at him. ‘Why not?’

He tried to control his face, but failed. ‘You just don’t seem the type.’

I smiled. ‘I’m not. I did two terms of jazz and it was hideous and the costumes were hideous and I have the rhythm of a donkey, but until about five minutes into my first lesson, I thought maybe I had talent.’

He laughed.

‘I was seven.’

‘Fair enough then.’