The bedsheets were stiff with salt from the ocean. She unpegged them and folded them into her arms, held them up to her face. She didn’t love him. She spoke it aloud into the sheets, quietly at first, and then louder. It was like watching someone fall from a cliff.

‘Mandy.’ Joe was standing on his deck, still in his work clothes. He held a whisky tumbler in his hand, and he wasn’t quite steady on his feet.

She ducked under the washing line and walked towards him. ‘Beautiful evening,’ she said.

‘Sorry about earlier.’ He met her at the shrubbery. ‘It’s been a shock, all this. I’m still taking it in.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I took it out on you.’

‘I was in a difficult spot, Joe.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

She stood there a while, looking back at him. She liked his height and his build, his lean frame. His arms. He made as if to turn towards the house and she spoke just to keep him there.

‘I was thinking you might need a hand with the housework,’ she said. ‘I could get the place straightened out for you, while you’re at work. Give it a tidy. It’d be no trouble.’

He passed his glass from one hand to the other, considering. ‘That’s very kind.’

‘I’d be happy to. Think nothing of it.’

‘That would be a help. If you really don’t mind.’ He nodded and stepped away. ‘Thank you, Mandy.’

She took her time unpegging the rest of the laundry, shaking out the creases, folding it into the basket. She’d iron the bedding tomorrow and change the sheets. They’d smell the ocean in the cotton as they slept.

Joe’s kitchen light switched off and his yard fell into darkness. Steve was right, in a way. Louisa didn’t know when she was lucky. The homesick part you could understand, but leaving a man like Joe Green was nothing short of madness.

She picked up the basket and walked back to the house.

14

Sydney, 1997

It must have rained all night. Isla stands on the deck with her coffee. A breeze blows in from the ocean, sending a shiver through next door’s eucalyptus. The sun is low behind the tea trees. Winter’s coming. It’s beautiful, she realises. Despite the drab remains of the party, the damp bunting and the upturned ice bucket, it’s a beautiful day.

‘Coffee?’

Isla turns to see her dad holding the coffee jug, offering it up to her. He looks like death. His blue eyes are ghostly pale against his grey skin.

‘Thanks.’ She stands at the door and takes a mug from him. ‘You’re up early.’

‘Couldn’t sleep. Might as well get to work.’

He puts the radio on and sips his coffee. His singlet hangs loosely from his collarbones. She wants to ask him when he started to look so ill. If he’s scared, since the police called to see him. If he’s told her everything.