This was the city world of my life with Stephen, scrubbed stone walls (and someone to scrub them), smashed avocado on toasted ciabatta with coffee at any one of a hundred cafes, theatre subscriptions and instantly arriving Ubers. None of those things had really made me happy. And although back then, I hadn’t needed to deal instead with bushfires, arrest warrants, Sadie Riley – or with my son being vilified – Stephen hadn’t made me happy. He hadn’t made his own mother happy. Claire had left the Wharton house to Caleb because she knew Stephen would simply sell it and his family history be lost in the general hoard of undifferentiated wealth that was what he really valued.

I took the grey-lined lift to his commercial law practice. The door slid open to reveal a grey reception desk and a reassuringly large grey painting. It had all the artistic merit that a Melbourne company with a fledgling office in London could afford.

The receptionist was a brightly blond young man in his midtwenties, dressed as an intimidatingly up-to-date fashion statement. To his right was a picture window framed to imply that Melbourne, as much as the large grey painting, had been designed specifically to enhance the law firm’s prestige. He lifted the corners of silicon-puffed lips as I approached. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m here to see Stephen Wharton.’

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘He won’t be surprised.’

The receptionist looked doubtful. ‘Whom shall I say is here?’

I touched my head. How long since I last visited a hairdresser? And leaned over the desk, conscious of narrowing my eyes. This young man would know Ivy – perhaps well.

‘Mrs Wharton,’ I said, pointedly.

The receptionist lifted his phone receiver and pressed in a few numbers.

‘Stephen, there’s a Mrs Wharton here asking to see you.’ He raised one eyebrow into a little, nasty point. ‘Not Ivy. Maybe it’s your mother.’

Great.

Stephen guided me to the dark leather sofa beneath a picture window in his office. Outside, silenced by safety glass, protesters milled, waving placards demanding that the government acknowledge reasons for the disaster and that the Prime Minister resign. Stephen sat, oblivious. Perhaps this was where he normally sat with vexed or troublesome clients. ‘I know you’re angry about Ivy locking him out,’ he said. ‘She was frightened. It won’t happen again.’

I remained standing. ‘That’s not why I came.’

‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘Come on, Phoebe, sit. Did Caleb calm down at all?’

‘He’s upset…’ I began. ‘Confused.’

‘I’m doing what I can,’ he said. ‘I have to be careful. I’m not bringing in a lot of business right now. The partners are reasonably patient.’

‘You need to convince him to fight this charge.’

‘I can’t defend him.’

I felt my eyes widen.