‘Caught in the act of slinking in. Although, to give her credit, it was an unhappy coincidence she was up at the time. Unhappy being the operative word. And let’s just say someone noticed my attire was somewhat askew.’

‘Oh. That explains a bit.’

‘Yeah. Hence the frosty nostril this morning and her hasty retreat to the hospital. Apparently, I am the worst daughter in the world.’

‘So what are you going to do to redeem yourself?’

‘She’s not the type of woman to be swayed by gestures, no matter how grand, so I shall have to suck it up, take my punishment as it comes and go face the consequences.’

50

‘Shit.’ I fair jumped out of my skin when my cellphone double-bleeped the arrival of a text message. Heart still racing, I looked at the screen. It was almost noon. I must have been absorbed – I’d been working almost two hours. So much for a lazy Sunday morning.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. It was Paul. I texted back the obvious one-symbol answer, ? and put the phone down on the desk beside me.

Even though I expected the reply, its arrival still near sent me through the roof. My neurones seemed to be set to frazzle. I’d forgotten how much a wooden surface amplified sound, especially as the phone was set to vibrate mode too and danced a wee jive across the table. So much for technology being our friend.

Am outside. Let me in.

Oh. Bugger. Maggie, as usual, was right; she’d get her flaming cinnamon pinwheel, after all. Okay. I could always ignore him, but that would be the height of rudeness. Then it hit me. He was probably outside home, not realising I had turned into one of those sad creatures that went into work on a Sunday for something to do. Brill. I texted back At work. But I couldn’t just leave it at that, so extended a tentative invitation: Catch up later?

The reply boomeranged back fast. He must be a damned sight better than I was at pushing the right buttons.

Look out the window.

I went over to the window and had to stick my face right up to the glass and stand on tiptoes to get the right angle to see out front of the building. But yes, there he was, making a dick of himself, waving in my general direction from the other side of the road. There was no avoiding him any longer, so I headed for the stairwell and trotted down to the Watch House to greet him.

He stood in the foyer, looking at the flash artwork on the wall. ‘Gidday,’ he said, exaggerating the word’s Kiwiness and accompanying it with a wink. It sounded more Aussie than Kiwi.

‘Gidday, yourself,’ I replied, without the wink and raised my eyebrows.