Growing up, Heather had lived in a single-storey orange-brick home on a housing estate that had cows and sheep on one side and an electrical substation on the other. Her clothes came from op shops or Best & Less or from the daughter of Mum’s friend who was a couple of years older and favoured dark, ripped clothing or skin-tight miniskirts. Her friends lived in similar homes and had similar clothes. While other kids were learning to ride a bike, Heather was learning to bring her father a beer. While other kids were learning phone manners, Heather was learning to answer the phone and the door with the words: ‘Daddy is at work.’ While other kids were having their first alcoholic drink, Heather was already switching from wine and beer to something stronger.

Heather always knew she would leave. It was a feeling she had even before she knew anywhere else existed. And leave she did: when she turned eighteen, she moved to the centre of Melbourne and rented an apartment with her friend Chantel. They both got jobs at fancy restaurants in Southbank – restaurants attended by men who left her large tips but didn’t try to feel her up and women who asked her where the bathroom was with a motherly hand on her forearm. Chantel wasn’t as enchanted by it as Heather had been, and she returned home after a few months. Heather stayed and enrolled in an interior decorating course and that was where she met Lily.

Lily had the kind of family that Heather thought only existed in movies. Her father was some kind of businessman, her mother was a stay-at-home mum. She had two older sisters, Lucinda and Annaliese, who were impossibly beautiful and sophisticated, even while lying around the house reading magazines. Lily was always insisting that Heather come for dinner, and even if they showed up unannounced, there was always food in the fridge and faces that were delighted to see them. Lily’s parents offered them wine at dinner and they sat at the vast table – it could seat twelve easily – with matching dinner plates and a water jug and a salad. Afterwards, everyone except Lily’s dad rose in unison and argued over who would clear the plates.

After a few months, Lily’s mother said she would like to meet Heather’s parents. ‘We should have them for dinner,’ she announced brightly.

Heather tried to imagine it. As she did, she felt a twinge of shame.

‘My parents are dead,’ she said for the first time.

That Christmas, Heather was invited to spend the holidays with Lily’s family at their beach house. Her own parents, who celebrated Christmas by buying some slightly more expensive beer, were unbothered by her absence. Christmas at Lily’s was like nothing she’d ever experienced. The house, perched on a cliff top, was straight out of a travel brochure: sandstone with shutters, rolling lawns and its very own jetty on the beach below. On Christmas Day, Heather awoke to gifts for her under the tree – beautiful gifts. A pair of silk pyjamas. A bottle of perfume. A thick plush beach towel. As she opened them, Heather began to cry. Everyone mistook her tears as a sign she was missing her parents, and Heather allowed Lily’s mother to hold her as she cried.