She turns, wanders through to the kitchen, lights the gas-top beneath the kettle and begins rummaging in the fridge, nudging the eggs and butter out of the way so that she can retrieve the tray of lamingtons she made last night. She doesn’t hear the footsteps on the porch—the hum of the kettle is too loud—so she starts like a cat when the front door opens and she knocks a lamington to the floor, sending a snowstorm of desiccated coconut swirling in its wake. But it isn’t Harry who helloes her name. It’s Lucy.

‘Flo-o?’ she calls.

‘In the kitchen,’ Flo calls back, frowning. Lucy knows Harry’s coming today. Flo had told her. Hadn’t she?

‘G’day, Flo,’ Lucy says, as she skips into the room. Despite her irritation, Flo can’t help but smile at the way Lucy moves. She skims across the ground like a stone across water. Since the accident, Lucy seems younger and happier; she’s pixie-like without those breasts: her limbs more slender, her movement more agile, her face more angular, her skin clearer, her eyes sharper. Is it possible that her teeth look whiter? Doesn’t make much sense but there you go.

The smile Lucy gives Flo is a little slow and not quite full.

‘You right?’ Flo asks. She turns the gas off just as the kettle begins to whistle and pours the hot water into the teapot.

Lucy slides into a chair, rests an elbow on the table and props her chin in the V-shape of her thumb and forefinger.

‘Ye-es,’ she all but sighs. ‘But I have a favour to ask you, and I feel a bit awkward about it.’

‘Well I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is,’ Flo says a little waspishly, hoping to hurry Lucy to the point so she’ll leave. She places three cups on the table, along with the plate of lamingtons.

As she’d hoped, Lucy notices, and asks: ‘Who’s the third cup for?’

‘Harry. I told you he was coming today, remember?’

Lucy’s face drops in a way that confirms that Flo had told her, and she jumps to her feet. ‘Oh shit, I clean forgot it was today! And he’s about to arrive? I’m so sorry, Flo, I’ll bugger off right away.’

Despite the fact that Lucy’s reaction is precisely what Flo desired, she waves her aside. There’s something in her that already feels more settled, grounded by the domestic rhythm of tea making, by the presence of Lucy. Perhaps Gray’s right: distraction’s all she needed.

‘Don’t be silly. He’s not here yet. Might still be hours away. Have a quick cuppa and tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘You sure?’

‘Course I am. Now, what’s this favour?’

Lucy looks at her hands, then out the window, then at Flo. ‘You any good at knitting?’

‘Knitting, ay?’ Flo’s surprised. ‘Did a fair whack when the boys were babies. Bits and pieces now and then. I did this cardi.’ She stands up and holds her arms out so that Lucy can admire her handiwork and basks a touch in Lucy’s nod of admiration.