She dusted and vacuumed her apartment then cleaned her windows, leaning out high above the New Steine and breathing in briny air that rang with the gulls’ peevish cries. The waves were deep blue and she was watching their white tips blowing towards shore when her phone rang. She drew her head back indoors on a buzz of excitement, hoping for Piero. It was only Brendon. ‘Bleurgh,’ she said aloud. She had to remind herself that, now Ursula was back with Stephan, it would be awkward if she and Brendon couldn’t at least be polite to one another. Then she answered the call.

‘So, how’d it go?’ he asked expectantly.

She wrinkled a puzzled brow. ‘The interview isn’t until tomorrow.’

He laughed. ‘I meant meeting your mum’s old buddy yesterday. Was he able to tell you all you wanted to know?’

Slowly, she said, ‘I don’t remember discussing yesterday with you.’

A hesitation, before he breezed, ‘On Friday you said that’s what you were here for.’

‘No, I didn’t. But I did tell Stephan,’ she added pointedly.

His tone became wounded. ‘Look, no need to be snitty. I’m being friendly. I know it was important to you and hope it went well.’

Zia snapped the window closed, shutting out the whistling breeze. ‘I wasn’t snitty.’ She wasn’t friendly, either, and she didn’t tell him whether her visit had gone well.

Brendon changed tack. ‘Are you excited about tomorrow? It sounds like a great job to me. I told Elise—’

Zia stopped listening, a chill slithering into her stomach. Brendon’s chummy chattiness felt manipulative, as if acting as though they were close would automatically make it so. She cut in. ‘Brendon, we’re not in each other’s lives now. I’m surprised you expect me to share things with you.’

He seemed taken aback. ‘But I got you that job!’ he protested.

‘You can’t have, because I don’t have the job,’ she pointed out. ‘I have an interview. Elise just asked you to pass her number on.’

‘I didn’t have to do it.’ He sounded like a peeved child who expected a gold star on his chart because he’d made a parent a meal. ‘You’d be able to continue to live in Brighton. You love it here.’

It was only the obvious unhappiness underlying his bluster that allowed Zia to maintain even a cursory level of courtesy. ‘Thank you for doing so. Yes, Brighton’s a great place. I’d better go, Brendon.’ She said goodbye.

An hour later, Ursula called. By then Zia was striding along Madeira Drive between the touristy part of Brighton and the marina, passing the faded grandeur of the nineteenth century Madeira lift that once gave halfpenny rides up to Marina Parade, enjoying the dilapidation of Madeira Terrace Arches and ignoring beer-fuelled shouts from a group of men.