I move my head into a nod before stumbling backward into the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind me just in time to retch into the sink, an uncontrollable scream straight from the pit of my stomach. Marie can handle this, I tell myself as the tap gushes, roaring over the cries inside my ears. This is her life now. She’s a journalist, she did that all by herself. She knew Andromeda might come up at some point, even if she didn’t want to admit it to herself. So she stacked shelves by night and ran paper by day, every week laying a new round of wallpaper, every crack filled diamond-tight. Marie’s the one who found herself a place where there’s always someone awake, working on something diverting, better still, something that might even move the needle one way or the other. She found somewhere where there are always other pots about to boil over. She did that. Marie did that.

I release the paper in my fist as I wipe my mouth. And then it hits me, as I smooth out the fax, all crinkled and stained, on the counter top next to the sink. It’s been there all the time. I just didn’t see it, or didn’t compute it. There, along the bottom, is 250Jemima Jonas, Nine News – signature loopy and curly with Ms and Js.

She’s found me, I think, her name warping and blurring into a helix as a tear rolls off my nose. I think somehow I always knew she would, when I was ready. I don’t even notice the brand-new mobile phone suddenly buzzing like a demented fly caught in my pocket.

251

Marie ~ London ~ 2006

I curse under my breath as we pull up by St James’s Park. Dominic murmurs back at me.

‘Tourists,’ I mutter, eyes running over the meandering crowds. ‘Damn the unseasonable fucking weather.’

‘Don’t think about it,’ he replies as we get out of the cab, door slamming on the jangle of change in the tray. ‘Look straight past them. Just focus on making your meeting. If you feel the phone vibrate once you’re together, then that’s your cue. It’ll be the only call you get.’

‘How can you possibly be sure of that? Jemima hasn’t stopped calling since—’

‘Since when? Not since we got into that cab she hasn’t.’

The gate clangs as we slip into the park. I force myself to move ahead without a backward glance, one last check on the phone recording in my top pocket. We’ve run down the clock. The time left is for doing, not thinking. The lake shimmers in the distance, soaking in after-the-rain sun as I quickstep my way to the fountain, runners, idlers, travellers weaving like sprites in and out of my peripheral vision. Round the lake, fountain spray needle-sharp, fallen leaves like glass breaking under my feet. And then…