Rachel walked to the cupboard where the nurses always put her bag. ‘Here it is, Mum.’

‘She wanted to go shopping,’ Rachel explained to Dad and Tully. ‘And she was upset because she couldn’t find her handbag.’

‘At least she was planning to take it with her this time,’ Dad said to Heather. ‘A few months back, she wandered away from me at Westfield and I got a call from security saying she’d tried to walk out of Kmart with a full trolley. Then, a few weeks ago, I found a bunch of stuff in the back of her closet. Random stuff. A Nintendo Switch, some candles, a screwdriver. A hot-water bottle. Most still with tags on. Which reminds me, I still haven’t returned any of it. I’ve been driving around with stolen goods in the back of my car for months.’

‘I’ll return it for you, Dad,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m at Westfield every other day. Now, have we ordered?’ She waved madly at the waiter. ‘I’m happy to do the honours!’

Happy was an understatement. Rachel got terrible anxiety whenever she wasn’t in control of the catering – particularly when she was with Dad, who always wanted to start with a drink, then maybe some bread and dip or an appetiser. But Rachel couldn’t relax until she knew her main course was in the oven. Rachel’s family laughed about it, considered it a quirk of hers, a trademark of being a foodie. Usually Rachel considered it in the same light. Only occasionally did she hear a little voice at the back of her head that told her there was a bit more to it than that. That her foodie persona was nothing more than a glorified distraction from the one thing she didn’t want to think about, dwell on, obsess about.

The waiter appeared – a handsome, charming Italian man full of compliments for Rachel, including a quite risqué one about wanting her in his bedroom (Rachel had excelled at Italian at school). She ignored the compliments, got a quick rundown of the specials, and ordered for the table in a matter of minutes. Then, in consultation with the others, she ordered a bottle of pinot gris. She was relieved to see that Tully was drinking. Tully had been known to go on some strange diets or, heaven forbid, detoxes from time to time, which was always a bummer because, surprisingly, Tully and alcohol went together very nicely. It relaxed her, slowing her brain to a more normal pace. In fact, some of Rachel’s favourite times with Tully had been when her sister was flat-out drunk.

‘So, what did I miss?’ Rachel asked.

‘Heather was telling me a bit about herself,’ Tully said. ‘She enjoys gardening and yoga.’

‘Is that right?’ Rachel said. She hoped her pleasant tone would compensate for Tully’s sarcastic one. ‘Anything else? Have you told us about your family?’

Heather shook her head, sweeping her hair behind her ear. Her hand, Rachel noticed, was shaking slightly. ‘No family, really. I’m an only child, and my parents died in a car accident ten years ago.’