The note was what worried him. Just one word – sorry – written neatly, at the top of the page. There was no anger in it, nothing to suggest she’d written it hastily. Sorry was a considered word. Nobody apologised in advance unless they were going to do something serious, something permanent.

He’d had too much to drink last Friday while Louisa was out at Mandy’s. He’d found the empty bottle of whisky in the bin the next day but he didn’t remember putting it there. He remembered leaning over Louisa in bed, the two of them struggling, her face close to his in the dark. Nothing after that. She’d said nothing about it the next day. He’d woken on the couch but that was nothing new. He’d wondered if he’d dreamt it, but it felt real, and he had a guilty feeling in his gut, like he’d crossed a line. But blackouts always left him feeling like a monster. Surely she’d have said something if he’d hurt her. She’d have given him hell for it.

It made him want a drink, the thought of it. He stood and looked out the back door, tried to distract himself. Mandy’s laundry was hanging across the length of her yard, propped in the centre with a wooden post. Sheets and towels, strung out like bunting in the sun. She was out there, he could see her, over by the eucalyptus where the grass was longer. The pale pink of the scarf she wore around her head and the yellow-blonde of her hair. She was gathering flowers to bring inside, by the look of it. He watched her for a minute or two, snipping flowers at the base of the stem and draping them over the crook of her arm.

Mandy knew where Louisa was. The thought brought the blood back to his head, stopped his heart racing. He’d seen her skipping back inside when he went out into the yard this morning; it made perfect sense now. She’d promised Louisa not to tell him, most likely.

He waited for Mandy to turn back towards the house before he walked out onto the deck. She looked straight at him, nodded, and put the flowers down on the garden chair in the shade of the vine.

‘Mandy!’ he called out, as loud as he dared without sounding rude.

She straightened up, wiped her hands on the apron around her waist. It was roasting hot. She looked flushed in the face; reluctant. For a moment he thought she might turn away. He raised his hand: a hesitant half-wave. He tried to smile, and found he couldn’t.

‘Can I have a word?’ He stood at the line of shrubs that separated his yard from hers. Louisa’s roses were a bright, cheery pink. The sky was blue, cloudless. Beach weather. The salty air, the colours, all of it filled him with a nameless terror.

‘Afternoon.’ Mandy moved closer, a few feet back from the shrubs. ‘Humid today. I’d give anything for a southerly.’