‘No worries,’ Flo says awkwardly. ‘Was just making conversation.’

Lucy turns around. She’s still smiling that forced smile. ‘All good,’ she says, faux bright, as she opens the bottle of wine. ‘How’ve you been, anyway?’ she asks, as she sloshes the straw-gold liquid into the glasses.

‘Pretty good, had a few days up in town with the grandkids, caught up with Poppy. She said to say hello.’

Lucy smiles again and passes Flo her glass.

‘Which is sort of why I called,’ Flo continues, taking a sip. It’s bloody delicious. Probably cost an arm and a leg.

‘Yeah?’ Lucy invites.

‘Yeah. I was thinking, what with the time of year, when the weather clears up a bit, want to get some octopuses? I was thinking we could catch ’em and then maybe head up to Poppy’s new place and pickle ’em up there with her. Reckon she’d really appreciate it.’

Flo wasn’t expecting Lucy to look so horrified. Her forced cheeriness has shattered like glass.

‘You don’t have to,’ Flo says. ‘I was only asking. I know you had that, that thing with them, but I thought maybe you were over it?’

‘Flo, I don’t think I can,’ Lucy says.

‘Fairo,’ Flo mumbles. ‘Just thought it might be nice to do something together again; that’s all.’

‘Yeah, it would be,’ Lucy says earnestly. ‘But not that, not them.’

‘Hmmph. Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to wangle Harry into coming with me.’

‘No.’ The word bursts from Lucy’s mouth.

‘What?’

‘I mean, please, Flo, don’t. Don’t kill them. Please.’

‘Why?’

‘I just. I don’t know. They’re special to me. Just don’t.’

‘Well, they’re special to Poppy, too. Pickling them’s her thing—her heritage. Doesn’t have to change just ’cos she moved.’

‘Her heritage, not yours,’ Lucy snaps.

Flo looks at Lucy in surprise. ‘That’s what I was saying,’ she grumbles indignantly.

‘I know. Sorry,’ Lucy says and, truly, she looks stricken. But it seems it’s not for Flo’s feelings that she’s upset; it’s for the octopuses. ‘Please, Flo, don’t kill them,’ she pretty much begs. ‘You know they’re females, trying to find somewhere to extract their eggs. And they’re smart—so smart. Smarter than dogs. You wouldn’t kill a pregnant dog, would you?’

‘You can’t look at these things like that,’ Flo says, matter-of-fact.

‘Why can’t you?’ Lucy asks.

‘Well, because if you did, you wouldn’t ever do anything, would you?’

Lucy has become the tightness in her throat, the tension in her chest, the crumple of her brow that pulls at her scalp and makes her head ache and ache. It’s as though someone has taken a knife and slit her down the middle, then folded her out like she’s a chicken being butterflied, so that the anguish contracting inside her is now spread across her surface. She is nothing but a numb plane of hurt and guilt and confusion and octopus limbs curling and unfurling. And eyes. Her chest is covered in eyes. She’s on the brink of tears.