They were quiet for a moment. Then Diane asked, “Would you like to work again? I mean, you were fabulously successful before Zach. Did you not want to go back? I’ve always wondered. Or was it Derek’s choice?”

Faye felt herself redden and was glad it was twilight. “I was going to. The original plan was that I would. Once Zach started school. But then so much time had passed and things had changed, I didn’t feel I’d be up to it. Derek and I—”

“That’s nonsense,” said Diane, stopping and turning to face her. “I’ve seen you in action at home for years and here, over the past few weeks. You have tons to offer. Your organisational and delegating skills are off the charts and you’re super diplomatic, which gets everyone behind you. Pfft! ‘Not up to it’, my arse.”

Faye tittered, not sure what to say.

“I’ll leave it at that,” continued Diane, picking up on Faye’s discomfit. “It’s just that if you wanted to get out and go back to work, you should. I mean, I know he’s your spouse and we like to keep the peace, but don’t let Derek stop you from looking for a job if you want to work. It’s hardly as if you’d inconvenience him. It’s your life. And you certainly shouldn’t doubt your competency.”

“Who would employ someone who has been out of the loop for as long as I have?”

“You might be surprised,” said Diane, waving as she headed to her car.

Derek was watching television when Faye arrived home. She made tea and, handing him a cup, said, “Diane thinks I’d make a good project manager.”

“Why on earth would she think that?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

She never again mentioned her conversation with Diane or the idea of working.

Six

Six

Clare woke to the sound of rain clattering on the corrugated iron roof, the noise amplified by the cabin’s lack of a ceiling. Her chemically induced sleep had been dense and dreamless. She was disorientated until the smooth sensation of the sleeping bag against her neck towed her back to the place and time.

Buffeted by the wind, the door swung to and fro as it bumped one of seven canvas bags lined up in the flooded entrance. Clare got up, pulled the carriers, several of which were thoroughly soaked, into the room and closed the door. She pictured the unhappy faces of the hikers when they removed their wet clothing later, and wondered who among them had decided to leave the door open.

Although her head was thick with sleep and the aftermath of painkillers, and her mouth dry and fuzzy, Clare’s migraine and nausea were gone. She looked out of the window as she drank from her flask.