‘Mourning is a normal process, in these sorts of circumstances,’ Suzette had said, earlier.

Of course, Lucy hadn’t quite revealed the full extent of the circumstances—she didn’t even know the full extent of the circumstances when she sat in Suzette’s office. All she had was a sneaking suspicion that her octopus was growing still. But she didn’t say any of what she was feeling to Suzette; she didn’t want Suzette to think she was crazy or anything. Who’d have thought she could be so deceptive?

‘Have you given the knitting any more thought?’ Suzette asked.

‘Maybe a little,’ Lucy admitted. It was a half-truth. Another thrown bone.

But as Kat stitches the outline of the tattoo onto her body, and it doesn’t feel as right as she had hoped, Lucy gives the knitted knockers serious thought. It’s not that she thinks wearing them will do anything—they’re the daggiest idea in the world. It’s that she suspects maybe Suzette is right, maybe Lucy needs a project. Maybe Lucy needs company. Maybe she’s lonely now that her octopus has frozen. Maybe that’s what she’s feeling right now. And maybe that runs to the heart of the problem.

Flo stands in the middle of the empty room. Impatience buzzes through her veins and fizzes in her toes. She wiggles them against the sheepskin of her ugg boots and places her hand on the head of the armchair and rubs at it, round and round. It’s like she’s ruffling the chair’s hair, giving it a bird’s nest. The upholstery is so worn it feels silky and quite lovely to touch. It’s Gray’s chair. Was. Is. Because that’s how she still thinks of it: Gray’s chair. Gray’s grey chair.

A HiLux drifts down the highwayed hill, over on the other side of the neck. It’s a dual-cab, though, and too new to be her Harry.

It’s the arvo of the fifteenth of March, which is why Flo is waiting, hand-worrying Gray’s old chair, peering out the window like Neighbourhood Watch. She wishes she’d asked him what colour the HiLux is and precisely what time in the arvo he’s intending. She’s been lurking in front of the window for five minutes and has already spotted two plausible utes on the highway—one white, the other red—not knowing if they’re him. Neither were him. Who’d have thought there were so many HiLuxes out there?

Why does she feel so nervous?

Jesus, woman, bugger off! You’re giving me the willies, fidgeting like that, Gray says—would’ve said—peering up at her from his chair. One of the smokes that will eventually kill him hangs off his lower lip. He swats at her with his newspaper like she’s a fly. A cuppa tea’s what you need, he continues. He doesn’t make it for her because, obviously, that’s impossible. But he would’ve. If she’d let him, that is.