Harry knocks his knee against hers. ‘You remember what I said that night? On the beach?’ He shakes his head. ‘I take it back. You are a mainlander.’

‘Oof,’ Lucy says in mock outrage. ‘Way to kick me where it hurts.’

Harry smiles down at her. ‘At least you’re rectifying it tonight,’ he offers. ‘Let me know when you’ve licked your bowl clean and I’ll come over and give you a proper Tassie welcome.’

A hard little laugh bursts from the back of Lucy’s throat, and a blush springs to Harry’s face, presumably as he realises how his words could be taken—and how she had evidently taken them, given her laugh.

‘I didn’t mean it like—’

‘I know,’ Lucy says, putting her hand on his forearm. But then she thinks better of it and reaches for her beer glass, not so much because she wants a sip but because she feels she needs to do something with her hand other than touch Harry.

Why does the dynamic between them feel so charged? Maybe it’s because he blushes in a lovely, rich way. There’s nothing ugly or blotchy or greasy about it. It’s more like, in blushing, something in him intensifies; it’s like there’s a new vibrancy to his face, which is brought forth by the blood thrumming against his skin. She shakes her gaze away; maybe it’s because she can’t stop staring.

‘We’re actually out celebrating the finish of my tattoo,’ she says, to distract herself as much as to make conversation. She nods towards Kat. ‘She did it for me.’

‘Yeah, you mentioned.’ He looks across at Kat, who’s watching them, obviously done with gossiping and ready to re-enter their conversation. ‘The octopuses, right?’ he asks.

‘Yep,’ Kat nods.

‘Nice,’ Harry says. ‘I saw bits and pieces of them a bit ago, when Lucy was tidying herself up after a bird vomited on her. Looked good.’

Lucy peers up at him. He’d noticed the tattoo that evening? He thought it looked good? She opens her mouth to ask for some kind of clarification, but she doesn’t know what to ask for, or how to phrase it. And anyway, there’s a part of her that doesn’t want clarification, doesn’t want to know if a bloke likes the look of it, doesn’t want a man’s perception—even if it is positive—to colour her self-perception in any way at all. A fish’s perception might be a liberating thing, but a man’s perception is too embroiled in politics to free anyone.

In the meantime, Kat says, ‘Cheers,’ and dips her glass at him. ‘One of the most special tattoos I’ve done.’

‘Aw, Kat,’ Lucy says. Tears glaze her eyes.

‘Yeah?’ Harry says.