‘For God’s sake, Isla. I’m scared for you, alone in the house with him.’

‘Don’t be. He’d never hurt me.’

He checks the mirror and pulls back into the middle lane. ‘We all have a blind spot,’ he says. ‘And he’s yours.’

32

Sydney, 1967

Mandy found Joe on the doorstep, smiling nervously.

‘I noticed Steve’s truck was gone,’ he said.

His words took several seconds to make sense. She was shot through with desire at the sight of him. ‘He’s out.’ She checked her watch, with its stopped hands. ‘Not sure when he’ll be back. Sorry.’

‘Any chance of a cold beer? It’s hot as hell out here.’

‘You’d best come in, then.’ She allowed herself to smile as she turned her back. She’d had him in her head all day. ‘How have you been?’

‘Not so good. Haven’t made it into work for a day or two.’

‘What you been doing with yourself?’

He shrugged. ‘Trying not to hit the whisky before lunch. Going round the bend. That’s about it.’

In the kitchen she took the top off a bottle of beer and handed it to him. ‘How far round the bend did you get?’

‘All the way round.’ He drank from the bottle. ‘I keep thinking I can hear a baby crying.’

Her stomach lurched. The baby often slept for a couple of hours at this time of day, but still, she ought not to have let him in. ‘Must be Abigail Walker’s little one you can hear.’ She sat down at the table. She was pretty sure Abigail hadn’t brought the new baby home yet, but Joe didn’t question it. He pulled a chair out and sat with his legs crossed, his foot resting on his knee.

‘Abigail had a boy,’ she said, which was true: Roger Walker had told her the news just yesterday. She’d kept him out on the street, kept the conversation short, but he’d looked curious, like he suspected something. It was harder than she’d thought to keep a baby hidden.

Joe threw his head back and drained half the bottle. She really should send him on his way. It was good to see him, but. He was thinking what she was thinking and it was hard to care about much else.

‘You look great,’ he said. ‘What’s happening with you?’

‘Nothing much.’ She lit a cigarette and passed it to him. ‘Too hot to get anything done.’

Joe’s eyes followed the length of her legs to the hem of her denim skirt, which stopped a few inches short of her knees. She let him take his time. The cigarette burned down in his fingers.

‘That’s true,’ he said.

She stood and opened a window, turned back to face him and leaned against the counter top. She unbuttoned her blouse. He went to stand but she held him in his seat by the shoulders and let him kiss her stomach, open-mouthed, while she sipped from his beer bottle and watched a cockatoo land on the prop that held up the washing line.