About the book

A couple moves to Far North Queensland looking for a fresh start, but can they escape their past? A page-turning domestic thriller for fans of Sally Hepworth and Liane Moriarty.

On a cold, dark night, two cars collide …

Inside the vehicle at fault, Jennifer Ashby survives with barely a scratch.

In the wreckage of the second, the occupants are not so lucky. Jennifer’s good character helps her avoid jail, but she is traumatised by the event.

Desperate for a change, and with her marriage buckling under the stress, she convinces her husband, Jon, to move to the beautiful but wild Daintree region, far away from family and friends.

As Jon spends long hours at work and Jennifer makes plans to absolve her lingering guilt, cracks begin to form in their idyllic new life. Will the shadow of their past continue to haunt them? Will their dark secret be exposed?

For the trailblazer, Daphne. And Jeannine,
for the introduction.

And Stuart, for making everything possible.

Chapter One

‘So, that’s everything?’

Marion nods towards the three large suitcases I’ve somehow managed to manoeuvre inside the boot of her tiny sports car. It’s impossible to read her expression behind her oversized sunglasses, but I sense, in the tightness of her voice and the thin line of her lips, her effort to mask her discomfort. We’ve been avoiding each other for almost a week now, my mother and I, the inevitable arrival of this day wielding an uncomfortable tension between us. We stand, a little too far apart, in the pale morning light.

‘Yep, that’s it.’ My voice is light, but my palms are clammy. I rub them hard, back and forth across the worn denim of my jeans. Such an awful word. Clammy. I rub harder, but the moisture remains. ‘The removalist took everything else.’

Marion presses the car boot closed, then gazes along the driveway towards the house. Even though I promised myself I wouldn’t look back, my eyes skip across the lawn to the cool shade of the frangipani tree at the front veranda, its summer bloom all but forgotten with the arrival of autumn. Beyond its bare branches, the smooth lines of the house rise gently beneath the awakening sky, each angle and curve as familiar to me as my own body. My eyes linger on the three interlocked Js chiselled into the timber above the front door – a gift from Jon a few months after Jasper was born.

Jonathon.

Jennifer.

Jasper.

‘Our family’s complete now,’ he’d said, his arms circling my waist.

He was right, of course.

As the memory surfaces, my hand moves to the area of my jeans concealing the ugly track of scar tissue low down on my stomach. Jasper’s birth had been difficult. We were fortunate to be blessed with one healthy child. More fortunate than some.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I’d told Jon, allowing my body to mould into his.

His PJs, Jon calls us sometimes.

His two Perfect Js.

Jen and Jasper.

‘Jen? Are you listening?’

Marion’s lips are parted, her question left hanging. Her patience with me has begun to wear thin. I squint against the morning light that frames her stylishly attired silhouette.

‘Sorry?’

But my mother has already given up waiting for my reply and is now making her way across the lawn, her heels catching in the tight weave of closely cropped grass.

My frown deepens as I watch her struggle to extract the wooden legs of the large For Sale sign from their resting place deep in the soil.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

She replies between puffs of effort. ‘The house has sold. You don’t need this anymore. Besides, it’s going to ruin my photo.’

Discomfort flutters in my stomach. ‘What photo?’

The sign tumbles inelegantly to the ground and Marion smiles. ‘Jasper and me. In front of the house. Here, you can take it. I’ll go get him.’ She tries to hand me her phone, but I ignore it and catch hold of her arm instead. ‘Ow, Jen. That hurts.’ Marion pulls her arm free and gives it a rub.

‘We’re going to be late. Anyway, you already have a million photos of Jasper.’ I glance at the fallen sign lying in the centre of the otherwise immaculate lawn. My mind returns to the day, just six weeks ago, when our real estate agent, Ben, first hammered it in.

‘The market’s red hot,’ he’d said between hammer blows. ‘We’re going to absolutely smack that asking price out of the sky.’

‘Do we really need the sign?’ I’d asked him, ignoring Jon’s gentle prod. ‘Couldn’t you just market the property online? I don’t think I want a big sign in the front yard.’

At my words, Ben’s hammer dropped limply to his side. Jon did his best to take charge of the situation, placing an arm around Ben’s shoulders and steering him down the driveway towards the road, away from me. After a moment’s pause, I followed them, my bare feet silent on the concrete.

‘Look, sorry about that, mate,’ I overheard Jon apologising, his tone hushed. ‘My wife’s still getting over the accident. She’s a little … fragile.’

Curious, I edged closer.

Jon’s voice continued. ‘It’s been rough, you know, for all of us, but especially Jen. Since the court case, she’s had a lot of negative publicity. Online trolling, people driving past, gawking, that type of thing. I suspect she’s worried the sign might cause us more unwanted attention.’

‘Mate, of course,’ Ben replied, his tone respectful.

Ben already knew all about the accident. Everybody in the neighbourhood, the entire Northern Beaches peninsula, perhaps all of Sydney, knew about the accident. It was the kind of unspeakably tragic event most people didn’t quickly forget. Or forgive.

Ben cleared his throat. ‘Mate, I can’t sell a secret. You know where I’m coming from, yeah? A house for sale without a For Sale sign isn’t going to sell for anywhere near what we’re wanting. We need vendors frothing. We need to be in their faces.’ Jon sighed and Ben, sensing victory, wrapped up the conversation swiftly. ‘I’m sorry, but the sign needs to stay, okay? You’ll explain that to her? To, er … Jennifer?’

When Jon and Ben turned around to find me standing behind them, they exchanged that infuriating expression men make when they think – no, not think, believe – they know best.

As he spoke, Jon looked to Ben for approval. ‘I’m sorry, honey. Ben’s advice is that we need the sign.’

Ben nodded, a small smile playing on one corner of his mouth. The head of the hammer now rested in his hand. He tapped the cold metal against his palm a couple of beats before he spoke, his expression apologetic but his tone stubborn. ‘We’ll advertise online, of course, but I think, Jennifer, you’d be surprised at what an incredibly powerful sales tool a good old-fashioned For Sale sign can be.’

I looked to Jon for support, but he seemed preoccupied with the space just above my head. Frustrated, I returned my attention to Ben, fighting off a strong, sudden urge to march back up the driveway, pull the sign out of the lawn and smash it over his head.

Did that surprise you, Ben? I could ask him. Did it?

Instead, I’d delivered a tight smile and turned away.

As it turned out, Ben did find a buyer who made an offer at the very top of our price range almost immediately. Delighted, Jon and I accepted, then began the overwhelming task of sorting through our household, selling almost everything we owned online and packing up what little was left. Then, right in the middle of all the chaos, Greater Daintree Council rang to ask Jon to begin his new job a month early – some kind of political crisis had arisen, the mayor explained. Jon had left in a taxi that very afternoon, taking our German shepherd, Saskia, in her wire pet crate, leaving me to tie up the remaining loose ends of our life in Sydney. I marked off each day on my kitchen calendar with a bright red cross.

And now, Departure Day has arrived. Jasper and I are finally leaving the city I’ve always called home to make a fresh new life with Jon and Saskia two thousand kilometres away.

Around us, the sound of traffic grows louder as Sydney’s Northern Beaches wakes to the Easter long weekend. Somewhere nearby, a horn sounds, heightening my growing sense of urgency. I extract my mobile phone to check the time.

‘Relax, Jen, there’s still plenty of time to get to the airport,’ Marion says, lowering her sunglasses. ‘Honestly, do you always have to be so … so …’

‘Uptight? Angry?’ I fold my arms across my chest and lift my chin. ‘We’ve already had that little chat, remember?’

The memory of our recent conversation, the shameful truth of it, still stings.

An insistent voice from the car puts an end to the subject. We turn towards the sound, grateful for the interruption.

‘I’ll go,’ I say quickly.

As I tug open the front passenger door and lean inside, a waft of Marion’s familiar lilac scent rises from the plush recesses of the leather interior. From the back seat, Jasper’s eyes – cornflower blue, identical to his father’s – flash an accusation. For a moment, I’m distracted by a recurring but as yet unanswered question. Why is a cornflower, so blue, named after corn, so yellow? I promise myself I’ll search the internet for a suitable answer later, maybe even while I’m sitting at the airport. But I know I won’t. I’ll forget. And then the next time I notice the colour of Jasper’s eyes, or Jon’s, I’ll ask myself the same question.

I’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately, according to Marion. She gave me examples during our recent chat. Staying on top of the washing, remembering to eat lunch, feeding and exercising the dog. I know this last bit is probably true because Jon said he preferred to take Saskia with him, rather than leave her in Sydney with Jasper and me. Just to be safe, he said. Less hassle for me. Or something like that. It’s hard to remember, exactly. I miss Saskia, her loyalty and unconditional love.

‘When are we leaving, Mum?’ Jasper asks, clicking his seatbelt free. ‘This is boring. I’m hungry.’

I lean over and re-clip his belt, pulling firmly on the strap to tighten him in.

‘We’ll leave in a minute,’ I tell him. ‘Maz and I are just finishing up.’

Jasper’s pudgy hand returns to his seatbelt and his voice rises to an off-key whine. ‘I just want to go up in the plane.’

‘We all do, mate,’ I say, brushing his fringe from his eyes. When I withdraw my hand, he shakes his hair back across his forehead. My smile disappears.

Sighing loudly, I retrieve my handbag from the floor of the car and dig through its contents, my hand sifting through an assortment of objects – cold, sharp, crinkly, soft. For a long moment, I forget what I’m searching for, but this unsettling fact doesn’t slow the manic pace of my foraging. Eventually my fingers land on an opened packet of cocoa and raspberry energy balls, its top twisted tight with an old hair elastic. Long brown hairs remain caught in its grip.

I shake the packet in Jasper’s direction. ‘Here, mate, have a snack while you’re waiting.’

Jasper shoots me a wary expression, but reaches forward. He misjudges the angle of the packet and the sticky balls slip through his fingers and onto his freshly washed shorts. I lurch across the seat to retrieve them, but Jasper blocks my hand with surprising strength for an almost five-year-old.

‘I’ll get them,’ he protests.

My jaw tightens. ‘Just let me do it. They’re going to melt everywhere.’

I spot a couple of balls, but then Jasper thrusts his body to one side and I lose sight of them again as they become wedged more deeply between the cracks in his car seat.

My voice explodes. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jasper!’ Grabbing his arm, I unclip his seatbelt and yank him out of his car seat.

Jasper howls in protest and Marion appears, her sunglasses pushed up high on her head so there can be no hiding her frown of disapproval. ‘What’s going on?’

Jasper crawls across the back seat towards the open door and buries his face in Marion’s legs. She smooths his hair in a protective gesture.

Hot tears spring from my eyes, blurring Marion’s face. I show her the two sticky balls, almost dropping them again through the tremble of my fingers. ‘This. He did this.’

Marion shakes her head. ‘Honestly, Jen.’

She’s about to say something else, but I scramble out of the stuffy car and gulp in the cool air outside.

Marion approaches me as I lean against the bonnet. My eyes have dried and I’m feeling moderately ashamed of my behaviour. She touches my arm and I shiver, pulling the worn fabric of my summer cardigan around me more tightly.

‘Jen, look at me,’ she pleads, her voice soft. Reluctantly, I turn to face her. ‘You’ve always been a wonderful mother. Patient. Fun. Kind. Try to remember that.’ She exhales loudly and fixes me with a long stare.

I’m vaguely aware I should try to offer Marion some kind of explanation, but the day already feels old and I can’t be bothered. My fingers find a loose thread hanging from the hem of my cardigan and I yank it free. When I look up, I realise, with a start, that Marion’s shoulders have begun to shake. She’s turned away from me, her face buried in her hands. I go to place an arm around her, but she shrugs it away. When was the last time I saw Marion cry? I watch her dig around in her leather handbag and extract a tissue. My gaze drops to my feet. Two black ants chase each other up and down the short spikes of grass, then disappear inside a crack on the concrete driveway. I wish I could follow them inside the dark crevice.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, wondering if I mean it.

Marion wipes her eyes. ‘No, I’m sorry. I still can’t get my head around the fact you’re leaving. I guess I’ve been secretly hoping something would happen to make you change your mind.’

‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ My words sound cold and hollow, like a dead tree fallen in the snow. Glancing around the front yard, I brush my hands together. ‘No time for a photo, and Jasper’s in no mood. I’ll just get rid of that For Sale sign and then we really should get going.’ I scurry across the lawn.

Using both hands, I toss the real estate sign out of sight beneath the veranda and make my way back to the car, grateful to see Marion has given up on the naff idea of a photo and is now seated behind the steering wheel.

I take a deep breath. I’ve been able to find plenty of excuses to avoid getting back in a car since the accident, but there’s no avoiding it today. Marion insisted on driving us.

As I slide into the passenger seat, I take one long last look at the house and feel my fingers move to the familiar shape of the JJJ pendant around my neck, identical in design to the wooden engraving above the front door.

Marion eases the car down the driveway before turning left onto Whale Beach Road towards the city and, beyond it, Sydney Airport.

As the car glides forward, two white crosses rise from the thick scrub on my left. The taller of the two has begun to tilt to the left, away from the smaller one, as if in abandonment. The dirt in the reserve is like concrete, hardened by the sun and littered with nuggets of coastal rock the same colour as the nearby cliffs – the kind of unyielding, crumbly dirt that doesn’t take kindly to intrusion.

I drop the pendant and press the palm of my hand against the cold window glass in a silent farewell.

Chapter Two

‘Jesus!’ I exclaim. ‘Can you slow down, please?’

My hands, clammy earlier, are now slippery with perspiration. My stomach lurches as I squeeze my eyes closed and clutch for something firm to hold on to, finding little comfort in the door handle. In her panic, Marion presses too hard on the brake and my head jerks forward.

‘Shit, sorry, Jen. I just wanted to get past—’

I gesture for her to pull over. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

Beads of sweat prick my hairline and I swallow hard, but my saliva runs thin and quickly fills my mouth. With the rise of bile, carefully suppressed memories surface – the deafening crunch of metal, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the surprising darkness of the blood. Jon’s words: Holy fuck, Jen. What have you done?’

Marion finds a place to pull over and brings the car to an abrupt halt. I fling open the car door, lean out and vomit into the gutter.

‘Mummy.’

Jasper’s voice fills me with guilt. ‘I’m okay, mate, promise.’

When I’m done, Marion hands me a tissue. ‘You’re as white as a ghost.’

She unscrews the lid of her water bottle and hands it to me. I drink slowly, flushing the acidic after-taste, then wipe a tissue across my brow, bringing away a grubby smear of too-dark foundation. The minute hand on the vintage dashboard clock triggers a movement – 8.45 am. I nod in its direction.

‘It’s okay, I’m fine now, thanks. Let’s keep going.’

Marion looks at me doubtfully.

‘Let’s go,’ I repeat, more emphatic.

‘I’ll drive more slowly.’

By the time my stomach settles, we’re on the freeway approaching the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Below us, white-tailed boats skirt across the sparkling water. To the left, the arcs of the Opera House rise like a voluptuous conch shell. I close my eyes against the scene’s cheery brightness, wondering how much of me died, too, the night of the accident.

‘Have you thought about when you might start to drive again?’ Marion asks suddenly. Somewhere nearby, a car horn blares. My body tenses in response. A louder horn, closer, hoots in return and I look up in time to see a truckie flipping the driver in front of him the bird, his middle finger stiff as it jabs the sky.

I shake my head.

‘You must have your driver’s licence back by now?’ Marion’s tone is determinedly bright, as if we’re talking about a new haircut, or holiday plans, or Jasper’s performance at the Christmas pageant.

I nod my reply.

‘I don’t imagine there’s much in the way of public transport in Far North Queensland.’

I feel a scream begin to build inside the suffocating confines of the car’s too-small interior. I focus on breathing until the urge passes, visualising Marion’s words as nothing more than patterns, simple geometric shapes devoid of meaning. I begin to enjoy the feeling of emptiness and space they create as they loop haphazardly inside the darkness of my mind.

Marion reaches across and squeezes my hand. Her skin feels warm and dry, the same as always.

She speaks so softly I barely hear her words. ‘It’s just time, Jen. You just need time.’

The airport heaves with holiday-makers, their faces ghoulish beneath the fluorescent lighting. I steady my feet against the dizzying snatches of conversation, the rising pitch of half-sentences that build into laughter, then fall away. I push the luggage trolley, loaded up with our bags, towards the check-in kiosks, manoeuvring around a young couple locked in an embrace, oblivious to the chaos around them. They cling to each other before the woman pulls away, excitement in her eyes. Her unbridled happiness heightens my anticipation to be reunited with Jon, reassuring me that some small part of me must still be alive.

‘Mum, come on.’

I absently tousle Jasper’s hair as we navigate the long line through security, then follow the signs to the far-flung section of the airport reserved for regional destinations, Cairns included. We find a cafe close to boarding gate 13 and settle in to wait. Marion heads towards the counter to order, then returns a short while later with coffees and a milkshake balanced on a brown plastic tray.

I eye the milkshake warily. ‘Milk mightn’t be such a good idea before we fly.’

But Jasper has already swooped on his treat and is guiding the straw into his mouth. Marion busies herself setting him up with his iPad and headphones. Watching her fuss, a familiar pang of jealousy reminds me that it took the arrival of a grandson in her mid-fifties for Marion’s maternal instinct to finally kick in. Sensing my gaze, Marion looks up and smiles, dissolving my jealousy. Whatever Marion may have lacked as a mother, she’s more than made up for as a grandmother.

I summon a smile. ‘Jasper’s going to miss you.’

Marion blows hot steam from her coffee, her red lipstick accentuating the fine lines that have begun to appear around her lips. As she places her cup back onto its saucer, I notice her hands tremble. My intuition flares.

What now?

‘I have a confession,’ she says quietly, her eyes not quite meeting mine. She abandons her cup and twists her hands into a knot. I think of the hundreds of women who’ve taken comfort in those strong, capable hands as she’s helped guide them through the treacherous passage of divorce.

‘What kind of confession?’

Marion takes a deep breath. ‘I bought your house.’

Steaming coffee burns the tip of my tongue. I set my cup down too hard, brown liquid splashing into the saucer. ‘What do you mean?’ Marion bites her bottom lip and has the decency to look sheepish, all too aware this announcement will not be welcome news. My brand-new life two thousand kilometres away begins to dart and weave just beyond my reach. ‘Why?’ I hear myself ask.

Already my mind is sifting back through the slightly peculiar and mysterious circumstances of the sale of our house: the inflated offer that came barely twenty-four hours after we listed the house with Ben; the mystery buyer who insisted their identity remain undisclosed throughout the settlement; the redacted vendor details on the contract.

Scarlet splotches appear on Marion’s neck, staining her normally flawless olive complexion. ‘I couldn’t tell you because you’d never have let me, so I did it …’

‘Secretly.’

‘Discreetly. Sydney is your home, Jen. I want you to know you still have the option to move back.’

I struggle to keep my voice low. ‘My choice is to leave. Why can’t you accept this is what Jon and I want?’

Behind Marion, a coffee machine emits a loud hiss of steam.

‘Fuck!’ the barista swears, swaddling his hand in a dishcloth.

Marion and I both rise from our chairs and offer to help, but he waves us away with a pained smile. As another man brings him some ice and as we return to our seats, a conciliatory mood overwhelms me.

‘Maz, look, I understand why you did it. We’re going to miss you as much as you’re going to miss us.’

Marion chews her lip, allowing me to continue.

‘You need to accept it was me who wanted to leave Sydney, not Jon. He’s making a huge sacrifice, giving up his career, his salary, moving away from a city he now calls home. He’s doing all of this because he loves me and he loves Jasper. He wants me to get better. He understands this is what I need. So I can try to forget … everything. Move on.’

Marion’s face suddenly looks older than her sixty years. This unexpected reminder of her age, her mortality, unnerves me. As if sensing my discomfort, she smiles with reassuring vitality.

‘I’m glad for you,’ she says. ‘Both of you. I really am. But please remember the house is here for you. Just in case one or both of you goes troppo up there in Far North Queensland.’

I attempt a glib reply, but my delivery falls flat. ‘Well, I’m already feeling a bit unhinged, so maybe the tropics will have the opposite effect on me.’

Neither of us smile.

The final boarding call for flight QF723 sounds, and the wooden legs of our chairs scrape noisily across the tiles as we stand up.

Marion wraps her arms around me. ‘I’ll visit soon,’ she whispers, squeezing me so tight I feel her ribs press against mine. When she pulls away, both our cheeks are wet.

‘Let’s go,’ I say to Jasper, reaching for his iPad. ‘We’ve got a plane to catch.’

As we stand in the slow-moving queue outside the door to the aircraft, Jasper’s small hand seeks out mine. Cornflower eyes gaze intently up at me.

‘What if the plane crashes, Mummy?’

What if?

What if I’d made different choices the night of the accident?

What is it about the human condition that compels us to look back? To wallow in futile contemplations of alternative actions with different – better – consequences. Why do we get stuck in thoughts we know are useless? Destructive? No amount of regret, despair or self-loathing can change the past.

What if I hadn’t felt so tantalisingly alive the night of Marion’s sixtieth birthday party?

What if I hadn’t got talking to Thomas Morgan?

What if Jon and I hadn’t fought?

I switch off the chatter in my head and bend to whisper into Jasper’s ear. ‘The plane’s not going to crash, sweetheart.’ I squeeze his hand and we shuffle forward in the queue.

Every guest at Marion’s sixtieth birthday party would agree it was a night to remember. The occasion had been, at her insistence, an extravagant, no-expenses-spared black-tie affair held on the rooftop terrace of her Bilgola house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The ghostly sliver of a new moon cast little light, leaving the sea to murmur in the dark beyond the bright glow of party lanterns. Sea mist rose from the cliffs beneath the terrace, infusing the aromas – cigar smoke, perfume, candle wax, garlic – with its salty sweetness.

As the jazz band played, waiters in suits circulated with trays of finger food and champagne-fuelled laughter spilled from group to group. The party had found its tempo early, the unexpected warmth in the air creating a carefree, summer vibe as the guests shrugged off their jackets and began to move with the beat of the band, slowly at first but with growing gusto. I’d felt no inkling, no sense of foreboding, as to what the night had in store.

Quite the opposite. I’d felt amazing that night, charged with a youthfulness that reminded me of girls’ nights out in the city, filled with a reckless confidence that anything was possible. Earlier in the day, after I’d spent the morning helping Marion with the caterers, musicians and party planners, I’d spent more time than usual sifting through the recesses of my wardrobe for something special to wear. It had been so long since I’d gotten dressed up for an occasion that I could no longer remember my pre-baby wardrobe. But then I’d unzipped an old dry-cleaning bag and found the perfect outfit – a strapless full-length body-hugging satin dress I’d bought in the city the week after I met Jon because it was exactly the same shade of blue as Jon’s eyes. I hadn’t worn it since our engagement party.

‘Wow, look at you.’ Marion’s face had lit up as I’d entered her kitchen, Jon trailing behind. ‘You look sensational.’ Jon, overhearing, cleared his throat and gestured towards himself, his expression mock-offended. Marion turned to hug him, laughing as she lightly punched his arm. ‘You look very handsome too, Jon, as always. I’m just not used to seeing Jen dressed up.’

‘You look beautiful too, Maz,’ I’d told her. And it was true. Perhaps it was her posture, or her energy, or her disciplined approach to fitness, but age seemed irrelevant to Marion. She never shied away from sharing how old she was, not even with strangers. When I once asked her about it, her answer had been poignant. ‘Why would I care about ageing? Living long enough to grow old is a privilege.’

From her tone, I knew to leave the subject alone. She very rarely mentioned my father, an adventurous backpacker from Italy she’d met at the age of nineteen. They’d planned to marry after Marion finished her law degree, but before Marion was able to join him back home in Lake Como, he drowned in a boating accident. He was only twenty-two. Shortly afterwards, Marion discovered she was pregnant with me. There had never been anyone else in her life. On my own nineteenth birthday, I finally summoned the courage to ask her about it. She made an excuse about not having time for a relationship, but I instantly understood from the flash of grief in her eyes that she was still deeply in love with my father.

As the years marched on, Marion fell into the habit of throwing a major celebration for each of her milestone birthdays. I could remember all of them – her thirtieth, her fortieth and her fiftieth. All of her parties had been attended by Marion’s vast and ever-growing network of friends and colleagues from the legal profession, most of whom were more like close family friends to Marion and me. With each passing decade, Marion’s law firm grew both in size and reputation. By the time her sixtieth birthday party rolled around, the list of invitees had grown close to 250. Many of them were well-known judges, barristers and lawyers. But also in attendance was the next generation of legal eagles, among them some of Australia’s brightest and most ambitious legal minds. Some of these had been recruited by Marion’s law firm, M Carmody & Partners, but the legal profession was a tight-knit community and for the night of the party, company boundaries didn’t count. Everyone was there to celebrate Marion Carmody.

The party had only just started to get going when, at around 8 pm, the evening took a turn I wasn’t expecting.

Even though Thomas’s back had been turned to me, I instantly recognised the outline of his broad shoulders. He was standing to one side of the band’s small stage, partly in shadow, deep in conversation with one of Marion’s senior partners. Instinctively, my eyes darted through the crowd in search of Jon, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Clutching my champagne flute, I went looking for Marion. Making an excuse, I steered her away from the group of people she was talking to until we found ourselves in a quiet part of the terrace, near the fountain.

I took a deep breath to steady my voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Thomas Morgan would be here?’

Jasper’s small hand tugging at mine returns me to the plane.

‘Mum, let’s go.’

I show the flight attendant our boarding passes and steer Jasper towards our seats. While I’m pushing our bags into the overhead locker, I steal a few glances at our fellow passengers – the people who will die alongside us if the plane does, in fact, crash. Around half of them are dressed resort-style, ready for a holiday in the tropics. The other half, I decide, are most likely locals returning home. They’re casually attired, singlets and thongs, along with a colourful array of tattoos, dreadlocks, piercings and tanned biceps. I pull my cardigan around my waist and clip Jasper and myself into our seats. Next, I send Jon a text.

On board! Not long now. JJ xx

Ten minutes later, the plane has taxied to the end of the runway and is readying for take-off. I check my messages and frown. Still no reply from Jon. I switch on flight mode and slip the phone into the seat pocket in front of me, then change my mind and put it inside my handbag. As the nose of the plane lifts into the sky, I pull out my phone again, switch off flight mode and check my messages one last time. The flight attendant frowns at me from her seat outside the cockpit, but I’m desperate to read Jon’s message.

OK, safe flight my PJs. Love you. xxxxxx

I quickly return a red love-heart emoji then retrieve the tourism magazine from the seat pocket, my eyes drawn to the cover photograph of a young woman dressed in gold sequins twirling a fire-stick. Behind her, a crowd smiles and claps.

I scan the headline. Port Douglas Carnivale.

Carnivale, the article explains, is a ten-day celebration of life in the tropics that marks the official start of Far North Queensland’s tourism season. The article shows more photos – a sandcastle competition, outdoor dining at night in a rainforest, a musician on stage, an art gallery, a street parade, yachts gliding across a blue harbour. I skim the article, making a mental note of the website so I can buy tickets. As I rest the magazine on my lap, the name of the writer catches my eye.

Blythe Drovandi, Editor, Port Douglas Guardian.

I immediately straighten in my seat. Is this the same Blythe Drovandi I went to university with twenty years ago? I have a vague recollection that she had moved to Sydney from Queensland. Blythe – with her unruly tumble of red hair, thin frame, wide green eyes and trademark baggy denim overalls and oversized boots – had been president of the student union, editor of the student newspaper and overall ‘go-to’ girl for anything serious that needed action on campus. She’d been highly ambitious. And intimidating as hell.

So what was she doing editing a newspaper in Far North Queensland?

Chapter Three

As Jasper watches a movie on his iPad, my memory returns to the day I met Jon. It was a Friday afternoon towards the end of a sultry February. He strolled into my photography studio on Broadway at around 5 pm, without a knock or an appointment, wearing a sharp suit and a warm smile. A gust of hot city wind arrived with him, sending a pile of papers flying from my desk. He’d immediately crossed the floor and crouched down to pick them up. As he stood, he offered me a lopsided grin.

‘Sorry about that. Not quite the entry I was planning.’

His accent was softly clipped. English. He radiated a purposeful, restless energy that made me sit up straighter in my office chair. Beneath his suit, his tall, tanned frame was slim yet athletic. His fair hair, cut short with a long-ish fringe, framed blazing blue eyes, angular cheekbones, a broad brow and a dimpled chin. He was, without question, the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

My scrutiny appeared to amuse him, for his smile widened as he took a step closer and extended a hand to introduce himself. As he did so, the studio light caught his eyes – an almost iridescent cornflower blue. I’d always been vaguely distrustful of men with blue eyes. To my photographer’s mind, there was something of an opaqueness to blue. The way the light reflected and bounced unsettled me. Terrestrial earth colours – hazel, brown, green or grey – felt more grounding, their gaze inviting an uncomplicated slipway into the soul. Jonathon’s eyes had me bouncing all over the place.

I scrambled to my feet, suddenly conscious of the way my new silk shirt clung to my breasts, and shook his hand – strong, as I knew it would be, his skin smooth.

He handed me a rose. Yellow. My favourite. How did he know? Taken aback, I laid it on my desk, unable to think of a single thing to say.

‘I’m Jon. Jonathon Ashby.’

I made a super-human effort to connect my brain to my mouth.

‘What can I do for you, Jonathon Ashby?’

Jonathon smiled again. I really wish he’d stop doing that.

‘I’m sorry for barging in like this. I work just up the road. I’ve noticed you coming and going to your studio. And I’ve seen you in Luigi’s Cafe in the mornings.’ He glanced towards the rose. ‘And at the florist. That’s how I knew you liked yellow. I’m sorry I didn’t buy you a whole bunch. They only had one left.’

He handed me a business card.

Jonathon Ashby

Advisor

Department of Planning & Infrastructure

Parliament of NSW

My face grew warm but I needn’t have felt self-conscious because Jonathon’s attention had shifted to the white envelope he was now extracting from the pocket of his shirt. He slid his finger along the seal and extracted a small black and white photograph.

‘My parents. Do you do restoration work? I’d like to have this made larger so I can frame it.’

I peered at the photograph. The couple appeared to be in their late thirties or early forties. Jon’s resemblance to his father was instantly recognisable. His mother, on the other hand, was small and dark, her eyes narrow, her waist petite. I handed the photograph back to him as I suppressed a growing sense of disappointment. This handsome stranger was here as a customer, nothing more.

‘Yes, I can enhance and enlarge this. What size is your frame?’

Jonathon hesitated before replying, ‘Silly me. I didn’t think to bring the frame with me. Do you have a card? I’ll phone you when I get home to let you know.’

I reached into my drawer and retrieved a business card, then gestured towards a chair.

‘Take a seat while I book your job in. Won’t take long.’

As he sat down, I caught the scent of his aftershave, an exotic, woody spice that made me think of tangled bedsheets. As I busied myself logging into my computer to open a new job sheet, I sensed him watching me.

After a minute or so, he cleared his throat. ‘So, did I get it right? Are yellow roses your favourite?’

I allowed myself a quick business-like smile in his direction from behind my computer screen. ‘Most women like roses. Yellow, red, white, whatever.’

He paused, then shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. When he next spoke, his voice was much lower. ‘I’m not interested in what most women like. I’m only interested in what you like.’

Nervous laughter escaped my throat before I could stop it. His directness was simultaneously shocking and magnetic, pulling me into his force field. ‘I like a lot of things.’

He smiled and the small dimple in his left cheek deepened. I found myself wondering what its dip would feel like beneath my touch.

‘You strike me as a woman with the world at your feet. You could have anything you wanted.’

My Friday afternoon fatigue was replaced by a pulse of energy. If I had been five years old, this would’ve been the moment I jumped off the back veranda, a bath towel knotted beneath my chin, ready to fly. Jon’s eyes locked on to mine and I felt no need to reply. He recrossed his legs, leaned forward in his chair, and clasped his hands beneath his chin as he studied me, his gaze hypnotic and strangely calming.

‘I was wondering if you might like to get a drink, or have dinner?’ He paused. ‘If you’re not already busy, that is?’

I nodded and mumbled something barely coherent about finishing his order. As I listened to the hum of the printer, Jon got to his feet and began to wander around the studio, examining the various pieces of photographic equipment. By the time I handed him his order, we were so deep in conversation we forgot all about our plans to head out to a bar or restaurant.

Instead, Jon showered me with questions about myself, my business, my family, where I’d travelled, where I’d studied. Without really thinking about it, I took a bottle of wine from my studio fridge and filled two glasses. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Jon made me feel like I was the most fascinating person in the world. He was a skilled conversationalist and my fragile artist’s ego blossomed beneath his interest and flattery. When the bottle of wine ran out, Jon offered to buy another. When he returned, it seemed only natural that I pull out a couple of oversized cushions so we could settle in more comfortably on the studio floor. When I kicked off my shoes, he laughed and did likewise. As he refilled our glasses, I adopted a stern tone. ‘Enough about me. I feel like I’ve hogged the limelight. Let’s talk about you.’

The first thing I discovered about Jonathon Ashby was that he didn’t like to talk about himself, which only served to further feed my curiosity about him. I tried to ask him about his job.

‘I’m just a boring finance guy.’

After some probing – and another glass of wine – I discovered his parents had emigrated from the UK to Western Australia when he was six, but they both died in a house fire when Jon was just thirteen. With no family in Australia, Jon had little choice but to live with a succession of foster families. Then, when his inheritance trust became available at eighteen, he left WA in search of a new life, eventually settling on an accounting degree at the University of Sydney.

‘You don’t look like an accountant.’

‘What do I look like?’

I burst out laughing. The wine was beginning to make me feel bold.

‘To be honest, you look a bit like Sting.’

Jon laughed loudly, as if I’d told the world’s greatest joke. ‘What, the singer Sting?’ He was clearly delighted by the comparison. ‘I used to play a little guitar growing up,’ he confessed.

‘Really?’

‘I like to play around writing songs.’

‘I can’t play any instrument,’ I confessed. ‘I’m tone deaf.’

Restless again, Jon jumped to his feet to examine the collection of framed portraits on the studio’s far wall. Included among them were photos of some of Australia’s most prominent actors, artists, business leaders and politicians.

‘So, you’re like, famous, huh?’

Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘No, no … not at all. But a lot of the people I photograph are. These are mostly prints from magazine shoots I’ve done. I’m just the person behind the camera. All I do is capture what I see.’

Jon drained his wine glass and turned to face me. ‘And how would you photograph me?’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he lay down a challenge. ‘Come on. Show me how good you are.’

So, feeling oddly nervous, I began to play around with taking Jon’s photo. He proved to be a willing subject, completely at ease in front of the camera as I adjusted lights and backdrops and suggested different poses. The camera loved his sharp features, smooth skin and penetrating eyes.

‘Okay, don’t smile,’ I told him. ‘I want to see your features just as they are, natural.’

I clicked for a minute or two in silence before he spoke again.

‘I feel as if you’re looking right inside me, like I’m laid bare and you know everything about me. Do you have that effect on all your clients?’

The hint of possessiveness in his voice excited me.

‘You’re not my client.’ I quickly corrected myself. ‘Not one I photograph, anyway.’

‘Well, what am I then?’

As Jon leaned in to kiss me, I rushed to meet him, our lips crushing together so hard it hurt. I desired nothing more in the world than to taste his mouth, smell his skin, feel his body against mine. Never before in my life had I experienced such a powerful rush of raw, sensual desire, but also a sense of destiny. Every instinct in my body was awakened by an all-powerful understanding that this was the man I was meant to be with. And that I would never, ever stop wanting him.

There was just one complication standing between me and everlasting happiness.

Thomas Morgan.

My boyfriend of two years.

Chapter Four

As the plane touches down on the tarmac, another text from Jon appears on my phone’s screen. I read it, my smile fading.

Sorry babe. Still at the office. Have transferred you $ for a taxi. Address is 1087 Daintree Road, Emerald Beach. Meet you there.

Jasper leans over to examine my phone, pawing me with excitement as he registers his father’s photo at the top of the screen. ‘Is that Dad? Is he here?’

‘He’s at work.’ I force a smile. ‘Which means we get to catch a taxi.’ My heart aches as his tiny features fold in disappointment. I give him a quick hug. ‘Daddy will be waiting for us at our new house. We’ll be there before you know it, okay?’ He gives a small nod as he pulls away. ‘Come on, this is our last little bit of adventure, just you and me. I tell you what, you can help me choose a taxi.’

At last, Jasper rewards me with a smile.

The parking attendant gives us a quick once-over and points towards the minivan at the front of the waiting queue of vehicles. Outside, the air is thick and humid. Although it’s only been a few minutes since we left the air-conditioning in the arrivals lounge, small rivulets of perspiration are already sliding down my skin. I pull a water bottle from my bag and press it to Jasper’s lips.

‘What do you think, buddy? Want to ride in a van?’

Jasper wipes the water from his mouth and hops up and down on one foot.

‘Yes! I love vans, Mum.’

As I wheel the luggage trolley towards the white minivan, a deeply tanned middle-aged man jumps down from the driver’s seat and rounds the vehicle to greet us. Behind his long white beard, a couple of teeth are missing. Mischief dances in his dark eyes.

‘Where you headed?’

‘Emerald Beach, up past Port Douglas, near the Daintree River. Do you know it?’

He grins broadly as he places our bags inside the van. ‘Like the back of my hand. Live up that way myself. After I drop you off, I might knock off for the rest of the day, I reckon.’

‘What’s your name?’ Jasper asks from the back seat as we pull away from the kerb.

The driver considers Jasper in the rear-view mirror. ‘You can call me Pickles, little fella.’

The van’s noisy air-conditioning system splutters to life. I try to focus my attention on the blast of icy air, rather than the hour and a half’s drive ahead of us. But after several minutes, I begin to relax. Unlike Marion, Pickles is a slow and careful driver who stays within the speed limit. Past the various shops and houses out the window, towering stalks of sugar cane ripple in unison against the coastal breeze. Beyond the cane fields, a heavily forested mountain range juts into the sky. My eyes linger on the wisps of white cloud nestled among the rocky peaks.

‘How come you’re called Pickles?’ Jasper asks.

Pickles smiles. ‘Well, you see, when I was about your age, I used to get myself in little pickles. You know, in a bit of trouble. So the headmaster – he was a bit of a smarty pants – he starts calling me Pickles and the name, well, it just stuck.’ He shakes his head and laughs. ‘Must be, what, fifty or more years ago now. I don’t get in too many pickles anymore.’

‘Is that how you lost your teeth? In a pickle?’

I flinch and turn to Jasper, my finger pressed against my lips. ‘Shh. What have I told you about asking personal questions?’

My skin prickles with irritation, but Pickles just laughs again, louder this time. ‘Don’t worry, the boy’s just curious.’ He eyes Jasper again in the rear-view mirror. ‘You brush your teeth, little fella?’

Jasper puffs out his chest. ‘Yup.’

‘You eat plenty of apples?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well, with any luck you won’t end up like me then.’

‘What kind of pickles did you get into, Pickles?’

I tune out to their banter and return my attention to the passing scenery. To the right towards the coastline, new housing estates leave no clue to the natural wilderness that preceded them. Like most of the sprawling estates developed in Sydney, the houses here are near-identical and built cheek to jowl, their gutters all but touching. I experience a rush of disappointment. They don’t put this in the brochures.

I wind down my window and close my eyes. The brush of breeze is gentle against my face and carries the smell of salt and drying sand. By the time I open my eyes again, the housing estates have disappeared, and the road is now following the curve of the coastline. The sea is restless, stirred up by an off-shore wind that whips the surface into white-tipped waves. Yellow and black signs warn swimmers – in English, Japanese and German – of the dangers of crocodiles and stingers in the ocean water. To the left, soaring sandstone cliffs bear signs warning motorists of falling rocks. Trickles of water seep through the rocky surface, creating a myriad of crystal-clear streams that flow down to the roadside, where they pool to form clear ponds.

Dotted along both sides of the road are towering coconut palms. In the breeze, their fronds sway back and forth as if in time to music. I wind down the car window a couple more inches and inhale until my lungs feel ready to burst. Around the next bend, the sun disappears behind a cloud, then makes a dazzling reappearance, sending me rummaging through my handbag for my sunglasses. This section of road is wet after a tropical shower and the sun glistens in a spectacular lightshow of shimmering reflections and golden waterdrops that make the world feel shiny and new.

The coastline’s rugged beauty triggers a yearning for one of my favourite cameras – the Fujifilm GFX100, and I realise it’s been a long time since I felt the urge to pick up one of my old favourites.

The van’s interior has grown quiet and Pickles steals a glance at me in the rear-view mirror, his expression expectant. Jasper’s small, warm body presses against me, his eyes now closed.

‘Sorry, I was a million miles away.’ I gesture towards the world outside the car. ‘I got lost out there. It’s stunning.’

‘You here on holidays?’

We hit a pothole and I bounce in my seat, the top of my ponytail brushing against the roof.

‘No,’ I reply, my knuckles whitening as I grip the door handle. ‘We’re moving here permanently, from Sydney. A change of lifestyle, I guess. Less stress and all that. My husband’s taken up a job with Greater Daintree Shire Council.’

Pickles nods and negotiates a hairpin bend in the road. ‘A lot of people moving up here these days,’ he says. ‘Lots of people from down south. Too many people, if you ask me. We’ll end up like bloody Cairns. Did you see the size of them housing estates?’ He lets out a long whistle.

‘Yes. Not my cup of tea.’

Pickles glances at me again, his expression curious. ‘What’s your old man’s job at Council?’

I almost laugh out loud at Pickles’ turn of phrase. Since turning fifty, Jon’s become endearingly sensitive about his age.

‘General Manager,’ I reply. ‘He started a month ago.’

Pickles shakes his head and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Council’s had a lot of troubles lately. We’ve had a gutful of it. Too much interference from the State Government. They’ve got too much power.’ He snorts loudly, but beneath his frustration, I detect something else in his voice. Fear.

‘You’re talking about the amalgamation between Greater Daintree Council and Cairns City Council?’ I ask.

It’s a subject I’m well aware of. The Queensland Government recently announced it was going to force a merger between the small Greater Daintree council and the larger Cairns council. The announcement was the main reason the mayor had asked Jon to bring forward his start date for his new role. She wanted him to start working on a strategy to fight back against the proposed merger as soon as possible, to give the community time to lobby before the new legislation went before the Queensland Parliament in just a few months’ time.

Pickles nods, his brow furrowed.

‘Jon said the Queensland Government’s planning to get rid of half the state’s councils, is that right?’ Pickles nods again, and I continue, choosing my words carefully. ‘The state wants to make councils bigger and more efficient. They seem to think the smaller councils have weak leadership and make poor decisions, especially around local planning.’

Pickles lets out another loud snort. ‘So they say.’

I decide I’ve probably said enough on the subject, but Pickles quickly picks up where I left off.

‘The efficiency argument is bullshit, excuse my language. They proved that already, with other mergers that happened in another state … Victoria, I think it was. The real reason the state wants the mergers is to give themselves more control, especially for development. The state’s greedy. They want more development, more investment. And they don’t care where it comes from. Foreign investors won’t give a shit about protecting the environment. They’ll come here to make a quick buck, then sell up and bugger off.’

Pickles thumps the steering wheel to emphasise his point.

I eye the road nervously and decide it’s probably time to change the subject, but Pickles isn’t done yet.

‘We don’t want to end up like Cairns – high-rise development, holiday apartments built all the way along the beach, chlorine in the town water supply. Cairns is a bloody city and we’re not. We like it that way. Simple.’ Pickles’ nostrils flare above a curled lip. ‘You know what that Cairns mayor is going to do after the merger? Build a bridge over the Daintree River. Get rid of the ferry and bring electricity into the rainforest. Can you believe it? That’ll be the end of it. Once it’s gone, it’s bloody gone.’

Ahead of us, the road opens up into a long, straight stretch. Pickles strums his fingers hard against the steering wheel then shoots me another fierce look.

‘Maybe your old man can help stop all this shit. Talk to the State Government. Tell them to back off.’

‘Perhaps he can.’ I try to sound as hopeful as I can, but right at this point I’m more concerned about Pickles keeping the van on the road than local politics.

Jasper shifts in his seat. ‘Are there crocodiles in the Daintree River?’

Thankfully, Pickles seizes upon this new subject, launching into a long and detailed account of Far North Queensland’s most fascinating and deadly reptile. Yes, he assures us, the Daintree River’s full of saltwater crocs, and their numbers are growing steadily, due to a long-term ban on crocodile culling. For this same reason, he explains, the crocs are also growing older and larger, with once-rare sightings of six-metre crocodiles now common in the coastal estuaries and beaches.

‘Predators, they are,’ he tells us. ‘You’ve gotta watch them because they’re watching you, trust me. Last year we lost Reg, a local fisherman. Bloody good bloke, too. The year before that, a tourist got taken. A young woman. German.’ Pickles shakes his head. ‘People think they’re smart, but the crocs are smarter. They’re watching.’

I feel myself shiver. ‘So it’s not safe to swim anywhere?’

Pickles shrugs. ‘Myself, I stay out of the water. But you’re pretty right if you swim inland. Mossman Gorge is safe. Anywhere away from the coast where the water is cooler. Some of those little creeks and waterholes are okay. Your new place got a pool?’

I nod gratefully.

‘Pool’s safest. Beach is dangerous. Daintree River is the worst. Don’t swim anywhere near Emerald Beach.’ He eyes Jasper, his expression serious. ‘You got that, young fella?’

We pass a tree-lined turn-off to Port Douglas, before arriving a short time later at the sugar-cane farming town of Mossman. Despite a permanent population of less than a couple of thousand people, Mossman is the Greater Daintree Council’s main service centre.

‘There’s the council buildings there,’ Pickles says, pointing to a small, neat cluster of brick buildings shrouded by a number of large trees to our right.

The township of Mossman has a quaint, old-fashioned feel about it, with wide streets, lush green parks and cafes with sagging gutters. The only sign of life seems to be the lazy billow of smoke from the sugar-cane processing mill, but then I spot a small group of locals sitting beneath the shade of one of the many towering African rain trees, planted, Pickles tells us, with seeds brought to Australia over 150 years ago by a local minister. Pickles hoots his horn and waves as we drive past, and a few of the men and women turn and smile in return.

With Mossman behind us, the road curves its way back to the coast, reuniting us with the Coral Sea. I glance at my phone. We should be arriving at the house soon.

As if on cue, the van slows and Pickles swings right, away from the main road. We begin to climb a long, steep, winding concrete driveway that snakes its way beneath a cool archway of rainforest. Thick forest flanks us on both sides, with chunky vines forming giant, bandied loops that hang lazily to the forest floor. The van’s wheels momentarily slip on the green moss as we continue to climb.

I remember from the article I read on the plane that the Daintree Rainforest is 180 million years old, some ten million years older than Brazil’s Amazon rainforest. Even here, inside the van, I imagine I can hear the whisper of ancient secrets.

‘It’s just like the jungle in The Lion King!’ Jasper shouts, his voice cracking with excitement. He tugs at my arm. ‘Can we go exploring, Mummy? Please?’ I smile down at his upturned face, so joyous in this moment. Why haven’t I taken more photos of my beautiful son?

As the van emerges from the tree-lined tunnel, Pickles rounds the final bend at the top of the driveway and we arrive at a large expanse of manicured lawn fringed with a sprawling tropical garden. Beyond the garden sits a squat, masculine, concrete house that seems out of place among the soft lushness of the rainforest. The black pigmented concrete is the colour of granite and its symmetrical lines reflect the architectural precision of its design. I experience a pang of yearning for our comfortable old beach bungalow, but then the heavy wooden front door of the house opens and Jon steps into view, stealing my full attention.

By the time I’ve finished paying Pickles the fare, Jon has let Jasper out of the back of the van and is now opening my door, his hand reaching for mine. His familiar spicy scent engulfs me.

‘Hey, babe.’ His eyes flick over my body before he pulls me into his chest and squeezes me tight, then kisses the top of my forehead. His skin is more tanned than when he left Sydney a month ago. His face, too, looks more relaxed despite his hectic work schedule.

‘You look good,’ I tell him. ‘Life in the tropics suits you.’

He grins before turning to Jasper, who’s clinging to his leg. He reaches down and scoops him up into the air, then flips him down onto the soft grass. Jasper squeals and giggles. ‘I missed you, Dad. I missed you this much.’ He throws his arms wide.

Behind me, Pickles clears his throat.

‘Looks like he’s pretty excited to see Dad,’ he observes.

‘Yeah, definitely,’ I agree.

Pickles takes a step towards Jon and shuffles his feet before clearing his throat again. ‘So, Jon, is it? You work for Council?’

Jon straightens up. ‘That’s right, mate. Jonathon Ashby, General Manager. Thanks for getting my beautiful family home safe and sound.’

‘Pickles. Pleasure. Your young bloke’s a chip off the old block, isn’t he?’

Jon looks delighted as the two men shake hands.

‘This merger business is no good, mate,’ Pickles says. ‘Nobody wants our shire being turned into a suburb of Cairns.’

As if a switch has been flicked, Jon’s expression immediately turns business-like. ‘Yeah, I think a lot of people around here would agree with you on that, but we’re working on a plan to fight it.’

Pickles pulls out a business card and hands it to Jon. ‘You seem like a good bloke. We’re all relying on you. You ever need a taxi, you just call me, okay?’

Jon takes the card and puts it in his pocket. ‘Sure thing, mate.’

As I wave goodbye to Pickles, the sound of a dog’s excited bark rises above the thrum of the van’s engine. I turn towards the house to see Saskia bounding across the lawn towards Jasper, her ears alert, tail thumping at a million miles an hour.

‘Saskia!’

She pulls up hard on the grass, turns and gallops towards me. I drop to my haunches and stretch my arms out wide. She collides with me and sends me sprawling backwards, then sets about licking my face. I rub my hands through her fur, feeling her ribs and backbone, then squeeze her head between my hands and pull gently on both her ears. She pants hard, saliva dripping from her tongue as her large brown eyes lock on to mine.

‘All right, all right, good girl,’ I whisper, burying my face in her fur.

I roll over and come face to face with Jon’s bare feet. I squint up at him. ‘How’s she handling the heat?’

Jon moves to pat Saskia, but she’s busy rolling on top of me again.

‘She’s fine, don’t worry about her. Come on, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.’

He reaches down and pulls me to my feet. After brushing away the grass caught in my hair, he gestures towards the garage, where a man in a long-sleeved shirt and a large straw hat stands fiddling with a ride-on lawnmower. Jon heads towards him, his words trailing over his shoulder. ‘Come and meet Bill.’

‘Who?’

Jon pauses. ‘Bill. Our gardener, remember? I told you on the phone. I found his business card in the letterbox when I first moved in.’ He glances around the immaculate yard. ‘He seems to know what he’s doing.’

I frown, struggling to recall this conversation, but Jon has resumed walking and waves to catch Bill’s attention. As we approach, Bill notices us and ambles in our direction. He’s tall. Not quite as tall as Jon, but his shoulders are broader, his face tanned from outdoor work. He briefly removes his hat to run his hand through a mass of unruly brown curls a shade lighter than his thick beard. Wrap-around sunglasses shield his eyes.

‘Bill, this is my wife, Jennifer,’ Jon says, placing his arm around my shoulders.

‘Nice to meet you.’ I reach to shake his hand. His skin is surprisingly soft.

‘Hey.’ He has the kind of low, husky voice you want to keep listening to, but he appears content to leave the conversation there. I rush to fill the silence.

‘You’re keen to be working on Good Friday.’

Bill allows himself a small smile. ‘Yeah, well, the weather’s good for mowing today. We’ve had a bit of rain lately. Besides, not much else going on. Just another day to me.’

I gesture towards a nearby section of the garden where waxy red flowers hang like a braid of lobster claws. ‘They’re such an amazing colour and shape. What are they called?’

Bill’s gaze follows mine, but he shifts his feet in a way that suggests the conversation has already gone on for longer than he’s comfortable with.

‘I’m more your basic weeds and lawn sort of gardener, but I believe they’re called heliconias. They’re pretty common in this part of the world.’

I smile. ‘I suspect you know a lot more than you let on. Whoever looks after this garden knows exactly what they’re doing.’ I point to a cluster of tall palms with bright red trunks. ‘I do recognise those, though. Lipstick palms.’ At that moment, two huge butterflies flutter past us, their brilliant blue wings a stark contrast to the lush green surroundings. Their sudden appearance makes me gasp. ‘God, they’re so beautiful.’

‘Ulysses,’ Bill says. ‘You’ll see plenty of them around the place too.’

Jasper plants himself by my side, his face flushed. Saskia stands alongside him, panting hard.

Jon’s voice breaks through the silence that has fallen between us. ‘This is Jasper, our son.’

As Jasper darts away, Bill’s head turns in his direction.

‘Do you have kids?’ I ask him.

Bill’s attention turns to a spot of grease on his arm. ‘Nope.’ He rubs at the dark mark until it disappears into the pores of his skin, leaving behind a smattering of glossy black hairs. He turns towards Jon, signalling the end of our brief conversation. ‘Anyway, I better finish up and let you all get on with your weekend.’

Once Bill’s out of earshot, I lean close to Jon. ‘I think I offended him. I shouldn’t have asked him if he has kids. It can be a touchy subject for some people.’ I slip my hand into Jon’s. ‘Not everybody’s as lucky as us.’

Jon shrugs. ‘I didn’t notice. Not everyone wants a family.’

‘How many hours does he work?’

‘Twelve.’

‘What days?’

‘No set days, he just comes and goes as he sees fit.’

‘Do we really need him for so many hours?’

‘Absolutely. This garden would be a jungle without him.’ Jon directs his gaze to the nearby tangle of trees and vines. ‘The rainforest’s always waiting to take back over, reclaim its territory.’ Then he picks up our luggage and gestures for me to follow him to the house. ‘Come on. There’s someone else you need to meet.’

I up my pace to try to keep up. ‘Someone else? Who?’

‘Bree.’

I frown. ‘Bree?’

‘Our cleaner,’ Jon replies. ‘You don’t remember me mentioning her either?’ He shakes his head. ‘She wanted to make sure the house looked good for your arrival.’ He winks in my direction. ‘I guess she didn’t trust me.’

‘A cleaner? Are you sure we can afford all this? We’ve never had a cleaner before. Why do we need one now?’

Jon frowns. ‘Of course we can afford it.’ He pauses and places the suitcases down on the path so he can wrap his arms around me. ‘I want you to take it easy, okay? It’s not forever; just until you’re feeling more on top of things. You’ll like her, trust me.’

Chapter Five

‘Jasper?’

Towering white concrete walls suck my voice high up into the cathedral ceiling. The echo lingers for a moment before disappearing among the wooden rafters. Jon touches the small of my back and the front door clicks closed behind us. The air-conditioning inside the house is icy cool after the sultry heat of the front garden.

‘Let him go, Jen,’ Jon says. ‘He’s just exploring. Besides …’ He pulls me into his arms and my cheek presses against the soft linen of his shirt. ‘It’s me who needs your attention now.’

He presses his lips softly against mine and we kiss, slowly at first, but with growing intensity. As our lips part, I find myself hungry for more of his sweet taste, but the sound of footsteps across the concrete floor disrupts the moment and we pull apart.

‘Oops, oh god, I’m so sorry!’

I turn to discover a glossy-haired young woman scurrying away from us.

Jon laughs loudly. ‘It’s okay, Bree, don’t worry.’

Bree turns, her face flushed pink as she fidgets with the small handbag slung across her shoulder. Her features are elfin, large amber eyes set in a heart-shaped face, the rest of her skinny and skittish as a colt. A belly-button ring glints from beneath her crop top.

‘I’ve finished and I was just about to … to head home,’ she says, her words tumbling out in a rush. She gestures to the front door, her expression miserable. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

Jon holds up a hand. ‘Bree, it’s fine. This is Jen.’

I step forward and smile, keen to put her at ease. ‘Good to meet you, Bree.’ We shake hands briefly. Bree’s eyes skirt around my face in a shy way, avoiding my gaze. She seems unable to decide where to rest her hands and eventually settles the matter by folding her arms across her chest. My sympathy for her swells. ‘The house looks beautiful, Bree. Thank you so much for helping Jon get everything set up.’

Bree smiles uncertainly.

‘Do you clean full-time?’ I ask.

Bree shakes her head. ‘No, I’m … I do uni part-time.’

Her gaze travels back towards Jon, who’s wearing an amused expression. He wags a finger in her direction. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Bree.’ Jon turns to me. ‘Bree is an exceptionally bright young woman who just so happens to need part-time work while she’s studying. She’s also far too modest about her academic achievements.’

Bree’s face flushes to a deep scarlet and she looks as if she wishes the floor would swallow her up whole. She turns towards the front door. ‘Anyway, I’d better go.’ We say goodbye and I watch her depart, feeling slightly amused. At the door, she turns back to us. ‘Oh, I just met Jasper upstairs.’ For the first time, her smile appears genuine. ‘He’s adorable.’

‘Thanks,’ Jon and I say at the same time, then laugh.

Bree disappears through the front door, and after a moment’s thought, I hurry outside after her. ‘Just a minute, Bree.’ I catch her near her car. ‘Look, it’s really nice to meet you and I appreciate everything you’ve done,’ I tell her. ‘But the truth is, I’ve never had a cleaner before and I’m not sure how much there will be for you to do.’

Bree looks disappointed. ‘Oh.’

I place my hand on her forearm. ‘It’s okay, I’m sure we can work something out. Why don’t you give me your number and we can work out days and hours.’

Bree chews her lip. ‘Okay. Jon also said there might be some babysitting work as well?’

‘Oh?’ I try to hide my surprise. Jon has always shied away from using babysitters. ‘Oh, sure, okay,’ I reply, recovering myself. ‘I’m sure we’ll need someone to look after Jasper from time to time. That would be great, actually. Thank you.’

After I give her my contact details, she turns to leave.

‘So what is it you’re studying?’

‘Nothing too exciting,’ she replies. ‘Accounting.’

I smile. ‘The same as Jon.’

She nods. ‘Yeah, it’s been useful to be able to bounce some of my assignments off him. He’s so switched on and smart, but also kind of …’

I laugh. ‘Like a rock star?’

She laughs too, a surprisingly mature sound. ‘Yeah, not like a general manager.’ She climbs into her old green hatchback. She fumbles with her keys in the ignition, then casts a glance back towards the house. We wave goodbye before I head back inside.

As the front door clicks behind me, I catch a movement high up on the mezzanine level, then watch in growing horror as Jasper climbs up onto the rungs of the thin nautical balcony wire. If he slips, it’s a three-metre fall onto the polished concrete floor below.

‘Jasper, get off!’ My voice echoes in my ears.

Jon appears across the room. ‘Jesus, Jen, do you have to yell like that?’

I watch, frozen, as Jasper springs off the wire and sprints along the internal balcony to the top of the staircase, then half-falls, half-leaps down it, two steps at a time. I dash across the room and grab Jasper around the waist as he lands at the bottom of the stairs. But he wriggles free and darts towards the large glass sliding doors at the far end of the room.

I bolt after him and lock him in my arms.

‘Let’s just try to calm things down a bit, okay, buddy?’ I whisper into his hair. ‘Take a long, slow breath with me. Let’s count. One, two …’

But he somehow manages to wriggle free again.

Jon appears and rests his hand on my arm. ‘Let him go, Jen.’

‘I don’t want him to hurt himself.’

‘He’ll be fine. He’s just being a typical over-excited boy.’ He places his hands on my shoulders and massages my neck with several deft movements. ‘Don’t stress. I want you to relax. That’s the whole point of us leaving Sydney, remember?’

He nuzzles my neck and I let out a long sigh.

‘Okay, okay, I’m relaxed.’

‘Good,’ he replies, turning me towards the living area. ‘So, what do you think of the place?’

I look around the expansive, light-filled, open-plan interior properly for the first time. It has the floating feeling of a luxury cruise liner, with each distinct living area loosely tethered to the next using strategically positioned rugs and furnishings. The wall facing east towards the morning sun comprises floor-to-ceiling glass, offering uninterrupted views of the hillside rainforest below and, beyond it, a shimmering ocean.

A small number of items have survived the move from Sydney: the brightly coloured hand-woven rugs from Morocco that were a wedding present from Marion; the elegant ‘waking woman’ bronze figurine; and, of course, our treasured family photographs. But the rest of the furniture is brand new and designed to a tropical theme, combining heavy cane with bright bold patterns.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I reply, truthfully. ‘Very different from the old place. I wasn’t sure what I thought at first, but the inside’s very different from the outside. The entrance is kind of austere.’

Jon nods. ‘Brutalist architecture, the real estate agent calls it. You only see a small portion of the house when you arrive. From the driveway, it looks like a big concrete block. But once you get inside, you realise all the design elements are nestled here in the side of the hill. The true orientation is east, towards the ocean.’

I move to open the glass sliding doors out to the large ocean-facing balcony, but Jon stops me.

‘Let me show you the rest of the inside first.’

I follow him towards the open-plan kitchen, with its sprawling granite benchtops, stainless-steel splashback and views outside to the wet-edge swimming pool.

‘Jon, it’s absolutely beautiful.’ I squeeze his hand and experience a pang of guilt that I hadn’t been able to muster any interest when Jon tried to involve me in the task of finding a new home. I can appreciate now this must have been a burden for Jon, especially on top of tackling the demands of a new job in a new town.

At the end of the kitchen, Jon pulls me through a doorway which brings us to a second door. Beyond it, a short expanse of elevated timber boardwalk leads to a separate pavilion-style building.

‘The parents’ retreat,’ Jon announces with a wink, swinging open the bedroom door.

I follow him into an oversized bedroom large enough to accommodate a king-sized bed and a lounge suite. Beyond the large glass sliding doors is a balcony that offers more ocean views. I poke my head through the first of two internal doorways and discover a large walk-in wardrobe that’s already filled with Jon’s clothes and most of mine. The second doorway leads to a large, light-filled bathroom featuring floor-to-ceiling glass with views of the rainforest canopy outside.

I return to the main room. The bed is made up with crisp white linen stretched taut beneath a suspended mosquito net, tied high in a neat knot. The furniture in here, like the rest of the house, comprises heavy cane and overstuffed cushions. Completing the tropical theme is a towering glass vase filled with tall, waxy pink- and red-headed ginger flowers on a wooden sideboard. On the coffee table is an oval basket overflowing with seashells. I lift the largest of them, a round peach-coloured conch, and hold the smooth cavity to my ear to listen to the soft hiss of the ocean.

Jon stands by the window, his perfectly proportioned form silhouetted against the afternoon light. I move in behind him and slip my arms around his waist.

‘It’s beautiful, Jon.’

He shrugs. ‘Bree chose it all. I just gave her my credit card and told her to go for it.’

I glance around the room with fresh interest. ‘Well, if her accounting career doesn’t work out, she could always fall back on interior decorating. She’s certainly got a knack.’

Jon’s gaze follows mine around the room. ‘She could,’ he agrees. ‘You should make a point of telling her. She was nervous about meeting you. She was worried you wouldn’t like any of it.’

I trace Jon’s collarbone with my finger. ‘I did thank her, but I’ll make a point the next time I see her.’ I pause a moment before I continue. ‘She’s got an enormous crush on you. You do realise that, don’t you?’

Jon gives me a blank look, then scoffs. ‘What? Bree? You’ve got to be kidding.’ He pulls away from me. ‘She’s young enough to be my daughter. Honestly, Jen. Don’t talk like that. It’s embarrassing.’

‘How did you meet her? Another card in the letterbox?’

Jon shakes his head. ‘Her grandmother is the mayor. My boss, effectively. So don’t go getting any weird ideas, okay? She’s just a nice young kid who needs to earn some money. If you’re worried about it, don’t hire her. I’m only trying to make your life a bit easier.’

I smile to show him everything is okay and make an effort to keep my voice light. ‘I’m not worried, Jon. It was just an observation. If you’re not aware of it already, you should be. End of subject, I promise.’

We re-enter the main house, and Jon leads me along a hallway. ‘I guess this is sort of like the second wing,’ he explains. We pass a bathroom, a laundry and Jon’s study before we reach an empty room with a large window facing a thick clump of shadowy rainforest. As I look around the room, an idea comes. I clap my hands together.

‘This would be a good space for my photography gear,’ I tell him. ‘It’s perfect, don’t you think? It’s time I got back into it. This room would make a perfect studio.’

Jon takes his time replying. ‘Maybe just as a hobby to begin with,’ he says, squeezing my shoulders. ‘We need to be careful about you taking on too much, too soon. Besides, I can’t imagine there’s too much photography work to be found in this part of the world?’ He makes a scoffing sound. ‘It’s hardly Sydney.’ Then, seeing my shoulders drop, he backtracks. ‘Maybe picking up a camera would be good for you. It’s your passion, after all.’ He gestures towards the doorway. ‘Your photography boxes are stacked in the garage at the end of the hallway down that way. I started to look through them, but then I realised you probably want to do that yourself?’

My body tenses as a palm frond scrapes noisily against the window in the breeze outside.

‘Let me unpack them,’ I reply quickly, then change the subject. ‘I doubt I’ll have much housework for Bree to help out with, but perhaps she could babysit Jasper now and then so I can go and take some photos.’

‘Come on,’ Jon says, guiding me towards the door. ‘I’ll show you Jasper’s room.’

Back in the main living area, we climb the staircase to Jasper’s bedroom. Jasper is jumping on one of the two single beds positioned against a wall. The source of his excitement is immediately apparent. My jaw falls open as I take in the media theatre complete with games consoles and beanbags alongside an enormous electric racing-car set.

I turn to Jon. ‘My god. This is incredible. I’ll never get Jasper out of his room.’

‘He’s only a kid once. May as well spoil him.’

‘It’s just …’ As soon as I begin to speak, I regret it.

Jon’s jaw tenses. ‘What is it? What’s wrong now?’

‘Well, Jasper’s room is a long way from ours. But it’s no big deal. He’s getting older now, I guess.’

Jon tries to hide his exasperation but only half succeeds. ‘We can go back to using the baby monitor if you’re worried, but he’ll be fine. He’s nearly five now, he sleeps through.’ Jon turns to Jasper. ‘You like being a big boy with your own room up here, don’t you, mate?’

Jasper nods as Jon’s phone rings. He disappears into the hallway to take the call. When he steps back into the room a couple of minutes later, his face is tight.

‘That was Marion.’

In all the excitement of our arrival I’ve completely forgotten to call her, as promised, to let her know Jasper and I arrived safely.

‘Shit.’

‘It’s okay. I told her you arrived in one piece. She said she’s been trying to get hold of you. Where’s your phone?’

Despite a thorough search of my handbag and the house, my phone is nowhere to be found. With a sinking feeling, I realise the only other place it could be is Pickles’ van. I curse myself for forgetting to double-check I had everything before allowing Pickles to drive off.

‘I must have left my phone in the taxi,’ I tell Jon. ‘Where’d you put that business card Pickles gave you? I’ll have to ring him.’

Jon searches his pockets then shrugs, distracted, so I go in search of it myself, eventually discovering it crumpled up on the bench near the kitchen sink. I smooth it flat and call the number from the landline, breathing a sigh of relief when Pickles picks up.

‘He has it,’ I tell Jon, showing him my scribbled note with Pickles’ address.

He squints at it. ‘Mossman Gorge,’ he says. ‘That’s not far. I’ll go and get it. I was going to go out later to buy us some wine for tonight anyway.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘I’ll unpack our bags and get settled.’

‘C’mon Jasper,’ Jon calls up the stairs. ‘Let’s go for a drive, mate. Give Mum some time to relax.’

I circle my arms around Jon’s waist and smile up at him. ‘You know what? Why don’t you just leave him here? He’s done enough travelling for one day.’

He regards me for a long moment as he considers my words, but eventually returns a crooked smile.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

As he jiggles his keys and heads towards the door, my body relaxes in relief. Jasper may not have seen his father for a month but I feel better keeping him here with me.

Chapter Six

While Jon’s gone, I unpack our suitcases and set Jasper up on the downstairs lounge in front of a movie with a packet of dried mango I found in the well-stocked kitchen pantry.

Then, after a moment’s contemplation, I walk quickly through the house and along the hallway towards the garage. To the special box that holds some of my photography equipment – as well as something else. I have no idea how long it will take Jon to run his errands, but if I hurry I might still have time to find the box I want.

It would only take a second or two to open it.

To find what I’m looking for.

Reclaim what is still mine.

But then a shout from the lounge room dissolves my plan.

‘Mum! More mango!’

Frustrated by the unwelcome interruption, I retrace my steps to the kitchen and retrieve the packet of mango from the pantry. ‘Just a few more pieces,’ I tell Jasper. ‘Otherwise you’ll spoil your dinner.’

‘I want more.’

Jasper’s voice scrapes like fingernails on a chalkboard.

‘That’s enough, Jasper,’ I snap. ‘Manners please.’

Jasper’s mouth opens in protest. ‘More!’

In the logical part of my brain, I know Jasper’s had a long day. I know he’s tired and that he usually remembers to say please and thank you. But then a white-hot anger surfaces and the effort to contain it leaves me shaking. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jasper!’

Jasper recoils on the lounge and stares up at me, his eyes wide. Beyond the hammering of my heart, I hear another sound. The soft click of the front door closing shut. I silently groan.

‘Jesus, it sounds like World War Three in here,’ Jon says, his calm tone failing to conceal his concern. He crosses the room and pushes back my hair to search my eyes. His touch makes me want to cry and collapse against him, but I hold myself together and will myself to stop shaking. ‘You okay, hon?’ he asks softly. I nod and turn away, re-twisting my hair so tightly in its ponytail that my scalp stings. ‘Jasper, you don’t need to be down here annoying your mother,’ Jon says. ‘You’ve got your own TV upstairs, remember?’ But Jasper’s attention has returned to the movie and he stays put. Taking a deep breath, I follow Jon into the kitchen and watch him lay the wine bottles down on a shelf in the fridge. He grimaces. ‘Get used to drinking sauvignon blanc.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s pretty much the only grape variety the bottle shops up here stock. I’ll have to start back up with one of the online wine clubs if we want a good quality chardonnay or pinot gris.’

I swing my backside up onto the kitchen bench. ‘I think I need something stronger than wine right now,’ I confess, running my fingers across my hair. ‘I feel like shit losing my cool with Jasper like that.’

Jon shuts the fridge and extracts my mobile phone from his pocket. ‘You got a message,’ he says, holding the phone just beyond my reach.

‘Oh? Marion?’

Jon’s lips curl in a playful smile. ‘The Department of Child Welfare, actually.’

I slap his shoulder a little too hard and jump down off the bench. ‘Jon, that’s not funny.’ I reach for the phone, but he holds it further from me.

‘Don’t you want to know what they said?’ he teases. His fingers find my ribs.

I flinch. ‘Jon, don’t joke like that. Nobody thinks this is funny.’

He pretends to study the screen for a moment. ‘Yes, here it is.’ He continues in an official voice. ‘Dear Mrs Ashby, we wish to formally advise you that swearing at young children is not responsible parenting.’

I slap Jon’s arm a second time, harder. ‘Jon, stop.’

I leap for my phone, but he holds it higher still. Shame flushes my cheeks.

Jon dangles the phone closer. ‘Oh, you want your phone?’ My indignation only serves to fuel Jon’s amusement. ‘Old potty mouth wants her phone back, does she?’

I make an effort to remain calm, and not allow myself to give in to his baiting. ‘Jon, just give my phone back. I need to call Marion.’

He contemplates this, his eyes lit with excitement. ‘You want it, come get it.’

And with that, he darts away from me. Adrenalin powers my legs into action. Jon holds the phone high in the air, as if it’s the Olympic torch.

‘Give it back!’ I shout.

I sprint after him, past the lounge, and Jasper jumps to his feet to join in the chase. Jon darts and weaves around the furniture, then up the stairs and back down again. At some point, Saskia joins in, her excited barks deepening as she closes in on Jon. Somewhere near the bottom of the staircase, Jon pretends to trip and we collapse around him on the floor, a writhing mass of arms and legs. Jasper and I do our best to wrestle the phone from his hand but we’re no match for his sinewy strength.

Eventually, exhausted and panting, we all roll away from each other. Jasper’s giggles turn to hiccups as Jon pulls me to my feet.

‘Come on,’ he says, slapping my phone into my hand. ‘I want to show you outside. Jasper, get yourself a glass of water.’

While I’m angry at Jon for his stupid joke, the sudden burst of physical activity has released a pressure valve deep inside me, leaving me calmer. I decide to forgive him.

I follow Jon onto the balcony. Like the rest of the house, it’s generously proportioned and designed for outdoor living. In front of us, protected from the sun and rain beneath a large awning stands a wooden dining setting and barbecue. To our left, a glass fence encloses the wet-edge swimming pool. To our right, an open-air gazebo sits on an elevated wooden deck, its thatched roof rustling in the breeze above an outdoor lounge. I climb its steps and a full view of the ocean, with its ever-shifting hues of blue and green, stretches wide in front of me.

As I breathe in the salty air, I notice a large island not far from the shoreline. I recognise it from my research as Snapper Island, a prominent coastal landmark so named because of its uncanny resemblance to a crocodile at rest. The island’s shadowy foliage deepens as a cloud passes in front of the sun, further sharpening its silhouette against the shimmering haze of the horizon.

My eyes stray north, where a rippling current of brackish water flows from the mouth of the Daintree River, muddying the clear waters of the Coral Sea. It isn’t too difficult to imagine that this wide, brown expanse of water masks the presence of this region’s most deadly inhabitants. I watch, mesmerised, as an elegant white bird dives head-first into the murky water then re-emerges unharmed.

Jon’s voice sounds from close behind me and I jump. ‘So, is this far enough from Sydney for you?’

I nod towards the empty beach down below. ‘Look at that. Not another soul in sight.’

Jon embraces me and we stand for a long moment in the warm breeze, lulled by the rhythmic sound of waves rising and falling on the sandy shoreline. But there’s something desolate and infinitely restless in the crashing sound, too. It reaches deep inside me, stirring up my old fears. I turn to Jon, my words tumbling out in a rush.

‘Do you think everything that’s happened is all behind us now? Can we really make a fresh start?’

The neediness in my voice sounds pathetic, but I’m desperate for Jon’s reassurance. His body stiffens and he turns away from me. My shame intensifies for having brought the subject up, for dragging the tail-end of our old life so quickly into our new one.

‘I’ve told you before, Jen. I don’t know.’ Jon sighs and begins to crack his knuckles. The sickening popping sound makes me cringe. ‘Look, the accident’s in the past,’ he says, dropping down heavily into a lounge. ‘There’s no use talking about it. It just makes you even more anxious and the whole point of moving here was to help you get over … everything.’

I nod enthusiastically and take a deep breath. ‘You’re right.’

‘And it could have been a lot worse,’ he reminds me. ‘All you copped was a loss of licence for a few months and a $10,000 fine. All that shit-stirring from the media was unfortunate, but that’s all behind you now.’

I nod again, wanting to feel Jon’s optimism, but I can’t. Now that I’ve broached the subject, the desire to keep talking, to be understood, intensifies.

‘To be honest, I’m not concerned about any of that. A woman’s dead. Her baby’s dead. I don’t know how to get over that. I can’t stop thinking about her husband, how he must be feeling.’ My voice breaks. ‘His loss. It’s huge.’ Jon studies his feet in silence, allowing me to continue. ‘The media was right. The sentence was too light. None of this feels right. I keep feeling like I need to fix it, but I don’t know how.’

Jon stands up and wraps his arms around me. ‘This is exactly why you need to stop thinking about it. Negative thoughts won’t do you any good. The past is in the past.’

I move away from his embrace. ‘But I haven’t been able to talk to anybody,’ I reply, suddenly resentful. ‘And sometimes, I feel like I need to, so I can try to make sense of it all. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but Jon, sometimes I really feel like I’m going crazy.’ I turn back to him and bury my fingers in his shirt. ‘Can’t you understand that?’

Silence settles around us as Jon stares at the ocean, his expression wary.

‘Ever since the accident, I’ve given you everything you’ve wanted,’ he says slowly, his voice low. ‘I’ve given up my career in Sydney and I’ve found this country-bumpkin job so that you could get away from the city, make a fresh start. And all you have to do now is get over it. Move on and forget what happened. Yes, it was a tragedy. Yes, it was devastating for that family. But can we change anything that happened? No.’

I watch a small wave crash against the sand, then retreat back into the ocean, invisible once more. Jon gets up and strolls back towards the steps, signalling the conversation is over.

‘Don’t you ever feel bad, Jon?’ I persist, following him. ‘That they’re dead and we’re not?’

Jon’s feet pause. ‘No, I fucking don’t, Jen,’ he replies, not bothering to turn around. ‘And neither should you. It was a fucking accident, remember? Like the magistrate said: it could have happened to anyone. It was just a tragic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

I let his words sink in for a minute before another surge of panic overwhelms me. ‘Jon, wait!’ I call after him.

When he turns to face me, his face is lined and tired. ‘What?’

I chew the inside of my cheek, wishing I could keep the words locked inside me. ‘What if he remembers something? The husband.’

Jon cocks his head. ‘You already know the answer to that, Jen. If that happens, it’s not only his family that’s destroyed. It’s ours as well. All we can do is hope he doesn’t.’

Chapter Seven

Exhausted, Jasper falls asleep within half an hour of finishing dinner. I place the book I’ve been reading him back in the bookcase, then draw his bedroom blinds closed against the early evening light.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I find Jon wiping down the dining room table, a tea towel flung across his bare shoulder. A bottle of wine stands unopened on the kitchen bench along with two wine glasses. I twist off the lid then pour us both a glass. I take a sip, savouring the refreshing dry coolness in my mouth. My eyes return to Jon’s slim torso, the sinewy well-defined muscles of his shoulders and biceps accentuated by his recent tan.

‘Well, Jasper’s out for the count,’ I announce. ‘We won’t be seeing him again tonight. Thank god he’s a good sleeper, that’s all I can say.’

Jon’s eyes linger on the light cotton dress I’m wearing without underwear. ‘Feel like testing out your new pool?’

Beneath his lazy tone is a charged undercurrent. Through the kitchen window, the pastel pink sunset reflects off the surface of the pool. The water couldn’t look more inviting – almost as inviting as the thought of Jon’s naked body alongside mine. I crave the feel of his bare skin on mine and am also desperate to erase the remnant tension from our conversation in the gazebo. I pull my dress up over my head and throw it over a kitchen stool.

‘Sure,’ I reply, reaching for the bottle and pretending not to notice Jon’s eyes roaming over my body. ‘I’ll bring the wine. You bring the towels.’

Regardless of whatever else is going on between Jon and I, sex is our sacred haven, our refuge from the misunderstanding and pain we inadvertently inflict upon each other. Our physicality is the place we go to heal and reconnect, to express ourselves in a language far more meaningful and coherent than spoken words. And after this afternoon’s conversation, so badly timed on my behalf, we certainly have some overdue hurt to heal.

Outside, I test the water with my toe. The temperature is lukewarm and barely refreshing in the lingering humidity. I dive in. My hands break the surface, followed by a soft rush of water across my skin. As I resurface, I hear a splash behind me. Jon is treading water alongside me in the deep end of the pool. We find each other immediately, our naked bodies pressing up hard against one another. My legs automatically straddle Jon’s torso and his hands cup first my breasts and then the cheeks of my bottom. I close my eyes and succumb to the satisfaction of his growing desire while he kisses my neck, his wet lips feeling softer than usual against the tender skin. As our mouths find each other, Jon groans as he flicks his tongue against mine then flips me around and swims me to the edge of the pool. I hold on tight to the ledge while he fucks me hard and fast, his hands clutching my hips so he can leverage himself deep inside me. As his orgasm builds, I pretend to come, crying out as I push myself onto him even harder, arching my back so my head rests against his heaving chest. His hands move to my breasts as his body spasms. He moans loudly and slumps against my back, and for a long time we rest, still and silent but for the steady draw of our breath as we cling to the edge of the pool.

When our breathing returns to normal, we get out of the pool and lie naked on the pavers, still warm from the day’s heat, our faces upturned to the stars twinkling to life in the darkening sky. Without the city’s sprawling illuminance, the stars here seem to take on heightened brilliance and numbers, the sky filled with suspended galaxies strung just beyond our reach. After a while, Jon sighs, rolls over and lights a cigarette before handing it to me. I draw the smoke deep into my lungs and hold it there for a long moment before blowing it out in a long steady stream and handing the cigarette back to him.

‘More wine?’ I ask.

Jon smiles. ‘Thanks.’

I refill our glasses and we move to the sun lounges, passing the cigarette back and forth in a comfortable silence. Smoking is one of our secrets. Jon and I only ever smoke occasionally, always late at night, mostly after sex, and only after we’re certain Jasper is asleep. Marion would be mortified if she knew. I’d given up after I fell pregnant with Jasper, but Jon didn’t join me. After I’d finished breast-feeding, I took it up again, on the proviso we only ever smoked every now and again and never, ever in front of Jasper. Marriage, after all, was about compromise.

I sit up and towel dry my hair, enjoying the coolness where the damp strands fall and drape the length of my back. Jon reaches across and twirls it between his fingers.

‘Your hair’s grown really long again.’

I gather the strands together and expertly plait them into a braid.

‘Remember when you cut your hair short, babe?’ Jon lifts himself onto one elbow and tugs the end of the plait.

‘Of course,’ I reply quickly. ‘It didn’t suit me at all. I hated it.’

‘I loved it.’

‘You loved being able to convince me to cut it short after I told you I never would.’ I pull the plait away and fix Jon with a stern expression. ‘The answer’s no,’ I say, my voice firm. ‘I tried it once. I hated it. Hated it. It’s taken me years to grow it back. So, no. No, no, no.’

‘Jen, if you really loved me …’

‘No.’

‘But you looked so cute.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Just a little bob, below your ears.’

‘Forget it.’

I jump up and dive into the pool. Seconds later, the water splashes behind me and I swim away from the sound, but Jon soon catches up. His mouth tastes sweet despite the wine and the cigarettes.

In bed later that night, as I listen to Jon’s soft snores beside me and try to get used to the foreign shapes and shadows of our new bedroom, Jon’s words from this afternoon in the gazebo replay in my head.

It was a fucking accident.

Was it really an accident? I once read somewhere that an accident isn’t ever really an accident at all. That if you break down and analyse all the little decisions and actions leading up to it, accidents are entirely preventable and therefore should never happen. Accidents are unfortunate, but avoidable.

I rearrange my pillow and roll over, away from Jon. I squeeze my eyes closed and try to still my mind so sleep can come, but my mind begins to race through the millions of things I could have done differently the night of Marion’s party. I could have worn a different dress. I could have drunk a little less champagne. I could have been less insecure when I spotted Jonathon sharing a cigarette in the dark with a couple of very young, very attractive interns who appeared to be hanging on to his every word, all the while laughing and standing too close to him.

But most of all, I could have, should have, stayed the hell away from Thomas Morgan.

While it wasn’t my fault that Thomas had turned up to the party unexpectedly, there was absolutely no good reason in the universe for me to approach him. To the contrary, it would have been incredibly easy to keep my distance from him, particularly among such a large crowd of revellers.

Yet I’d deliberately chosen to seek Thomas out, keeping an eye on him as he slowly worked his way from one group of party-goers to the next, watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity to orchestrate a chance encounter. For no other purpose than my own stupid, fragile ego. Insecure me knew I looked good that night and I wanted to feel appreciated, if not by my husband, then by Thomas. It had been so long since I’d been to a party and made an effort with my appearance. So long since Jon had told me I was beautiful. Plus – and I didn’t admit this to myself at the time – a small part of me had always been surprised that Thomas had never put up any kind of protest when I’d met Jon and ended our relationship. He’d just been so nice and understanding about it all. Why hadn’t he been more angry or upset? Hadn’t I been worth fighting for?

Jon’s snoring grows louder, banishing my memories. As I roll him over then settle back into my pillow, I remind myself of Jon’s words: that the past – the what-ifs and the if-onlys – no longer matters. The accident happened. None of it can be undone. Not now, not ever.

Eventually, I drift off to sleep. When I awaken again much later in the night, the stars have disappeared and the room is black. Something loud from outside has frightened me awake, but my head feels groggy and, as I draw the sheets around me, I’m unable to put a name or a familiarity to the sound. All that remains is a lingering feeling of unease that something, somewhere, is hurt. I reach across the bed and find Jon’s sleeping form. I absorb his warmth, for comfort, already doubting I’d heard anything at all. Then, just as the feeling begins to lift and drift away into the darkness, the sound comes again: a scream, part-woman, part-child.

The sound is one of pain. Agony.

‘Jon.’ I shake his arm roughly and he wakes with a start. ‘Something’s happening. Someone’s screaming! Check Jasper.’

The scream sounds again, sending me bolt upright in the bed, my pillow clutched to my chest.

‘Relax,’ Jon mumbles. ‘It’s just a bird.’

‘What kind of bird?’

‘A bush curlew.’

‘A what?’

Louder. ‘A bush curlew.’

‘How do you spell that?’

‘Jen, go to sleep.’

Jon pulls the pillow over his head.

I reach for my phone and do a quick Google search.

Screaming bird Far North Queensland.

I scroll through the results until I find a page written by a scientist with a penchant for unusual animals.

The bush stone-curlew (Burhinus grallarius) is a gangly, long-legged nocturnal bird rare in most regions of Australia except areas of Queensland … by night it feeds on a selection of insects … has a call that would make anyone’s blood run cold … its nickname is the ‘screaming woman bird’ … in some Aboriginal cultures, the species is believed to have close associations with death and suicide … once a bush stone-curlew finds a mate, their bond lasts a lifetime, up to thirty years.

I return the phone to the bedside table and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

Through the bedroom window, the very first pale awakenings of sunrise are beginning to appear in the sky. Through the stillness, other sounds, more friendly and familiar, begin to reach my ears. A cacophony of bird calls echoing through the rainforest, the gentle lap of the ocean against the sandy shoreline, a truck changing gears far below us on Daintree Road.

As for the screamers, they’re finally, blessedly silent.

Chapter Eight

I stand at the foot of the white sandy path at the bottom of the backyard. The path winds a short way down a hill past a lush carpet of grass before disappearing into the thick pocket of rainforest that lies between our house and the beach. Beneath my bare feet, the sand is surprisingly deep. Cool and finely ground, the texture reminds me of talcum powder. As I make my descent, the sound of Jon and Jasper splashing in the pool fades away, until all I can hear is my own quiet breath and the occasional snap of a twig beneath the pads of Saskia’s feet. All too soon, Jon and Jasper will join me on the beach for a picnic, but until then this new world is mine to explore.

Up ahead, Saskia picks up a scent and drops away from the path into the low-lying ferns, her nose to the ground.

‘Saskia.’ I slow to a standstill, trying to hear the direction of her movement.

All around me, the forest stands as still and silent as a cathedral. The rainforest’s thick foliage creates a protective chamber against the ocean breeze.

‘Saskia,’ I call again, louder, scanning the undergrowth for movement. I stray a few steps from the path, but my bare feet are no match for the twigs and thorns hidden among the shrubbery, so I retreat to the safety of the path and call her twice more, louder still, then whistle one, twice, three times.

Walking faster now, I continue along the path, the sand beneath my feet growing coarser, the lap of the ocean louder. Around a couple more bends, the canopy thins out, allowing mottled sunlight to infiltrate the thick leaves, before the forest opens up completely, revealing clear blue sky, a wide flat sea and a long expanse of sand.

I begin a quick jog towards the sea and spot Saskia immediately.

She’s not alone.

A man is bent over her, petting her head. When he stands upright, his body casts a long, slim shadow across the sand. I quicken my pace and call her name again. The sand is hard here, caked firm and flat from a recent tide. The stranger turns as he hears my voice. Even from this distance, I detect his curiosity. He stares a little too long before returning his attention to Saskia, giving her one last pat before gesturing for her to be on her way. But Saskia makes no move to leave his side, and I have little choice but to trek across the sand towards them.

Panting by the time I near them, I offer a glib comment. ‘Well, that’s loyalty for you.’

Up close, the man is even taller than he appeared from a distance and my neck bends sharply as I make eye contact with him. His face is so deeply tanned that the creases around his eyes and mouth show white lines when he’s not smiling, like now.

‘Crocs will take a dog this big, no worries,’ he says. Although he’s softly, slowly spoken, the deepness of his voice surprises me. It’s the voice of a radio announcer, or someone who does voice-overs for television advertisements for shaving cream, or beer, or condoms. Products for real blokes. ‘You need to keep a close eye on her down here,’ he continues. ‘Don’t let her go wondering off on her own.’

He narrows his eyes against the sun.

‘She ran away,’ I explain, my voice sounding more defensive than I intend. I pull Saskia’s lead from my backpack, clip it onto her collar, and make to walk away but she resists. I tug harder, frowning.

‘I’ve seen dogs get taken,’ the man continues. ‘It’s not pretty, trust me. What’s her name?’

‘Saskia. C’mon girl, let’s go.’

Saskia’s determined attachment to the scaremongering stranger is perplexing.

‘Don’t see too many long-haired shepherds up here,’ the man observes. ‘Too hot, I suppose.’

I tug at the lead, but Saskia still refuses to leave.

‘You live around here?’ he asks.

I point back towards the house. ‘Just moved in yesterday. With my son, Jasper. But my husband’s been here about a month.’

The man’s eyes follow the movement of my arm then flick back to my face. I’m at a loss as to why I’ve disclosed so much information to a stranger.

‘Nice place.’

I nod and fiddle with Saskia’s collar.

‘The new GM’s place,’ he adds.

‘That’s right,’ I reply, finding myself prattling on again. ‘Jonathon’s the new General Manager at Council. He’s my husband.’

‘You moved from Sydney.’

I nod.

‘Bit of a change.’

I shift uncomfortably, the city slicker in me unable to reconcile this stranger’s familiarity with our family’s circumstances.

‘Yeah.’ I shrug, as if packing up our home and family and moving two thousand kilometres away was just something we decided to do on a whim. ‘That was our plan. A change of scenery and all that.’

He extends a giant hand. It dwarfs mine. ‘Stretch,’ he says, smiling for the first time. ‘My family and I are the closest thing you and Jonathon have to neighbours out this way.’ He points along the beach. ‘Our place is a few hundred metres that way.’

Beyond the thick foliage, I spot a green roofline. As if on cue, a dark-haired woman and two young boys, one around the same age as Jasper, emerge from the bush and wave as they head in our direction. The woman’s bare feet spring lightly across the sand. Beneath her loose sundress, her legs are tanned and muscular. Even from this distance, her smile is radiant, her movements charged with vitality. She turns to face the ocean and scoops her long brown hair on top of her head. As she does so, a breeze plays across the water and catches her dress, blowing the material taut against her body. My breath catches as I notice the unmistakeable curve of her stomach. My hands move to my own scarred stomach, so flat and ordinary, its work done, and my thoughts stray to Courtney, the woman who, because of me, is dead.

‘You okay, Jen?’

Jon’s arm loops around my waist. Behind him is Jasper, his hair still wet from the pool. He charges towards the shoreline, and I call him back. Stretch gives me a private nod of approval. Jon places our picnic basket on the sand and shakes Stretch’s hand.

‘Jonathon Ashby,’ he says, flashing a smile.

‘Stretch.’ The man towers above the both of us, his shirt and shorts flapping in the breeze where they hang loose on his lean frame. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into you down here sooner,’ Stretch says. ‘You moved in, what, a month or so back?’

Jon nods, his smile turning rueful. ‘To be honest, I haven’t had much of a chance to get down here, mate. Too busy trying to get to the bottom of these bloody State Government merger plans.’

Stretch nods in agreement, taking his time to appraise Jon. ‘Big job. You’re the new GM at Council, right?’

A pleased expression warms Jon’s face. ‘That’s right.’

‘Congratulations,’ Stretch replies. ‘The merger’s a big worry. It’ll kill off the Greater Daintree as we know it. Development will run rife, the same as it has in Cairns. Not to mention what will happen to the local environment.’

Jon’s face turns serious. ‘Eva and I are pretty determined we aren’t going to let it happen.’

Stretch eyes him with interest. ‘The question is, how do you stop it? The State Government virtually owns local councils as it is. They’re a law unto themselves. They can do what they want.’

Jon winks. ‘We’ve got a few tricks up our sleeves, don’t worry about that.’

Stretch’s expression says he’s not convinced, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

‘What do you do, Stretch?’ I ask, my eyes following the pregnant woman as she nears us.

‘As little as possible,’ she calls out cheerfully. I didn’t realise my words had carried far enough for her to hear my question. The three of us turn towards her and laugh. Her hair has come loose again and hangs almost to her waist in long brown waves. Several buttons at the top of her dress are open, exposing a hint of generous bosom beneath. ‘I’m Melissa,’ she says, her brown eyes liquid with warmth as she holds Stretch’s hand. ‘And our two boys, Eddy and Jye.’ Once our introductions are complete, Melissa turns to Stretch again. ‘Did we give you long enough?’ she asks him. ‘The boys were busting to get down here.’

‘Yep, all done,’ Stretch replies, glancing around the beach.

Noticing my perplexed expression, Melissa explains. ‘Easter egg hunt,’ she says. ‘We do it every year. The boys love it. Jasper’s welcome to join in too, if he wants? Stretch must have hidden over a hundred eggs this morning. There’s plenty for everyone.’

It’s impossible not to be instantly charmed by Melissa’s warm, earthy smile and infectious enthusiasm. Her eyes radiate kindness and generosity. I return my attention to Stretch.

‘So that’s why Saskia was so interested in you,’ I laugh. ‘The chocolate.’

‘No, no, no!’ Melissa protests. ‘Stretch is a true dog whisperer. I’m yet to meet an animal that doesn’t instantly fall in love with him.’

We all look towards Saskia, who’s now sitting on top of Stretch’s giant foot. I remove her lead.

‘Go play,’ I urge her, and this time she takes off in the direction of the boys, who have joined up together on the sand, well away from the water’s edge, and are now kicking a ball between them, instant friends in the unassuming way of children the world over.

‘Nice camera,’ Melissa comments, noticing the camera I slung around my neck on impulse as I left the house. ‘Are you a professional?’

‘Sort of,’ I say, suddenly feeling shy. ‘I used to be.’

‘She got to enjoy an early retirement after we got married and Jasper came along,’ Jon says, placing an arm around my shoulders. ‘But before that, Jen was photographer to the rich and famous.’

My face grows warm beneath Melissa’s and Stretch’s scrutiny. I shoot Jonathon a warning look, which he dutifully ignores.

‘Retirement isn’t exactly how I’d describe mother—’

But Jon’s voice cuts across mine. ‘Name any celebrity you can think of anywhere in the world and I bet you Jen’s worked with them.’

‘Well, not quite,’ I say, gently shrugging away from Jon’s arm.

Jon rolls his eyes. ‘She’s way too modest.’ He laughs, his expression turning earnest as he looks to me. ‘Am I allowed to say any more?’

I frown and direct my answer to Melissa and Stretch. ‘Look, I’m no big deal and it was a long time ago, but yes, I used to do portraits, some magazine work, that kind of thing.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Stretch says, his voice inviting me to continue. I ignore it, but the silence that follows is too much temptation for Jon.

‘Including portraits of the Royal Family,’ Jon adds. I elbow him hard in the ribs.

Melissa’s and Stretch’s eyes widen.

‘Really?’ Melissa asks, then laughs excitedly.

‘I’d better not say exactly who, or I’ll be covered in bruises, but let’s call him Big Ears,’ Jon jokes.

I dig my toes into the sand. ‘Jon, shut up!’

He holds up his hands in defeat, a mock-disappointed expression sweeping across his features. ‘Okay, okay. I’m just proud of you, babe.’

Melissa comes to my rescue with a change of subject. ‘I’m desperate to get some quality photos of the school float at the Carnivale Street Parade next month. Each year, the parents say they’ll take some, but, you know …’ She laughs, embarrassed. ‘They’re too busy and forget, or the photos are …’

‘Shit,’ Stretch finishes, laughing. ‘It’s the same story every year.’

‘Of course,’ I reply quickly, grateful for the change of subject. ‘I’d be more than happy to help. Although, fair warning, it’s been a while since I picked up a camera.’

‘Thanks.’ Melissa smiles, then her eyes drop to our picnic basket. She tugs at Stretch’s arm. ‘Come on. We’d better let these guys enjoy their picnic in peace.’

‘Why don’t you join us?’ I ask. Jon’s already spreading the blanket across the sand. He shoots me a disapproving expression but it’s too late now. ‘We can all watch the boys hunt for their eggs.’

Melissa nods. ‘Okay, if you’re sure you don’t mind?’ She casts a doubtful look in Jon’s direction.

He musters a smile. ‘We’d love you to.’

Melissa turns and scans the trees at the edge of the rainforest, her eyes coming to rest on a towering fig tree, whose giant, low-lying branches hover just inches above the sand.

‘Why don’t we sit up there in the shade?’ she suggests, then turns to her husband. ‘Can you duck home and grab a couple of beers for yourself and pull out that zucchini frittata I made last night? Oh, and there’s some hummus there too …’

And, just like that, the rest of the afternoon seems to fall into place. After he returns with supplies, Stretch disappears into the bush, returning with sticks and kindling to build a small fire in a shallow hole in the sand for the kids to roast marshmallows. Meanwhile the boys, high on the chocolate Easter eggs they’ve found, shriek with laughter as they continue to kick the ball around, roll in the sand with Saskia, and build a giant sandcastle.

‘Not too close to the water’s edge.’ Stretch, ever watchful, calls to the boys from time to time.

Melissa, we learn, is the principal of the local primary school where Jasper is due to begin on Tuesday. Stretch vaguely describes himself as an environmental scientist but doesn’t seem keen to discuss his career.

After lunch, Melissa struggles to her feet and stretches tall, her arms reaching skyward before she turns to me. ‘How about a walk?’

I reach for my camera and jump to my feet. ‘Sounds good.’

We leave the men by the fire with their beers and stroll along the shoreline at a relaxed pace, an easy silence settling between us.

‘So, how far along are you?’ I ask eventually, my gaze straying to Melissa’s stomach.

Melissa rubs her bump beneath the fabric of her dress and smiles. ‘Five weeks to go now, give or take. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m a bit mad going for number three, but …’

‘You’d like a girl?’ I ask, knowingly.

Melissa laughs. ‘Stupid, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all,’ I disagree. ‘I would have loved another baby myself. A girl. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes think it would be nice to balance up the genders in our little family. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so grateful to have Jasper. But things got complicated after he was born and I’ve been warned I’ll probably never be able to conceive again.’

Melissa’s smile fades. ‘What happened? You don’t have to answer, but sometimes it helps to talk. But only if you want to.’

Melissa’s easy, open communication style disarms me. Apart from Marion, I’ve never talked to anyone about the medical disaster I suffered after Jasper’s birth. The other new mothers I’d met at mothers’ group seemed to think the best way for all of us to cope with what had happened was to not talk about it. In fairness, I was probably giving off a strong ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ vibe myself.

I steal another glance at Melissa, the epitome of a fertile goddess. Without asking, I reach across and touch her stomach, but she just smiles and presses my hand firmer against her bump. It’s warm and hard, like a balloon about to pop.

Once I begin telling her what happened after Jasper was born, I can’t seem to stop. I tell her about the retained placenta. About the terrifying haemorrhaging six weeks later. About the gynaecologist who botched the operation to remove the placenta, resulting in a large section of my bowel and small intestine being sucked away.

Melissa squeezes my hand. A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it away. It feels good to talk about it. Amid the busyness of mothering, I’d mostly pushed away the memories of the months following Jasper’s birth. But ever since the deaths of Courtney and her unborn baby, the painful memories have returned, more intense than ever. Some days I almost forget who it is I’m mourning, Courtney or myself.

‘So, what happened after that?’ Melissa asks.

I take a deep breath to steady my voice. ‘Instead of telling anyone else in the medical team what he’d done, the gyno went home and turned off his phone. The hospital was short-staffed and it took a lot of people a long time to work out why I was in so much pain. By lunchtime the following day, the septicaemia had spread and I needed emergency surgery, which thankfully saved my life but left me with a colostomy bag and extensive damage to my uterus.’

Melissa gasps. ‘Jesus.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘The bag was only temporary – six months – but the damage to the uterus was permanent. Basically, my medical advice is that even if my period does one day return – which it hasn’t – it would be risky for me to ever carry another child to full term.’

Knowing I don’t deserve the sympathy Melissa is offering me, I studiously avoid her gaze. My memory returns to the morning after the accident, when two police officers arrived at our house to tell me Courtney had been killed on her way to North Shore Private Hospital to deliver her first baby, a little girl. The news hit me like a punch. As I fell to the floor, the room spun and turned black. When I regained consciousness, I began to howl, but whether I was crying for Courtney’s baby or the one I longed for but would now never have, I was no longer sure.

Melissa’s hand on my shoulder returns me to the beach.

‘Fucking arsehole.’ There’s a quietly furious edge to Melissa’s voice that makes me feel good. ‘That doctor’s incompetence, his arrogance, is just so …’

I allow Melissa time to find her words. Sometimes, as I know too well, the right words just won’t come. Sometimes they don’t exist.

‘That doctor should have been banned from practising for life after what he did to you.’ Melissa stops walking and turns to face me. ‘You know, medicine is always advancing, finding new ways—’

‘It’s okay.’ My voice is sharper than I intended. ‘Jon and I accept it. It’s probably for the best anyway.’ Melissa nods, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t offer any further comments. I feel like I’ve said far too much today as it is. ‘I suppose we’d better get back.’

We retrace our steps along the beach, the sound of the waves softening the silence between us. When we arrive, the men are sitting quietly too, watching the boys still at play.

‘So, what kind of science work do you do, Stretch?’ I probe one last time.

Stretch and Melissa exchange a look so swift and subtle I wonder if I imagined it. For the second time, Melissa answers the question for him.

‘Stretch is a marine biologist,’ she says. ‘He won’t tell you that. He’ll say he’s a greeny, or a hippy, but the truth is he’s got qualifications coming out his backside, including a doctorate.’

Jon and I wait for Stretch to expand on Melissa’s introduction, but instead he picks up a stick and pokes at the fire’s dying embers. The wood’s run out but nobody’s offered to go and collect any more and I realise the afternoon’s coming to an end.

‘Well, that’s impressive,’ Jon says, propping himself up straighter from his relaxed position on the sand. ‘Who do you work for?’

Stretch snaps the stick and throws it into the fire. ‘Myself, pretty much,’ he replies. ‘Gives me time to do other things I’m interested in.’

Melissa jumps in again. ‘He was with James Cook University in Cairns for a long time, heading up the marine research centre. Before that, we lived in the South Pacific for a few years. Stretch headed up the science faculty at the main Laucala campus in Suva, Fiji.’ She pauses to give him a quick wink. ‘It was a magic time, before we had kids.’

‘I can guess from your height at how you came by your nickname,’ Jon says. ‘But what’s your actual name?’

‘Marcus Spender.’ Stretch takes a long sip from his bottle of beer.

‘Doctor Marcus Spender,’ Melissa adds with a proud smile.

Jon frowns and gives Stretch a long look. ‘Now, why do I know that name?’ he asks. He begins to chew on the inside of his cheek the way he does when something’s bothering him.

Stretch shrugs.

‘His coral reef research is pretty well known in this part of the world,’ Melissa offers, lifting her head from where she’s been resting it against Stretch’s long legs. She rolls onto her side to make the job of standing up in the soft sand a little easier.

Jon clicks his fingers and we all look in his direction.

‘We’ve spoken on the phone,’ he says, pointing towards Stretch. ‘You’re head of Supporters of Greater Daintree Shire.’

I shoot Jon a quizzical look.

‘The community group lobbying against the forced merger,’ he explains.

But Stretch is now busy extinguishing the fire’s small embers and helping Melissa to her feet. ‘We should really get going,’ he says, brushing the sand from the back of Melissa’s dress.

Jon nods, but he’s still distracted. ‘Sure. Say, we’re due to meet next week, aren’t we?’ he asks Stretch.

Now it’s Stretch’s turn to nod. He does so with a smile. ‘Yeah, I’m looking forward to finding out more about your environmental work,’ he says.

I subtly prod Jon’s arm to try to get his attention, being careful to keep my voice low. ‘Environmental work?’

Jon edges away from me, ignoring the warning tone in my voice. ‘My time with Greenpeace was pretty amazing,’ he tells Stretch. ‘But it was a long time ago. My sole focus now is on protecting the Greater Daintree Shire.’

Stretch considers Jon’s words and smiles. ‘You know, I have a confession to make. I was a bit cynical about an outsider being given the GM position at Council, particularly someone out of Sydney. I didn’t count on the mayor finding someone as well credentialled as you, with not just the government experience, but the environmental creds as well.’

Jon’s expression shifts and I can see the compliment sits comfortably with him. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he replies. ‘That means a lot. I’m certainly determined to give this merger issue the attention and priority it deserves. The community needs someone to fight for them.’

Stretch opens his mouth to reply but then changes his mind, pursing his lips instead.

Jon claps his hands. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he says. ‘Are you guys free on the twenty-seventh of next month?’

The date is instantly familiar. My birthday.

‘I think so, yeah,’ Melissa replies. ‘That’s around the time I’m due. What’s the occasion?’

‘Jen’s fortieth.’ Jon smiles. ‘I’m throwing her a party. Our place. Come around six-thirty. No need to bring anything except yourselves. It’ll be great to see you there.’

I turn to Jon in surprise. ‘You didn’t tell me you were planning a party. I’m not sure I’m keen to celebrate turning forty.’

Jon’s smile warms as his arm finds its usual position around my shoulders. He squeezes me tight.

‘You can’t be forty,’ Stretch and Melissa protest at the same time, making my cheeks grow warm.

‘We’ll be there,’ Melissa says, then turns to me. ‘But I’ll see you before then, at school on Tuesday morning. Jasper will be sharing a class with Jye, so don’t worry about him not knowing anyone. And I’ll keep an eye on him too, make sure he settles in okay.’

We say our goodbyes and Jon begins to pack up the picnic basket as Jasper scoots ahead of us up the pathway to the house. At my feet, Saskia looks up at me expectantly.

‘I might just walk Saskia down to the end of the beach and take a few more shots,’ I tell Jon, indicating my camera. ‘The light’s going to be good for another hour or so.’ I kiss him lightly on the cheek, then make my way across the sand with Saskia by my side before Jon has a chance to voice an objection.

He says something in reply, but his voice is lost to the wind.

I pretend not to have heard it and quicken my pace.

Chapter Nine

I lose track of time on the now-deserted beach and forget all about my camera. Melissa’s friendly vitality lingers as I watch Saskia explore a new stretch of the shoreline, enveloping me in a cosy glow.

Small waves rush across my feet, leaving bubbles of white foam on my skin, as I stroll along the ocean’s edge. A seagull swoops down beside me, then ascends back into the sky. I imagine how Saskia and I must appear from the gull’s vantage point so high above us – two tiny specks, perhaps just dots, on this vast, rugged expanse of sand, ocean and ancient rainforest. The notion that we are blended with, and somehow part of, the minutiae of this wild and beautiful landscape is strangely comforting.

My thoughts return to Melissa and I contemplate my good fortune to have so quickly found a friend. And not just any friend, but someone who’s going to help Jasper settle into his new school.

Before the car accident, I’d taken my social life – such as it was – for granted. Getting out and about with a newborn, then an active toddler, wasn’t always easy, but most days I’d manage to get myself organised to the point that I was able to get Jasper bundled into the car to make the quick trip to the local shopping village. Over time, I came to know all the shopkeepers. In a city of almost six million people, I began to feel like I was among friends in our little village.

Unlike the women in my mothers’ group, none of the people in the village were aware of the silent grief I carried as a consequence of the botched surgery after Jasper’s birth. As far as they were concerned, I was a perfectly normal, healthy, happy first-time mother whose biggest daily dilemma was deciding what to cook for dinner that night, manoeuvring her pram from shop to shop in search of ingredients. Among them I was complete, whole.

My social life expanded when Jasper began ‘big school’ and a friendly kindergarten mum invited me to join her group for coffee at a nearby cafe. This one-off invitation turned into a regular Friday-morning get-together, the coffee our reward for making it through the hour-long school assembly.

After the accident, I shopped online, stopped attending the weekly assembly and, after what felt like a bombardment of caring text messages …

How are you?

We miss you.

We’re here for you.

Is there anything I can do to help?

… I changed my phone number. This slightly extreme measure was as much for their good as mine. Once all the details about the accident came out in court and the media, the lovely friendly school mums wouldn’t want anything more to do with me. Why would they? I couldn’t even stand to look at my own reflection in the mirror. Riding out the shame felt doable so long as I kept it tightly contained within the four walls of my house.

As I waited out the days and nights before the court case, I prepared myself for the very real possibility of a jail sentence. A woman and her unborn baby were dead. Her husband had survived but suffered horrific head injuries that had left him in a coma. Jail was nothing less than I deserved.

But then the magistrate had surprised the entire court when he’d agreed with my lawyer, Paul Lago, that while the accident had not technically been a ‘blameless incident’, there were other factors that needed to be taken into consideration when determining my sentence.

First was the evidence provided by the National Parks head ranger, who testified that growing numbers of oversized kangaroo bucks in the Northern Beaches area had become an increasing danger to motorists and had, in fact, been identified as a direct cause of eleven car accidents during the past twelve months alone. Despite this being well publicised, and locals having petitioned for the animals to be culled or relocated, National Parks staff had not yet decided on the best way of responding to the issue.

Secondly, the magistrate noted, was the defendant’s impeccable driving record.

‘I agree with the defence, and it is duly noted for the record that the defendant has held a full Class C driver’s licence for all of her adult life and that during this time she has incurred zero driving or traffic offences.’

The third factor worthy of consideration, according to the magistrate, was my parental status.

‘It is further noted the defendant’s occupation is currently listed as a full-time parent and that she is the primary carer of her four-year-old son. That her son depends upon his mother for his daily care and wellbeing is not disputed, noting that the father works long hours in a government role.’

In response to the prosecution’s attempts to highlight that I’d recorded an alcohol reading during the hours after the accident, the magistrate had noted that the reading fell well below the legal limit of 0.05.

After considering the police prosecutor’s evidence and charge of dangerous driving causing death, as well as Paul’s lengthy defence detailing how and why I swerved to avoid the kangaroo, the magistrate ultimately imposed a six-month licence suspension and a $10,000 fine. The accident, he told the court, had been just that: a terrible tragedy caused by a split-second decision that was not unreasonable under the circumstances, but which had ultimately led to the fatal collision with an oncoming vehicle.

While the court’s ruling was unbelievably good news, it only served to make me feel worse. Little did I realise then my problems were really only just beginning. In reporting the trial, the media went to town, insinuating that Marion’s extensive legal networks had been a factor in the leniency of the sentence. Wasn’t it true that the magistrate had been a guest at Marion’s sixtieth birthday party? Wasn’t it also true that Marion was one of the most prominent lawyers in the country, making it impossible for me to ever be given a truly impartial hearing?

The media’s less than subtle allegations ignited all the social media platforms, forcing me to shut down my Facebook and Instagram accounts. As I was soon to discover, the young woman who had been killed in the accident, Courtney Le Brocq, was not only an expectant first-time mother, but a popular social media influencer with over a hundred thousand followers. Understandably, they were heartbroken when their idol had been so tragically taken from them.

Once the court’s findings were out in the public arena, they at last had someone to blame.

Me.

The memory chills me and I rub the bare skin on my arms. Another seagull swoops down close to me with a hungry cry and I realise Saskia and I have almost reached the southern bank of the Daintree River. To my left, the river flows long and lazy before it bends sharply to the right and disappears out of sight. The water is flanked on both sides by clusters of low-hanging trees that cast long shadows across its surface. In the distance, above pockets of cloud, the Daintree mountains rise, their ancient rocky ridges and forested valley floors composed in a timeless palette of rapidly darkening greens and blues.

I lift the camera and snap a couple of half-hearted shots, knowing the lens I grabbed quickly when Jon interrupted me searching the photography boxes earlier this morning isn’t going to be powerful enough to compensate for the disappearing light. The sun has now sunk behind the highest mountain peak, leaving no trace of its earlier brilliance in the sky. I fiddle with the camera’s aperture, then give up, letting the camera hang loose around my neck.

Somewhere in the sky, a low roll of thunder grumbles and I look up, surprised to see black clouds gathering above us. A large drop of water lands on my bare shoulder and I tuck the camera under my singlet before I turn and whistle to Saskia, then begin a slow jog back along the beach, reawakening the neglected muscles in my thighs and abdomen. Halfway along the beach, the rain becomes heavier. I up my pace, endorphins pulsing a renewed surge of energy through my body. Sensing my urgency, Saskia gallops past me, following our scent back to the path that leads to home.

Fifteen minutes later, puffing hard, I find her waiting, still panting, at the start of the path.

‘Don’t go off on your own,’ I tell her, rubbing her head as I gulp the moist air and wipe the perspiration from my forehead. ‘You heard what Stretch said.’

As we tread along the path, the rainforest closes in overhead, protecting us from the rain. I retrieve my camera from under my singlet and shake the water from my hair. With Saskia in the lead, we climb the steep sandy incline. After a while, I stoop to rub the tightness in the backs of my calves. When I stand back up, there’s no sign of Saskia.

The rolls of thunder grow louder. The shadows in the rainforest are darker now, but a movement in the bush off to the right catches my attention. I pause and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. One section of the shadows appears more solid than the rest. My eyes scan the silhouette, a slow beat of panic rising in my chest as I register the outline of what looks like a head above broad shoulders and a torso.

A man.

My eyes flit across the mottled darkness and I realise I’ve stopped breathing. I tell myself to run but my legs don’t respond.

‘Hello?’ I call, automatically lifting my camera and switching it on. But when I lift the viewfinder to my eye, the shadow is gone.

‘Fuck,’ I swear softly, then sprint the rest of the way home through the soft sand.

When I reach the safety of the backyard, warm lights from the house reveal Saskia stretched out on the grass. I take one last look behind me. The forest stands still and silent in the darkness and I wonder, for a moment, if the man in the shadows was just a shadow after all.

Back inside the house, I find Jon sipping wine out on the balcony. A mouth-watering aroma drifts from meat sizzling on the barbecue.

‘Where’s Jasper?’ I ask, placing my camera on the table.

Jon smiles. ‘Showered and upstairs in front of a movie. He’s pooped.’

I head into the kitchen and return with a wine glass, holding it out for Jon to fill from the half-full bottle beside him.

‘You were gone a while,’ he says.

I nod absently. ‘Sas and I walked all the way up to the Daintree River. I didn’t realise how far it was. The light wasn’t much good for photos. I’ll unpack my photography gear tomorrow, find the rest of my lenses. I thought I saw a man in the forest by the path.’

‘A man?’ Jon asks.

I nod. ‘Or perhaps it was a shadow that looked like a man. It was getting dark.’

Jon shrugs. ‘It’s a public path. There’s nothing stopping anyone walking around down there. Not anyone you recognised?’

‘I couldn’t make out any features. Just a silhouette. Or at least I think it was a silhouette.’

My stomach rumbles loudly, even though I enjoyed my fair share of Melissa’s delicious frittata. I spot a bowl of potato chips on the table and reach for one, my mouth watering in response to the salty crunch.

‘Don’t ruin your appetite.’ Jon lightly smacks my hand with the barbecue tongs.

‘Melissa and Stretch are lovely, aren’t they?’ I help myself to another small handful.

‘Jen, seriously. You’re not going to want any of this chicken.’

I drop half the chips back into the bowl. ‘You’ve been saying I need to eat more. It’s good to feel hungry for a change.’

Jon holds the bowl towards me with a smile. ‘Fine. Go for it, grumpy.’

I pull a face and pop another chip in my mouth. ‘You seemed to enjoy yourself today.’

Jon is focused on turning the meat. His back is half-turned so I can’t read his face, but his voice is amicable. ‘Yeah, Melissa and Stretch seem nice enough.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were planning on throwing me a birthday party.’

Jon turns and smiles. ‘Forty’s special. It’s a big number.’

‘Not as big as fifty-two.’

Our twelve-year age difference has been a source of mild amusement to both of us ever since we met, but I’ve noticed that as the years have progressed Jon has become less keen to discuss his age. Predictably, he changes the subject.

‘Jasper and I put out the carrots and brandy for the Easter Bunny. It’s cute how excited he gets.’

I slap my hand against my forehead. ‘Shit. Easter eggs. Did you think to get any? I forgot all about it.’

Jon gestures towards the kitchen. ‘In the fridge.’

I discover the Easter eggs hidden in a shopping bag that takes up almost half a shelf. As I pull it out to examine the contents, Jon follows me into the kitchen carrying the cooked chicken on a baking tray.

‘Wow, you really went overboard,’ I tell him.

He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Jasper’s Easter eggs. He’s going to go nuts tomorrow if he eats all these.’

Jon takes the bag from me, has a quick look inside it, then returns it to the fridge. ‘I asked Bree to pick up some eggs for Jasper on her way here yesterday. I haven’t even looked in the bag.’

An unpleasant tingle of possessiveness extinguishes my banter. It should have been me who remembered to buy Jasper’s Easter eggs. I’m his mother. That’s my job. How could I have forgotten?

Jon casts me a long look. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘You’ve got that look.’

‘What look?’

‘Honestly, Jen, you’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself.’ Jon wraps his arms around me. ‘We’ll take things slowly, okay? I don’t expect you to remember everything, and it’s good we can rely on Bree to help us out until you get back on top of things.’

‘I should have remembered.’

Jon sighs. ‘Okay, you should have remembered. But you didn’t. So in the meantime, let’s make the most of having Bree around to help, okay?’ I nod and attempt a smile and Jon kisses me gently on the lips. ‘Now, where’s your wine glass? I’ll top us up before dinner.’

Chapter Ten

‘How many people are you planning on inviting to the party?’

We’re enjoying a lazy day at home on our own. The sky is clear blue. A small breeze sweeps our skin, keeping us cool. Jon rolls onto his back on the sunlounge, his eyes sleepy. He yawns loudly, then folds his arms behind his head and crosses his legs.

‘At least thirty, maybe forty,’ he replies. ‘I’ve already invited the mayor and all the councillors, so that’s seven, plus Council’s executive team, which is another twenty, plus a few people I’ve met in the business community, some media, Melissa and Stretch, us, so, yeah, probably close to forty.’

‘What about Bree and Bill?’

Jon nods, nonchalant. ‘Yeah, sure. Bree can help out with Jasper. Give you a night off.’

In the pool, Jasper squeals and splashes around in the water with Saskia. A spray of cool water hits my bare leg on the sunlounge.

I glare in his direction. ‘Careful, you’re wetting my phone.’

Jon gives me a disapproving look. ‘What are you doing on that thing anyway? You should be relaxing. Make the most of this sun while we’ve got it. It never seems to stop raining in this bloody place.’

‘I was just researching ideas for food for the party. I didn’t realise we’d have so many guests. That’s a lot of people to cater for.’

Jon lets out a snort. ‘Forty’s nothing compared to how many people Marion had at her sixtieth.’

We’re on dangerous ground. I decide to change the subject. ‘You mentioned media. Does that include the editor of the local newspaper, Blythe Drovandi?’

‘I’ve sent her an invite, but I haven’t heard back. I get the feeling I’m not exactly her favourite person. She’s in tight with the mayor and the green-brigade.’

‘I think I know her.’

Jon sits up a little straighter on his sunlounge. ‘You do? How?’

‘I went to uni with a journalism student by the same name. She was from Queensland. Have you met her?’

Jon nods. ‘Of course. A couple of times. She’s one of those feminist types. Single. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a dyke.’

‘Long curly red hair?’

Jon nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘About my age?’

He shrugs. ‘Guess so. Tall, slim, she would have been a knock-out when she was younger.’

I smile. ‘Yep, that sounds like Blythe. I’ll look her up next week and say hi.’

‘Mention the party. I’m not her biggest fan either but it would be useful if she began to listen to me a bit more than the mayor.’

‘Sure.’

I reapply sunscreen to my arms and legs, then get up to rub some across Jon’s back and shoulders. His muscles glisten in the sun and I pay particular attention to his lower neck, massaging away the knots I find there.

‘So, what are you thinking for food for the party, anyway?’ I ask. ‘A barbecue?’

‘Yeah, that’s probably easiest,’ he agrees. ‘And seafood. There’s a trawler that brings fresh local prawns in every weekend. Mud crabs. Prawns. Oysters. We can make up some salads and cheese platters. Maybe Bree can help out with the food prep.’

Jon rolls onto his stomach as I wipe my hands on my towel.

‘I’d better get Jasper some lunch. All he’s had today is chocolate and mango and it’s almost three o’clock.’

‘Grab us some wine while you’re inside,’ Jon says, his voice muffled against his towel. ‘And maybe a snack.’

Inside the cool kitchen, I take my time preparing a ham and salad sandwich for Jasper and a small charcuterie platter – cheese, salami, pickles and bread – for Jon and me, picking hungrily at the food as I arrange it. Once I’m done, I load up a carry tray with our food, a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.

I retrace my steps across the balcony towards the pool, being careful to keep the contents of the tray evenly balanced. The pool area is quiet, Jasper’s earlier sounds of splashing and shouting replaced by a chorus of cicadas from the rainforest below. The sound takes me back to summers growing up on Sydney’s Northern Beaches peninsula – weekend walks with Marion across the scrubby headlands overlooking the ocean, just the two of us, my small hand warm and safe in hers.

At the pool gate, I transfer the tray to my hip to free up a hand to undo the latch. As I do so, I glance towards the pool and freeze, a scream stuck in my throat. The tray slips from my hand but all I’m able to register in this moment is the fact Jasper is floating face-down in the water, his back a small turtle-shell arc, his arms and legs submerged beneath the water, his fair hair splayed like a perfect golden halo around his head.

The shrill sound of shattering glass spurs me into action. I unlatch the gate and then I’m running towards the pool in slow motion, my legs barely moving, a guttural sound choking back my words. Somewhere close by, Saskia barks. My voice returns, hoarse and low.

‘Jasper!’

I’m vaguely aware of a movement at the opposite end of the pool. In my peripheral vision, I see Jon rise from his sunlounge, the movement, like mine, far too slow. My eyes register him in a series of freeze frames, like poorly executed jump cuts in a low-budget film. His book crashes onto the pavers then bounces into the water.

Jon and I leap into the water at the same time, our movements ungainly.

As my arms fight the water, I suck in a lungful of liquid and an agonising pain fills my head and chest. I gasp for air, all the while moving towards Jasper. As last, my hands connect with his small body and I pull him towards me, but he resists, pushes me away. I break through the water’s surface to find Jasper and Jon laughing. Laughing. Their fingers point at me.

‘Tricked you, Mum!’ Jasper cries. ‘We tricked you.’ Still gasping, I tread water and watch Jasper throw his arms around his father’s neck. ‘We got her a good one, Dad, didn’t we?’

A heady combination of emotions – joy, relief and fury – compete for dominance. Relief initially wins out and hot tears spill across my cheeks. I hide them behind my hands as I tread water and try to force my breathing to slow down. But there is a tightness inside my chest, squeezing my heart, cutting off my oxygen. I fight to breathe but my body no longer seems capable of responding to simple orders. A scream uncoils inside my head, and I’m drifting below the water’s surface. Jon’s hand lifts my head and the familiarity of his touch returns me to the cruel ring of giggles from Jasper. The first slap I deliver in his direction is slowed by the water but I manage to scrape the side of his shoulder. The second slap fails to connect at all, my strength and senses dulled with shock. I follow up with a volley of slaps, but Jasper’s now far from my reach and I’m alone in the churned water. Through the spray of water that stings my eyes, I catch sight of Jasper’s face. Small and scared. He’s not smiling anymore.

‘You little shit,’ I shout between gulps. ‘Get out! Get out of this fucking pool now.’ Jasper swims past me, less than an arm’s length away. I lunge forward and push his head underwater then, immediately horrified, pull away from him. But as his head resurfaces, I begin to shout and can’t seem to stop. ‘You want to drown? I’ll help you fucking-well drown. How does it feel?’

Jasper swims faster, dog-paddling to the pool steps as he begins to blubber.

Then Jon is beside me, pulling me into a bear-hug so tight my breath whooshes from my lungs.

‘Jon, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,’ I gasp. ‘Let me go.’ He loosens his grip just a little and I burst into fresh tears. ‘I thought he was dead, Jon,’ I sob, each word coming out in a series of short gasps. ‘I actually thought he was dead.’

Jon turns to Jasper. ‘Head upstairs please, mate. I’ll be there in a minute.’

Unlike mine, Jon’s voice is calm and measured, he is the responsible grown-up. Jasper now has his towel wrapped around him. Despite the heat, his little body is shaking. I ache to hold him. He stares at me and doesn’t move.

Jon gives him a reassuring nod. ‘Go on. Go and get dry and dressed. Put a movie on. I’m going to look after Mummy for a little while. And watch out for that broken glass. Step around it, mate.’

‘Sorry, Mummy,’ Jasper says as he starts to move towards the gate. ‘Mummy? Mummy, please don’t cry.’

I give a feeble nod in response, my vision blurred with tears. I hear the pool gate shut and Jon is guiding me up the pool steps, removing my dripping T-shirt, wrapping me in a towel.

‘That wasn’t funny, Jon.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘Did you—’

‘Of course not, Jen. I had no idea what Jasper was up to.’

‘But he said—’

‘He’s a kid, Jen. It was a stupid thing to do. I’ll talk to him about it. It’ll never happen again, I promise you.’

Blood is pooling across the pavers from a deep cut in the bottom of my right foot. I look at it in surprise. I hadn’t felt the glass slice my skin.

Jon guides me to the sunlounge. ‘Sit down. Wait.’ He disappears inside the house, reappearing a few minutes later with some bandages and antiseptic. He bathes my foot, then dresses it, then disappears again. This time he returns with a glass of water and two familiar yellow pills. I stare at them longingly.

‘No thanks,’ I tell Jon, pushing his hand away. ‘I don’t need them anymore. I haven’t taken any for a month. I’ve been good. I’m okay.’

Jon sits down on the opposite sunlounge and takes my hands in his. ‘Jen, you most certainly are not okay. You’re shaking like a leaf. These will help take the edge off. Swallow them, then I’m putting you into bed. Hopefully you’ll feel calmer when you wake up.’

I take the pills and swallow them greedily.

‘We need to get you driving again.’ Jon’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from a long way away, an echo chasing itself out the end of a long dark tunnel. ‘Jen? Are you awake? Can you hear me?’

His words bring me spiralling back to a world of early-morning stillness. My body feels heavier than usual and my right arm is numb. I move it a little and it begins to tingle unpleasantly with pins and needles. I roll my tongue inside my mouth, discovering a familiar chemical sleeping-pill taste. Reluctantly, I open one eye. Outside the window, the sky is pale and grey. I close my eyes and push my face into my pillow.

A hollow feeling pulses in the pit of my stomach as Jon’s words sink in. Then the memory of yesterday’s incident in the pool returns. I bury my face deeper in the soft feathery down.

But Jon’s voice is firm. ‘You need to drive Jasper to school tomorrow.’

He sits up in bed, pulling the doona with him. I yank it back over me. He yanks it harder, then rolls me onto my back, eyeing my bare breasts. I try to remember if I brushed my teeth before I went to bed, but I can’t. Did Jon undress me or did I do it myself? My head hurts with the effort of trying to remember.

Jon throws the doona all the way off us onto the floor. ‘I know you don’t want to, but the reality is you don’t have any choice. I can’t keep chauffeuring you and Jasper around forever. I have a job.’

I groan, but nod in agreement. ‘Just let me shower first.’

In the bathroom, I ignore the hot water tap and stand beneath a stream of cold water, trying to wash away my growing sense of dread.

I dress and make my way to the kitchen, where Jon hands me a cup of hot black coffee and a piece of toast lathered in butter and Vegemite.

‘You’d better eat this. You missed dinner.’

I take a bite, but the bread sits like a rock in my stomach, so I feed the rest to Saskia when Jon’s not looking. Across the table, Jasper watches me warily as he spoons the last of his cereal into his mouth.

‘I’m taking Mum for a drive,’ Jon tells him. ‘Put your dishes in the sink, then head upstairs and do your teeth. Bree will be here in a minute to look after you while we’re gone.’

‘Bree? On Easter Monday?’

‘She doesn’t mind. I spoke to her last night.’

I nod. ‘Oh, okay.’

As I stare out the window, I listen to Jasper drop his bowl into the kitchen sink then pad across the concrete floor and clamber noisily up the wooden stairs to his room. I drain the last drop of liquid from my coffee cup, savouring the bitter taste. A knock sounds at the front door.

‘Ready?’ Jon asks. His tone is business-like, no-nonsense. He’s making no secret of the fact he expects me to get this driving thing under control. ‘You head out to the garage. I’ll let Bree in and meet you out there.’

I limp on my bandaged foot along the hallway past the now-familiar rooms and open the door to the garage, grateful I’ve been able to squeeze my foot into a rubber thong. Up against the far wall are my photography boxes. I eye them longingly.

The thought of driving produces a hollow feeling in my stomach, but I concentrate on maintaining a calm demeanour, remembering a piece of advice I’d read in one of the self-help books Jon recently gave me.

I am what I think.

Think calm.

Two brand-new vehicles are parked inside the garage: a large silver four-wheel drive and a smaller white SUV. Both of them carry maroon and white Queensland numberplates. My palms grow moist and I wipe them across my shorts. Jon enters the garage and makes his way towards the large silver vehicle. He opens the driver’s door.

‘This one’s yours,’ he tells me. ‘It’s the safest on the market and has lots of room for you and Jasper. And Saskia.’

I eye it suspiciously. ‘It’s lovely.’

Jon clicks a small black remote control and the roller door lifts. A pale shaft of early-morning light widens across the concrete floor, and fresh air dilutes the potent smell of car oil, rubber tyres and old exhaust fumes.

‘Come on,’ Jon says. ‘Hop in.’

I take a deep breath and inch myself into the driver’s seat, then spend a couple of moments familiarising myself with the gears, pedals, mirrors and dashboard.

Jon slides into the passenger seat beside me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’ I flash him a quick smile but my eyes don’t quite meet his. I fasten my seatbelt and place my foot on the brake as I press the ignition button and listen to the engine start up. I push the gearstick into reverse and gently press down on the accelerator. The car glides effortlessly into the morning light, elevating my confidence.

‘Where are we headed?’ I ask Jon, pushing the gearstick into first gear and adjusting my rear-view mirror.

‘Head down the driveway, then turn left onto the main road. We’ll drive into Mossman so I can show you Jasper’s school and give you a feel for the layout of the town.’

I steer the car towards the top of the driveway. My breath catches as I navigate the steep descent. When we reach the main road, an oversized cattle truck roars past and I panic, jumping on the brake. The car leapfrogs forward onto the road, then stalls, directly in the path of another oncoming cattle truck.

‘Quick, Jen,’ Jon exclaims. ‘Turn the engine back on, reverse.’

Even though my mind understands his instructions, my body is frozen. A film of sweat breaks out across my forehead.

‘Jen, engine!’ Jon repeats, his voice rising.

Still, I’m unable to move.

Jon reaches across and presses the engine on.

‘Clutch,’ he orders. ‘Put your foot on the clutch.’ As I do so, he shifts the gearstick into reverse. He shakes my shoulder. Hard.

‘Accelerator, Jen, now!’

I press my foot down hard on the accelerator and the car reverses to the safety of the driveway with seconds to spare, earning us a long horn blast and a dirty look from the truck driver as he passes by.

My heart hammers in my chest and my knuckles grow white on the steering wheel.

For a long while, we sit in silence. Eventually, Jon lets out a loud sigh and turns to me.

‘I’m not sure this is going to work,’ he says.

I can’t make myself meet his gaze. ‘You’re not sure what’s not going to work?’ I whisper.

‘I’ll ask Bree if she’s free to take Jasper to school this week, just to give you a bit more time to get this driving phobia under control.’

‘No.’ My voice is sharp.

‘She’d be happy to help. I think you need a bit longer.’

I face him now. ‘Do you seriously think I’m not going to take Jasper to his first day at a new school?’

As Jon turns to look out his window, I notice a creep of scarlet on the skin of his neck. ‘To be honest, it’s not just this driving phobia that bothers me.’

‘What do you mean?’

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. His fingers tap out a rhythm on the dashboard. ‘This anger thing you’ve got going on,’ he says, finally turning to look at me. ‘You really frightened Jasper yesterday. And you frightened me.’

A sensation like cobwebs sweeps across my arms, making me feel sticky and trapped. Another large truck rumbles past. Jon waits for the roar of its engine to die down before he continues.

‘To be honest, I’m not even sure I should be leaving you alone with Jasper right now.’

His words land like a blow to my stomach.

‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, my voice a squeak. ‘I’ve just spent a month looking after Jasper on my own in Sydney. I’m a good mother.’ My hand tingles to slap Jon, to claw at his face. Instead, I clasp my hands in my lap and bite down so hard on my lip I taste blood. I turn to him and smile. ‘Look, this is all a huge overreaction. You’re meant to be taking me for a drive, so let’s drive.’

Before he can disagree, I push the gear into place and accelerate. The car glides across the smooth bitumen surface.

An hour later, I’ve completed, without further mishap, a full lap of the Mossman township, including a loop of the boys’ school at the tiny sugar-cane farming village of Miallo. Throughout the drive, Jon remains quiet, only speaking to give a direction or to point out the local butcher, baker and shopping centre. I listen attentively, giving my full concentration to the task at hand.

By the time I extinguish the car’s engine back home in the garage, I’m practically jubilant. I lean across and kiss Jon on the cheek, allowing my hand to linger high up on his thigh.

‘You see, my darling? The driving phobia is sorted. You’ve really got nothing to worry about. Jasper’s one hundred per cent safe with me.’

Chapter Eleven

‘Is there anything else I can do to help you while I’m here?’

Jon’s phone started ringing almost as soon as our driving lesson was over, leaving me alone with Bree. She hovers near the kitchen bench while I busy myself with the coffee machine. Jon’s voice drifts from the lounge room. Judging from his professional tone, it’s another work call. He’s fielded a number of them over the Easter weekend.

His voice grows louder so I can make out some of his conversation. Bree listens too, her head turned towards the sound. ‘I’m pushing as hard as I can, Eva. The State Government will be reluctant to agree to hold a public referendum, but if we keep agitating for it, you never know. It’s really the only way we can stop the merger going ahead. We’ve got to find a way to make a referendum happen.’

His voice fades away again and I imagine him pacing back and forth across the room. I take a quick sip of my coffee. ‘No, we’re all good, Bree. We’ve already asked enough of you coming to look after Jasper on a public holiday. Thank you. Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a coffee?’

Bree shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t really drink coffee.’

I gesture towards the lounge room. ‘Sounds like Jon’s on the phone to your grandmother.’

Bree pulls a face, which makes her look even younger. ‘Yeah, Eva’s pretty much a workaholic, especially lately.’

‘You call her by her name?’

Bree nods. ‘She doesn’t like to be reminded she’s a grandmother, so I’ve never been allowed to call her Nana or Grandma. I don’t mind. She doesn’t exactly look like a grandmother.’

I smile. ‘She reminds me of my mother, Marion. She’s never let me call her Mum. It’s always been Marion or Maz. Half the time people don’t even realise we’re mother and daughter. We’re more like sisters, I guess. She was very young when she had me.’

I’m not sure why I’m sharing all of this with Bree, but she seems to change her mind about leaving and pulls up a kitchen stool, her expression interested.

‘How young?’

I wince. ‘Twenty.’

Bree’s eyes widen. ‘Shit, that is young. What about your father?’

I shrug. ‘I didn’t know him. He died before I was born, overseas where he came from. Somewhere in Italy. Maz rarely talks about him.’

‘She never met anyone else?’

I laugh. ‘No way. Maz is married to her career too. Like Eva. She’s a lawyer.’

Bree frowns, her expression turning to one of disapproval. ‘All that career stuff isn’t for me. I want a big family. I’m only really studying because Eva’s paying for it.’

Bree’s words surprise me. ‘Really? Jon said you’re an incredibly bright student.’

Bree’s chin juts forward and her gaze hardens. ‘You don’t need to be dumb to want a family.’

I immediately regret my words. ‘Oh, Bree, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course not. I guess I just find it a bit unusual because you’re so young. I didn’t have Jasper until I was in my mid-thirties. Practically ancient.’

‘But you don’t regret it do you?’

Again, Bree’s words make me feel like I’ve said something wrong. ‘No, no, of course not.’

Bree stands up from her stool, her movement abrupt. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

‘Thanks again,’ I call after her, but she doesn’t reply. Remorse floods through me and I suddenly feel like a relic, completely out of touch with the younger generation.

I catch up with her at her car. ‘Bree, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

She picks at her keyring and mumbles a reply. ‘That’s okay.’ When she looks up, I’m surprised to see moisture in her eyes. ‘It’s just … my family think I don’t have any ambition. It’s hard, you know, with Eva a mayor and my parents owning so many businesses. I don’t feel like I fit in with any of them.’

I experience a wave of sympathy for Bree. It’s not easy to feel alone, the odd one out. I give her a quick hug that surprises both of us.

‘You just be you,’ I tell her. ‘You’re absolutely perfect.’

After lunch, Jon suggests we take a walk on the beach.

‘You take Jasper and enjoy some boys’ time together.’ I point at my bandaged foot. ‘I should keep off this anyway.’

After I’ve waved Jon, Jasper and Saskia off, I hobble back inside the house on the ball of my foot and make my way to the garage. To the stack of cardboard boxes. To one box in particular.

An hour later, I position the last box on the desk in the spare room I’ve decided to set up as a photography studio. Scrawled on top in black texta, in my familiar cursive handwriting, are two words: Photography gear. The writing, like me, has faded with time.

I’d been heavily pregnant with Jasper when Jon finally persuaded me it was time to pack away my cameras and give up the lease on my photography studio.

For several months, I’d resisted. After all, lots of women juggled motherhood with their careers. Why shouldn’t I? I’d worked hard to build my business and my reputation and I was earning more money than I’d ever have dreamt possible as a photographer. But, as the pregnancy progressed and my body swelled, making me more tired than I’d ever felt in my life, Jon’s argument that I should give up work to concentrate on being a mother made increasingly good sense.

With a rising sense of anticipation, I tear away tape and begin to dig through the equipment from my studio – tripods, reflectors, a light box, diffusers, flashgun lights, a couple of grips and a reflection umbrella. This isn’t the box I’ve specifically come in search of, but I’m on a mission to get everything unpacked and I know I’ll get to the box I’m after sooner or later.

The next box contains three old backdrops – the canvas one I used most of the time, the black one I used for more dramatic, high-impact portraits, plus a large roll of paper that I notice, with a frown, has become yellow and discoloured.

Three boxes remain.

Inside one is my camera bag. Neatly packed inside it are the two lenses that were once my ‘go-to’ workhorses. I remove each lens from the soft padding and hold them, enjoying the familiar feel of their cool, smooth curves.

Inside the next box is a second camera bag containing another three lenses that I’ve always wanted to try outside the studio. I stand all five lenses alongside each other on the desk then turn my full attention to the last remaining box.

Unlike the others, this box was packed just a couple of months ago and, although it’s also marked as containing ‘Photography Gear’, that’s not strictly true. I remove the tape and fold back the cardboard flaps. As I pull out the camera bag and unzip it, my heartbeat quickens. Inside, just as I left them, are a small notebook, a pen and a bundled grey cloth. I remove the book and pen and place them on the desk near the lenses. After a long moment, I take a deep breath and unfold the cloth. Afternoon light from the nearby window finds the pink diamanté case that contains Courtney’s mobile phone. Instantly mesmerised, I tilt the case this way and that, watching the scattering of tiny bright lights dance across the room’s far wall.

But then the sun disappears behind a cloud, breaking the magic. I switch on the phone and the screen glows to life with its familiar photograph of a smiling Courtney on the beach in a bikini, her hands cradling her pregnant belly. Grief, urgent and stabbing, catches me unaware and I push my knuckle into my mouth.

I reach for the notebook and open it to the page where I’ve written down two four-digit numbers I’ve already tried to use to unlock the phone. The first number was a wild guess – four zeros. The second number I’d put more thought into – the first four digits of Courtney’s birthday. Her date of birth had been easy enough to find on social media, but the number combination hadn’t worked. Guessing the correct number, I knew, would be nothing short of a miracle, but my disappointment had still cut deep. The longer the phone was in my possession, the more desperate I was becoming to unlock it.

Based on my research, I knew this model of phone would only give me ten chances to guess the correct PIN before it erased all its content. Which meant I still had eight chances to guess it correctly, but very little information to guide my efforts. Most likely, her PIN would be her husband’s birthday, but I couldn’t find any information about him on the internet, other than a business listing for his general practice, which was now closed. He’d barely rated a mention in the media coverage. It was Courtney everyone was fixated on. Young, beautiful, pregnant Courtney.

I smooth the notebook page and frown, wondering all over again where to begin this frustrating guessing game. But then I hear voices drifting in from the living area and realise Jon and Jasper have returned all too soon from the beach.

My fingers fumble in my haste to return the phone and notebook to the box, safely out of sight. As I re-seal the flaps, I let out a loud sigh. Courtney’s phone will have to wait.

Later that night after Jasper has gone to bed and Jon’s retired to his study to catch up on work, the tick of the wall clock sounds a steady beat through the kitchen. I take my time washing the dishes, feeling accomplished ahead of Jasper’s first day of school tomorrow. His new uniform is washed and ironed, and I’ve laid out his backpack, hat and sandals. All that’s left to do tonight is make up his lunch box. I’d been hoping to find a spare half an hour to spend with Courtney’s phone, but there was no way I could risk it with Jonathon in his office just down the hallway. No matter, I tell myself. I’ll have plenty of opportunity tomorrow with the house all to myself.

As I drain the water from the sink and reach for the tea towel, my memory returns to the moment I found Courtney’s phone – a flash of pink all but hidden in the grass next to the twisted metal wreckage of Courtney and Rob’s car. As the wail of the sirens grew louder in the distance, I’d slipped the phone into my jacket pocket. There it had remained, forgotten, until I decided to wear the same jacket to court. The security officer ordered us to empty our pockets and place all our personal items into the plastic trays for scanning. As my hand slid inside my pocket, the memory of the phone’s discovery came rushing back. How had I forgotten it? Guilt engulfed me. Wouldn’t the police consider the phone to be some kind of evidence? After all, I’d picked it up at the accident scene.

I held my breath as I placed the phone in the tray, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed among my handbag, scarf and keys. Thankfully, the two people who might have registered the unfamiliar item – Jon and Marion – were ahead of me in the queue, engrossed in a conversation with a security officer. As I emptied the tray, I discreetly slipped the phone back inside my jacket pocket, then took hold of Jon’s hand as my lawyer, Paul, ushered us towards the court’s waiting room.

As we settled into our seats, I wrapped my hand around the phone inside my pocket. It felt strangely comforting. Within a couple of minutes, my curiosity got the better of me. I excused myself and retreated to the privacy of a toilet cubicle, pulling the phone from my pocket and switching it on. As the screen glowed to life, my legs grew weak and I landed hard on the toilet seat. Staring back at me from the phone was a photo of a young, heavily pregnant woman standing on the beach, her features now almost as familiar to me as my own after seeing her perfect smile staring back at me from television screens, newspaper articles and social media over the past month.

Courtney Le Brocq.

It hit me hard then. There was no doubt about it. I was holding Courtney’s phone.

Panic pulsed through my body as the full weight of realisation sunk in.

I hurried back into the waiting room, my stomach churning.

‘Where have you been? We’ve been called in.’ Paul placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Look, I know this is tough, but we’re prepared and we know the prosecution’s got nothing more to throw at us. Okay?’

I nodded in reply, my body numb as he took my elbow and ushered me through the doorway to the court. Jon and Marion, I noticed, had fallen into step behind us. Before this audience, I was truly on my own.

Inside the courtroom, my eyes scanned the sea of faces. Some of them, those dressed in professional suits and uniforms, didn’t bother looking my way. The rest, most of them fashionably dressed young women perched stiffly on their seats, their expressions pinched, stared back at me unsmiling. I clutched the phone in my pocket and lowered my eyes as Paul guided me into a seat beside him. At a desk on the far side of the courtroom were the same two police officers who had come to our house the day after the accident to tell me both Courtney and her unborn baby had died.

The low buzz inside the court fell silent as the magistrate entered. The dead weight of Courtney’s phone in my pocket now made me feel panicked and nauseous. I had no right to it, no business taking it, keeping it. Then another thought occurred to me. What if it rang? Right here in the court? Had I turned it back off in the toilet cubicle? Did the police know it was missing? Would they be able to track its location? Had the service been disconnected?

Paul leaned towards me. ‘Are you okay? You don’t look well.’

I pointed towards the exit. ‘Bathroom.’

He frowned then got up and crossed the room to speak to a female court attendant. She frowned but nodded.

Back inside the toilet cubicle, I forced myself to urinate. My knees shook as I peed, as much from relief as panic after discovering I’d switched the phone off after all.

When I returned to my seat in the courtroom, my face warmed as I snuck a glance towards the two police officers. What would they do if they knew that I was sitting right here in the courtroom with Courtney’s phone in my pocket, cradled in my right hand? The same hand I would soon be asked to hold up before the court as I swore an oath to truth?

A couple of weeks after the court case, one of the detectives telephoned me and presented me with the perfect opportunity to come clean about Courtney’s phone. It was almost as if he somehow knew I had it.

To start off with, his voice had been warm and congenial. ‘I have some good news. Courtney’s husband, Dr Robert O’Leary, has been released from hospital.’

My hands shaking, I’d switched my phone to speaker so Jon could listen in. ‘Released? He’s no longer in a coma?’

‘Yes. Thankfully, he’s suffered no permanent damage or cognitive loss as a result of his head injuries.’

‘So, he’s going to be okay?’

‘Physically, yes,’ the detective replied. ‘But emotionally, well, obviously he’s suffered an enormous shock.’

I bit down hard on my lip.

‘Mrs Ashby? Are you still there?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Yes, sorry, this is all still, so, such a …’

‘I understand.’

A second silence stretched between us. Jon interrupted it by waving a piece of paper in front of my face. I read his hastily written scrawl, then nodded.

‘So, what does Dr O’Leary’s recovery mean for us in a legal sense? I’m assuming you’ve questioned him about the accident?’

‘Dr O’Leary’s, memory of the accident is very hazy. At this stage, he doesn’t remember much at all. But he does recall one thing I need to discuss with you.’

I dropped into a nearby chair. ‘What’s that?’

‘Dr O’Leary says Courtney had been using her mobile phone when the collision happened.’

I held my breath, no longer able to hold Jon’s gaze.

‘Do you recall seeing a mobile phone anywhere near the accident site?’ the detective asked. ‘Dr O’Leary said it had a bright pink cover. Sounds like it would be pretty hard to miss.’

‘No. I didn’t see anything like that.’ Even to my own ears, my voice sounded surprisingly calm. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered seeing a mobile phone.’

The detective persisted. ‘We’ve been all over the crash site and there’s no sign of it. The wreckers didn’t report finding it either.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Well, if you remember anything, give me a call, okay? Dr O’Leary’s quite upset about it. She kept all her personal videos and photos on her phone including, as I understand it, her ultrasound photos.’ The detective paused. ‘I guess he feels like that’s all he’s got left now.’

I frowned. ‘Wouldn’t they be saved somewhere else? In the cloud?’

‘Apparently not. The phone she was using the night of the accident was her personal one, not her work one. She kept its contents very private. Didn’t want to risk their private photos accidentally going public.’

I bit down harder on my lip. ‘I’m really sorry I can’t help you. Perhaps someone found it and picked it up the next day. There were a lot of people stopping at the accident site afterwards. I could see them from the house.’

The detective sighed. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Tell him I’m sorry.’ My words rushed out before I could stop them. ‘Please tell Dr O’Leary how very sorry I am.’

The scream of a bush curlew somewhere outside the kitchen window in the rainforest returns me to the present. A glass of wine I don’t remember pouring sits almost empty on the benchtop in front of me and Jasper’s lunch box is miraculously packed. I gulp down the remainder of the wine, then refill the empty glass from the bottle in the fridge.

The bird’s cry rises again, splintering the sleepy quietness inside the house. This time, the cry is met with a chorus of replies and the birds strike up a macabre game of tag, a new cry replacing each one that dies away.

Their shrill chorus hurts my ears. I pull the window closed and drain my glass. As the cool liquid settles in my stomach, I sense a shadow shift inside me as the darkness of the past returns.

The sound outside is no longer a bird, but a woman.

A woman and her dying scream.

Chapter Twelve

The following morning, long after Jon has left for work, I clip Jasper into his car seat and start up the four-wheel drive’s engine. As yesterday’s panic threatens to return, I take several deep breaths and focus on the series of small tasks I need to successfully perform to get Jasper to school safely.

Release handbrake.

Reverse.

Brake.

Change gears.

Drive.

At the bottom of the driveway, I turn left onto the main Mossman–Daintree Road, tightening my grip on the steering wheel as the asphalt road opens up, cutting a swathe of grey past fertile paddocks filled with flowering sugar cane and neat corrugated iron sheds. Further along the road are paddocks filled with many different kinds of exotic tropical fruit trees – mango, papaya, lychee, banana, custard apple, avocado and others I don’t recognise.

In the rear-view mirror, I notice a growing queue of traffic behind me. Gripping the steering wheel again, I press down on the accelerator until the speedometer reaches the speed limit.

‘I don’t want to go to school today,’ Jasper complains from the back. All morning he’s dragged his feet to get ready for school.

‘It’ll be fun, mate,’ I assure him. ‘You get to hang out with Jye again.’

Concerned, I eye Jasper more closely in the rear-view mirror, but he’s now preoccupied with drawing invisible circles on the car window with his finger, seemingly placated.

My phone rings, disrupting my thoughts, and Marion’s name appears on the car’s Bluetooth screen.

‘You’re on speaker,’ I tell her. ‘We’re on our way to school.’

‘Jasper! Hello!’ Marion’s voice echoes cheery elegance through the car’s spacious interior.

‘Maz!’ Jasper squeals, his face lighting up.

‘I’m ringing to wish you a happy first day. I’m sure you’re going to make lots of lovely new friends. And I like your new uniform in the photo Mummy sent me this morning. It’s very … colourful.’

‘When are you coming to visit, Maz?’ Jasper asks.

I navigate a bend in the road. Around the corner, flashing orange lights signal a pedestrian crossing ahead. In front of it is a long, slow-moving line of cars.

‘Soon, my love, I promise,’ Maz replies.

‘Sorry, Maz, I have to go,’ I interrupt. ‘I need to work out where to park. I’ll give you a call back later today.’

‘Everything okay?’ Marion persists. ‘Everyone settling in? I’ve barely heard a word from you.’

‘Everything’s good,’ I assure her. ‘Just busy. I’ll call you.’

I find an empty car space relatively easily in the car park and pull into it, exhaling loudly.

Despite the crowded footpath, I spot Melissa immediately. She’s standing at the school gate with a group of parents. Their bright laughter tells me they’re palpably relieved the school holidays are over. All around them, children push each other playfully, or hold hands, excited to be reunited with their school mates.

The school comprises a series of quaint wooden buildings shaded by an enormous fig tree and a sprawling playground filled with a colourful assortment of play equipment.

Melissa gives us a friendly wave as we join the queue and begin to move through the narrow school gate. As we’re waiting, Jasper suddenly plonks himself down on the concrete path and pulls off his new leather sandals.

‘What are you doing, mate?’ Even before I’ve finished asking the question, I notice for the first time that most of the school children are barefoot.

‘Shoes are optional under the school’s uniform code,’ Melissa explains as she reaches us. ‘The heat,’ she adds, by way of explanation. Her eyes come to rest on my bandaged foot nestled inside my thong. ‘What happened to your foot?’

Jasper, standing again now, pipes up, keen to be part of the conversation. ‘Mum lost it.’

I frown at him, but Melissa giggles. ‘And who made Mum lose it?’

A sheepish expression crosses Jasper’s features as he hands me his sandals. ‘I pretended to drown. In the pool.’

Melissa’s expression turns aghast.

‘I thought he was dead,’ I say.

‘She smashed glass everywhere,’ Jasper adds. ‘And then she went crazy.’

I nod and give Melissa a rueful smile. ‘Guilty as charged. He might be safer here at school with you.’

Melissa’s laugh is warm, lightening the mood. ‘I’d lose it too if my kids tricked me into thinking they’d drowned.’ She shoots Jasper a quick look of disapproval.

Sensing trouble for himself, Jasper replies quickly. ‘It was Dad’s idea.’

Melissa’s eyes catch mine and I look away quickly. She changes the subject, returning her attention to Jasper. ‘Anyway, you must be itching to see your new classroom and meet your teacher. You can wait for me over there near the big fig tree. See where the kids are playing tag?’

I give Jasper a quick hug, relieved he seems to have overcome his first-day jitters. ‘Off you go. I’ll see you back here this afternoon after school.’

I go to say goodbye to Melissa, but her attention’s been diverted to another group of parents. I linger at the gate a few minutes longer, Jasper’s sandals dangling in my hand, but he disappears in a sea of school hats. When the school bell rings, I wander back towards the car, feeling strangely lost.

Although it’s only just gone nine, the car’s interior is already unbearably hot. I turn up the air-conditioning and wait for the temperature to cool. As I watch the car park begin to empty, I wonder what I should do next. Knowing the day is only going to get hotter, I decide to get my grocery shopping over and done with.

The air-conditioning inside the supermarket is deliciously cool. I take my time strolling through the aisles to find the items I need. When I reach the check-out, I notice a tidily stacked pile of newspapers, including the latest edition of the local paper, the Port Douglas Guardian. I park my trolley in the queue at the check-out and pick up a copy, eyeing the front page with interest. Alongside a large photo of a round, ruddy-faced man is a headline: Devlin opposes referendum.

I scan the first few paragraphs and learn that the Australian Government has called on Queensland’s Labor Government to allow the local community to have their say on the proposed local government mergers. The prime minister’s office has been inundated with complaints from Queensland residents – most of them in regional areas including the Greater Daintree Shire – who are opposed to the state’s plan to halve the number of local government organisations. I read on with interest.

Prime Minister Steven MacArthur lambasted the Queensland Labor Government for what he described as ‘arrogant leadership’, accusing Premier Walter Flanagan of failing to listen to local communities.

The Greater Daintree Shire is just one of seventy-nine councils proposed to be merged throughout the state, with Cairns City Council widely tipped to subsume Daintree. The move is designed to transfer planning controls back to the state and achieve greater ‘operational efficiencies’ for ratepayers.

But long-term State Member for Cook Kevin Devlin says he vigorously opposes the PM’s suggestion to hold a referendum, saying such a move would be an irresponsible waste of public funding ‘The idea is indulgent and wasteful,’ Mr Devlin told the Guardian on Thursday night. ‘Mr MacArthur needs to concentrate on federal matters rather than trying to tell Queenslanders what’s good for them.’

Meanwhile, Supporters of Greater Daintree Shire President Dr Marcus Spender said he warmly welcomed the Federal Government’s suggestion, saying a referendum was one clear way local ratepayers could force the State Government to listen to the wishes of local communities.

Kevin Devlin’s photograph is a heavily photoshopped studio shot in three-quarter profile, revealing a crooked jaw and expensive teeth. His dark brown hair is suspiciously free of any sign of grey. But it’s the article’s by-line that holds my attention. Blythe Drovandi, Managing Editor. I remember Jon asked me to invite Blythe to my birthday party.

Back in the car, I google the address for the Port Douglas Guardian newspaper before accelerating a little too quickly out of the supermarket car park, feeling a tingle of excitement.

My good mood lasts all of about five minutes until I pass Greater Daintree Shire Council and Jasper’s earlier comment makes an unwelcome return.

It was Dad’s idea.

Chapter Thirteen

An hour later, I find myself standing in front of a modern three-storey building on Macrossan Street. Feeling excited by the prospect of seeing Blythe again, I’d returned home on a whim to drop off the groceries and change out of my faded T-shirt and jeans, opting for a bright pink sundress. Similarly brightly dressed holiday-makers stroll along the street, but it’s obvious the busy tourist season hasn’t yet begun.

A large black and red Port Douglas Guardian sign is prominently positioned on the building’s second floor. The mid-morning sun reflects sharply off its coated plastic surface and I’m still squinting as I make my way up the tiled steps towards the entrance. The thick glass door is surprisingly heavy to push open. Inside, I spot a young woman dragging a towering bundle of tightly tied newspapers across the tiled floor. She uses a penknife to cut through the string with an experienced hand.

Noticing me, she stands upright. ‘Can I help you?’ Her girlish voice matches her petite build. I’m just about to answer, but then her nose twitches and she emits a rapid succession of pipsqueak sneezes. ‘Fresh ink,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘It sets me off every bloody week.’

I laugh. ‘That’s an unfortunate allergy for someone who works in a newspaper office.’

She erupts in a crescendo of giggles. ‘I keep trying to resign, but the boss won’t let me.’

Behind the reception desk is a large mirrored wall that stops a metre short of the ceiling. From behind it rises the sounds of a busy office – phones ringing, a song on a radio, familiar banter and an occasional peal of laughter. I suddenly feel nervous. It’s been almost twenty years since Blythe and I last saw each other. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I weigh far less than I did in my twenties, and running after Jasper has kept me in shape, but the accident has left its mark in the permanent lines now etched in the delicate skin around my eyes and between my brows. I try, briefly, to imagine how Blythe has aged. It doesn’t feel possible that she, like me, is now almost forty.

With a start, I realise the receptionist is watching me with an expectant expression.

‘Sorry, I’m Jennifer Carmody,’ I tell her, using my maiden name and enjoying its familiar sound. I hadn’t wanted to change my name when Jon and I got married, due mainly to the professional reputation I’d built up. I was quite proud that my name had become a brand that had helped me win some of the magazine industry’s biggest commissions. But eventually Jon had persuaded me it wouldn’t take long for the industry to get used to my married name. Besides, hadn’t I decided to focus on being a mother for the next few years?

‘I was hoping to see Blythe Drovandi,’ I continue. ‘I’m an old uni friend of hers.’

‘I’m Sammy,’ she replies, scurrying behind the counter to cradle a phone to her ear. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

I shake my head.

She puts the phone back down.

‘Just go on through,’ she says, pointing. ‘She’s in the big office on the right. She’s on the phone, but she shouldn’t be too long.’

Out the back, I discover the hive of activity I’d heard from the reception area – three sales reps are on telephone calls, another three journalists are tapping away on their computer keyboards, and two middle-aged women are loudly discussing a page design in the middle of a cluttered production area. Outside on the balcony, an older man wearing a serious expression sucks on a cigarette as he scans a newspaper. Almost every square inch of the back area is covered with marked-up newspaper pages, magazine covers and post-it notes. Through the glass wall of Blythe’s office, I catch a glimpse of her wild curly red hair. It bounces as she nods. She has a large black telephone pressed to her ear and is busy scribbling on a notepad. I spot an empty chair outside her office door and sit down, grateful for the opportunity to make myself less conspicuous. Blythe’s familiar gravelly voice is clearly audible through the partly closed door.

‘It’s just a gut feeling,’ she’s saying. I lean towards the door, my interest piqued. ‘Something’s not quite right and sooner or later I’m going to work out what it is.’ She sighs loudly. ‘Anyhow, keep me posted.’ The phone lands loudly in its cradle as she hangs up. I stand, a little self-consciously, watching as Blythe’s gaze meets mine through the glass. A loud scream escapes her mouth and her eyes grow wide as she jumps from her office chair and rounds the corner of her desk towards me. She swings her office door wide. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she exclaims, throwing her arms around me and squeezing so tight I feel like I’ve been winded. My bag slips from my shoulder and lands silently on the plush carpet, its contents spilling out onto the floor. ‘Jennifer Carmody,’ she says. ‘Oh my god, oh my god. What the hell brings you all the way to Far North Queensland? Oh my GOD! It’s so good to see you. How long has it been? Fifteen years? Twenty? Oh, Jesus I feel old.’

‘Wow Blythe, I can’t believe it’s really you. You haven’t changed at all.’

Blythe scrutinises me from head to toe. ‘You’ve faded away to nothing,’ she observes, reaching for my wrist and holding up my arm to examine it. ‘A twig. This is a twig.’ I let my arm fall free and try not to feel offended, reminding myself this is typical Blythe, calling it as she sees it. She shakes her head, her eyes glistening. ‘Where have the years gone, my gorgeous friend? We’re almost fucking middle-aged! Can you believe it?’ She runs her fingertips across her eyes and gestures towards a round meeting table piled high with diaries, schedules and empty coffee cups. ‘Jesus, I must be getting menopausal. Here, sit, sit. Oh, shit, your bag. Let me. Let me.’

I drop to a crouching position, but Blythe beats me to it. My face warms as her hand hovers over my well-thumbed paperback, Surviving Trauma – A Concise Guide, lying among the contents of my bag. As she continues retrieving my items, I find a chair and contemplate the woman kneeling before me. Blythe’s hair is much longer than it was at university, hanging almost to her waist. The curls are more defined too, less frizzy. Her freckles have all but disappeared and her style of dressing is more conservative – as is to be expected for someone of her professional standing. Blythe’s no longer the left-leaning rebel from our university days. She’s part of the corporate world now, running a business. And a pretty successful one at that, judging from the number of staff and level of activity buzzing through the offices. As Blythe scrambles to her feet and hands me my bag, Sammy’s voice sounds from the doorway.

‘I’ve got Jonathon Ashby on the phone,’ she says. ‘Would you like me to put him through?’

I feel myself stiffen.

Blythe frowns and plonks herself into a seat opposite me, placing her feet up on an empty chair. She purses her lips, her expression undecided.

‘Take the call,’ I tell her. ‘I can wait. Outside, if you prefer.’

‘Nah, tell him I’m in a meeting,’ Blythe says to Sammy. ‘It’s probably to do with today’s front page.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Let him know I’ll call him back.’ As the office door closes, Blythe returns her attention to me. ‘So, are you here on holidays?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’ve just moved here. From Sydney.’

Blythe’s eyes widen. ‘Wow, really?’ She claps her hands together. ‘That’s fantastic!’

‘With my family.’

‘A family? Wow, lucky you.’ Behind her smile, an emotion flickers briefly in her eyes.

‘Jasper’s nearly five,’ I continue. ‘He just started at Miallo State School this morning.’

Blythe nods, then changes the subject. ‘So what brings you so far from Sydney?’

I shrug, realising I should have prepared myself a little more for Blythe’s direct style of questioning. ‘Sydney’s changed. It’s fun when you’re young, but then once Jasper came along I kept thinking how much better it would be to bring him up in the country.’

Blythe nods, encouraging me to continue.

‘Then Jon – my husband – found a job up here.’ I smile.

‘What’s the job?’ Blythe asks. ‘Your husband.’

‘He’s with the council.’

‘Your husband’s Jonathon Ashby?’ she asks. ‘I thought I detected an English accent. You’ve picked up a little of his accent. Funny, isn’t it, the way some couples morph into one another.’ She glances at her phone. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ she asks, rising and pushing her chair out. ‘I’ve got to get out of here for a bit. Today’s publishing day so I can take a bit of time out.’

At a nearby cafe overlooking the harbour inlet, a waiter greets Blythe with a warm smile and guides us to a waterfront table. The protected estuary is home to a sprawling marina and shopping centre, as well as most of the town’s diving, snorkelling and sailing companies. The view from our table frames rows of sleek yachts, smaller sailing boats, quaint houseboats, an old Chinese junk boat, expensive cruisers and small fishing tinnies.

Port Douglas, Blythe tells me, used to be a sleepy old fishing village until it was discovered by the well-heeled white-shoe brigade from Melbourne in the 1970s. Developers transformed the town into a high-end holiday destination where they could come to escape the cold winters down south, splashing money to build the lavish holiday houses that now adorn the main headland in town overlooking the Coral Sea and Four Mile Beach. International investors soon caught on, developing five-star resorts, golf courses and Michelin-star restaurants during the 1980s. As a result, domestic and international visitor numbers went up, with tourism soon overtaking sugar-cane farming to become the shire’s number one economic driver.

But then the pro-development councillors were voted out by the people of the Greater Daintree Shire in the early 1990s and a new mayor – environmentalist Councillor Eva Manderley – was popularly elected. She promised to put a cap on the town’s tourism expansion, introducing new planning rules to prevent high-rise development, limiting the town’s expansion footprint and imposing a special tourism levy on landlords to help meet the substantial costs of providing the infrastructure and servicing – roads, water, rubbish – needed to cater for 1.2 million visitors to the shire each year.

The State Government’s proposed merger, Blythe explains, has the potential to undo years of hard work to protect the Greater Daintree Shire from overdevelopment. The locals’ biggest fear is that the shire’s tight planning rules will become more relaxed under Cairns management. As she talks me through the town’s history and politics, Blythe’s usually upbeat disposition disappears. She talks quickly, her voice laced with concern. After the waiter delivers our coffees, she settles into a contemplative silence, giving me an opportunity to steer our conversation back to a more personal level.

‘So, what brought you back home to Queensland?’ I ask. ‘I never expected to find you so far from Sydney. It seems a bit too …’ I search for the right word, ‘quiet.’

‘I guess, yeah,’ she agrees.

‘The last I heard, you were an award-winning investigative journalist.’

I don’t mention the pang of jealousy I’d felt when I’d come across Blythe’s name in a newspaper article and realised her career was taking off while mine lay stagnating in a bucket of dirty nappies. Blythe shifts uncomfortably in her seat, then waves a hand through the air in the broad direction of the town, the rainforest and the ocean.

‘This is home,’ she says, shrugging. ‘Media Corp had been pulling more and more money out of the local newspaper up here. The production team was the first to disappear, then half the editorial team. When social media first began to spring up, their business model changed.’ Blythe purses her lips. ‘In their quest to look after shareholders instead of the community they’d always served, they started to kill local news desks and source generic editorial content from centralised news sources.’ She shakes her head. ‘That didn’t sit too well with the locals. They’d had a local newspaper in one form or another for over a hundred and fifty years. So, when Media Corp finally announced the inevitable, that the newspaper was being closed down, some of the locals got together to try to do something about it. Eva got in touch with me to ask if I’d consider coming home and starting up an independent paper in its place.’

‘Wow Blythe, wasn’t that risky?’

Blythe shrugs again, her eyes drifting lazily across the water then skirting to the dark mangroves opposite. I stay quiet, waiting for her to continue. ‘Like you, I was a bit over city life. Sydney’s great, but, yeah … I guess I was a bit burnt out. I’d lost touch with a lot of things. Coming back here and starting something of my own from scratch was a new challenge; it gave me a sense of purpose and meaning.’ She winks. ‘To be honest, I’ve quite enjoyed giving Media Corp the birdie. I’m selling twice as many papers as they ever did and thanks to the support of the local business community, the advertising revenue’s never been stronger.’

‘So, are you married?’ I ask. ‘Kids?’

Blythe shakes her head then drains the last of her coffee. ‘Nah. I never seemed to find time for that.’ She composes her face into a well-practised smile then, seeing my expression, drops her guard. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s just the way things have worked out for me and now it’s probably too late. I just have to learn to live with it. I’m a fatalist.’

The waiter returns to our table. ‘Another?’ he asks.

We order two more coffees. When I return my attention to Blythe, she’s staring at a nearby table. I immediately recognise the man seated there, alone.

As if sensing our attention, Bill looks up from the book he’s reading. I wave, but he looks away, apparently preoccupied.

‘You know him?’ Blythe asks, surprised.

I nod. ‘Our gardener. He mustn’t have recognised me.’

Blythe sighs. ‘I love a rugged man,’ she confesses. ‘Lucky you. I wouldn’t mind having him around my place to clip my hedges.’ She stares a long moment longer. ‘I bet he’s gorgeous underneath that Covid-beard.’

I return a cautious gaze to Bill’s table. ‘I suppose he is,’ I agree. ‘Not that I really look anymore.’

Blythe lightly slaps my arm. ‘For god’s sake, Jen, you’re married, not dead. You used to have all the guys at uni fawning over you.’

I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Rubbish,’ I protest.

‘Jon must really have something going for him to have got your attention,’ she fishes.

The waiter materialises with our coffees but the moment he disappears, Blythe picks the thread of our conversation back up. ‘Come on. Spit it out. How did Council’s new General Manager win over the most sought-after girl in our year?’ She leans towards me and smiles mischievously. ‘Between you and me, he seems like a bit of a bad boy.’ She winks again. ‘And I should know, trust me. Why do you think I’m still single?’

I stir my coffee so vigorously it spills onto the saucer. ‘I guess there was a bit of chemistry involved early on,’ I admit, smiling coyly.

Blythe laughs out loud, excited to have extracted this modest confession. ‘I knew it,’ she exclaims, slapping her thigh. ‘Forget love. It’s all about what happens in the bedroom.’ My face burns as Blythe’s laughter subsides. ‘Don’t worry,’ she assures me, ‘I’m not going to pry any further.’ She takes a long sip of her coffee and wipes her napkin across her mouth, bringing away red lipstick. ‘Okay, now let’s talk work,’ she says, her voice growing serious.

‘Work?’ I ask, surprised.

‘Work,’ Blythe repeats, folding her napkin neatly in her lap. ‘I’m in desperate need of a photographer who knows what they’re doing. Do you want a job?’ Without waiting for an answer, she reaches down and pulls a glossy magazine from her handbag. ‘We publish more than just the local newspaper,’ Blythe says. ‘This is the current tourism mag. We do a dining guide as well.’ She rolls her eyes as she passes it to me. ‘Check out the photography.’

I take the magazine and flick through its pages, paying close attention to the images. ‘Could be better,’ I agree.

‘That’s an understatement,’ she retorts. ‘I hired some blowin who lied about their experience.’ She takes the magazine back and tosses it on the table, a vaguely disgusted expression on her face. ‘It can be difficult to find good talent in this part of the world. So, what do you say? I can engage you on a contract-by-contract basis. I’ll give you a brief, a shot list, an hourly rate – capped – and a fuel allowance. You set up your own appointments, work your own hours. You sell me the images with copyright. We can begin with the new spring edition, then see how we go from there.’

I’m not entirely sure Blythe’s serious, but her expression appears earnest.

‘I’m really flattered, but honestly, it’s been years since I worked—’

Blythe holds up a hand, cutting me off. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the best photographer I know by a long shot.’

I can’t help smiling. ‘Talk about serendipity. I only just unpacked all my photography gear yesterday.’

Blythe slaps the table. ‘There you go. It was meant to be.’

‘Can I let you know? I need a bit more time. I’ve got Jasper to think about and, well, to be honest I’m not sure how Jon will feel about me working again so soon after …’ My voice falters. ‘So soon after moving here.’

Blythe’s never been one to give up easily. ‘Jasper’s at school though, isn’t he?’

I nod. ‘He is, but I thought I’d get a bit involved with the school, help out in the tuckshop, that type of thing.’

Blythe smiles. ‘I bet you’re a great mother.’ She leans across the table. ‘But there are plenty of mothers who can’t take photos like you can. Let them do tuckshop, hey? What’s the point of having a talent like yours if you don’t share it with the world? Just give me your email address and I’ll send you through a contract. Have a read and a think, but Jen …’

I laugh, knowing what’s coming next.

Blythe pats my hand. ‘Just say yes, okay?’

As we stand to leave, I suddenly remember the reason I came to see Blythe.

‘I almost forgot,’ I say, catching her arm. ‘Jon’s throwing me a birthday party on the twenty-seventh of next month and we’d love you to come.’

Blythe beams. ‘Of course! That would be great. Let me guess – the big four-oh?’

I nod with a grimace.

She laughs. ‘I’m dangerously close to the naughty forties myself.’ As we weave our way from the cash register to the boardwalk, I realise Blythe is steering us towards Bill’s table. She whispers into my ear. ‘Introduce me.’

‘God, Blythe, I barely know him myse—’

She whispers again, this time in a tone that makes it clear she’s not to be argued with. ‘Just do it.’

As we draw to a halt at Bill’s table, Blythe’s expression transforms into a beguiling smile.

‘Bill? Hi,’ I say in greeting.

Bill pushes away his coffee cup and stands up from his chair. Just as I begin to think he doesn’t recognise me, he speaks.

‘Jennifer, hi, how are you?’

‘I thought it was you under that hat.’

He fingers the rim of his hat. ‘Yeah.’

Blythe clears her throat. ‘Hi, I’m Blythe.’ She reaches across to shake his hand. No holding back there.

‘Bill.’ He smiles.

‘You local?’ Blythe asks.

Bill shakes his head. ‘Nah, I’m originally from further out west, past the Atherton Tablelands.’

Blythe releases his hand. ‘What brings you to the coast?’

Bill shifts his feet. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. More work here to choose from.’

‘Gardening?’

Bill nods. ‘Maintenance, that type of thing.’

Blythe’s face brightens with interest. ‘I’ve got a few things that need doing around my place. I’ve got a townhouse at Four Mile Beach that needs a little bit of TLC. A few leaking taps, some scuffs on the walls that could do with a new lick of paint. And as for the garden, well, let’s not even go there. Let’s just say I don’t have a green thumb. Perhaps I could get your number. Do you have a card?’

Bill shakes his head. ‘Ah, not on me.’

Undeterred, Blythe pulls one of her own business cards from her wallet and passes it to him.

‘Here’s mine. Give me a call, and perhaps you can drop over sometime. I’m usually home after six during the week, otherwise I’m pretty free on the weekends.’

Blythe winks. Winks!

Bill slips the card in his shirt pocket and gestures for the waiter to bring him the cheque. ‘Sure, Blythe, was it? I’ve got a bit on at the moment, but leave it with me.’

Blythe’s not ready to be fobbed off. ‘Sounds great. Will I see you at Jen’s birthday party?’

Bill turns to me. ‘Birthday party?’

I click my fingers. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right, I was going to mention it next time I saw you at home. It’s kind of a big birthday, forty, according to my birth certificate, so Jon’s throwing me a party on the twenty-seventh of next month. Dinner, a barbecue. Jon likes to play host so no need to bring anything.’

Blythe laughs playfully and clicks her heels together in a movement that’s vaguely reminiscent of an Irish jig. ‘Except your dancing shoes.’

The move appears to be lost on Bill. His gaze remains fixed on me. ‘Forty,’ he repeats.

‘So it seems, yes.’

‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’

The waiter hands Bill his cheque and he excuses himself to go and pay. Blythe frowns as she watches his retreating back.

‘Well, he’s a bit of hard work, isn’t he?’

I laugh out loud. ‘What, just because he didn’t instantly fall for your outrageous flirting?’

Blythe looks aghast. ‘Me? What about you?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Ridiculous. I’m married, remember?’

Blythe’s attention is still on Bill. ‘I’m not sure it’s romantic,’ she says, almost to herself, ‘but Bill is definitely interested in you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, didn’t you notice?’

‘Notice what?’

‘He didn’t take his eyes off you. It was pretty intense.’

I steal a glance at Bill by the cash register. ‘He was a little bit like that the first time I met him at home the other day. I think he’s just one of those quiet, intense types. A bit introverted. Maybe that’s why he enjoys gardening.’

Blythe shrugs. ‘Maybe.’ She flicks a long curl of hair over her shoulder. ‘Anyway, it’s too early to give up on him yet. Just make sure he comes to your party, okay?’

Chapter Fourteen

By the time I say goodbye to Blythe back at her office, it’s almost lunchtime. I call Jon but his phone goes straight to voicemail, so I try Marion’s number instead. She picks up straight away.

‘I have some good news,’ I tell her, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. ‘I’ve been offered a job.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Photography, believe it or not.’

‘Where?’

After I explain the events leading to Blythe’s job offer, Marion offers cautious congratulations. I skate through new subjects, telling her about the house and its tropical surrounds, our new neighbours, the merger that’s keeping Jon busy at work and the upcoming Carnivale celebrations.

‘You sound really good, Jen,’ she says. ‘The best I’ve heard you in ages.’ She pauses. ‘It sounds like you’re in the car, are you?’

‘Yep. I’m driving again. Jon took me for a driving lesson over the weekend and I’m getting more confident with it.’

Marion doesn’t bother to hide her relief. ‘Well, I’m so pleased for you, sweetheart. I knew it was only a matter of time.’

‘I think you’d like it up here,’ I continue. ‘You should book some flights. We’ve got plenty of room for you to stay and Jasper keeps asking when you’re coming. Besides, you deserve some time off.’

‘I’m working on it.’ Marion sighs loudly down the telephone line. ‘I’ve got a case I can’t leave right now, but I might have a window coming up soon. I’ll talk to you about it again when I know more.’

As we say our goodbyes, Marion’s voice sounds a long way away. With a pang, I suddenly feel every inch of the two thousand kilometres separating us. To cheer myself up, I decide to surprise Jon with a visit to his office.

Approaching the council buildings, I notice a small cafe across the road. I park outside and order two salad wraps and a couple of bottles of water. After I pull into the council car park, I decide Jon would probably prefer it if I gave him advance notice of my arrival. I call his mobile, but again it goes to voicemail. Uncertain whether to continue with my plan to surprise him, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and contemplate my options. The smell of onion wafts up from our neatly wrapped lunch parcels. My mind made up, I open the car door. Even if Jon’s busy or in a meeting, he still needs to eat. I can always just leave his lunch with his secretary.

As far as buildings go, the Greater Daintree Council offices are standard government issue – no-nonsense yellow brick with low-maintenance gardens and wheelchair-accessible ramps. I follow the signs to the Customer Service Centre and am greeted by three friendly receptionists. After I introduce myself, the eldest of the three women offers to show me to Jon’s office. She leads me through a rear door and along a corridor that winds past a rabbit’s warren of internal hallways and open-plan offices. Eventually, she ushers me into a large, plush reception area. Behind the desk sits a middle-aged woman with sharp blue eyes, short blonde curly hair and a friendly smile – Anne, Jon’s secretary. She jumps to her feet and brushes down her skirt, extending her hand in a welcoming handshake. I hold up the two white paper bags I’m carrying.

‘Jon isn’t expecting me,’ I explain. ‘I was just passing and thought I’d drop him off some lunch.’

Anne peers towards a heavy wooden door with a gold and black sign that says General Manager.

‘He’s been in with the mayor for the past couple of hours,’ she says, eyeing a large round clock on the wall. ‘But they should be finished any minute if you’d like to take a seat and wait?’ She taps her keyboard and peers at her computer screen. ‘After this, he doesn’t have any meetings scheduled until three pm.’

I thank her and head towards a waiting lounge, but I’ve barely had time to sit down when the office door swings open. I stand as Jon and Eva smile in my direction. What strikes me first is Eva’s imposing height, standing a good several inches taller than Jon. Her tall, elegant frame is accentuated by a full-length green kaftan she’s accessorised with a heavy silver necklace, a thick leather belt and an impressive collection of bangles. Beneath her closely cropped hair and sweeping blonde fringe, her brown eyes are warm and deeply set behind softly lined skin. When she shakes my hand, her grip is firm but her skin is smooth, reminding me of Marion. Mayor Eva Manderley is instantly charismatic. Less than a minute into our conversation, it’s obvious she’s also very personable – a trait that has no doubt helped her retain her community’s loyal vote for so many years.

‘Well, I’d better let you two eat your lunch,’ Eva says, eyeing the paper bags I’m still holding. ‘It was nice to meet you, Jen. I’ll see you at your birthday party, if not before.’ She turns to leave, then turns back to me, clicking her fingers. ‘I almost forgot,’ she says. ‘When were you involved with the Ku-ring-gai project?’ Registering my perplexed expression, she clarifies. ‘Greenpeace. I think I might have been active with the Ku-ring-gai project around the same time as you were – I had a few short stints in Sydney. Jon couldn’t quite remember the year. I think it’s so lovely you two met doing your bit for the environment. Jon joined after you, is that right?’

I look sideways at Jon, my smile stiffening on my face.

‘I actually think it might have been 2015,’ Jon replies with a chuckle. ‘Jen and I were just reminiscing about that the other night.’

I smile weakly.

Eva frowns and chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip. ‘I must have been involved the year after,’ she says, then shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to your lunch.’ She waves goodbye as she heads out the door, a waft of sandalwood oil trailing behind her.

‘Are you going to take a lunch break now?’ Anne asks Jon.

Jon nods and glides his arm around my waist to guide me towards his office doorway. ‘Yes, won’t be long.’ Before he closes the door behind us, he turns back to Anne and winks. ‘Can you hold my calls for half an hour? I’d like to enjoy a lunch date with my gorgeous wife.’

Anne nods with an approving smile.

After the door clicks shut, Jon reaches for a lunch bag and takes it to one of two plush armchairs positioned in a corner of the room opposite a glass coffee table. Unlike his office at home, Jon’s council office is meticulously tidy, the wooden surface of his desk clear except for two large computer screens, a wireless keyboard and a mouse. On a side table are two tidy stacks of thick manila files separated into Incoming and Outgoing piles. Two healthy-looking pot plants give the office a homey feel, as does the collection of local history books and tourism magazines neatly laid out on the coffee table. The office, I suspect, has benefited from Anne’s professional touch.

Jon takes several eager bites of his wrap and chews vigorously. But the two coffees I shared with Blythe earlier feel sour in my stomach. I open my wrap slowly and nibble at the edges of the rolled-up bread.

‘What’s up?’ Jon asks, between mouthfuls. His wrap is almost gone. ‘Not hungry?’

The words spill out before I’m able to stop them. ‘Why does everyone I meet up here seem to think you – and now me too – worked for Greenpeace? I was really embarrassed, Jon. I didn’t know what to say. Why tell people stupid lies like that?’

The longer I talk, the angrier I become. Jon’s tendency to stretch the truth when he wants to impress people has always been a sore point in our relationship.

‘Jeez, Jen, calm down. A little white lie here and there doesn’t hurt anyone.’

‘Really? What about when you get caught out? Like with all that Royal Family bullshit on the beach the other day when we were talking to Melissa and Stretch? If you want to tell your own lies, that’s your business, but don’t drag me along for the ride.’

Over the years, I’ve tried my hardest to turn a blind eye to Jon’s occasional fibs. In truth, most of them have been fairly harmless – not much more than embellishments to give himself some bragging rights. But this time it’s different. Greenpeace is a complete fabrication. Neither of us has ever been involved in any kind of environmental work. And we most certainly didn’t meet while working on a Greenpeace project. Why would he tell such a bare-faced lie to the mayor, of all people?

Jon pushes the last of his wrap inside his mouth. He chews slowly as he screws his paper bag into a ball and throws it towards a nearby waste-paper bin and misses.

‘It doesn’t hurt to tell people what they want to hear.’

I place my barely touched wrap on the coffee table and Jon immediately reaches for it, pulling away the paper to take a bite.

‘But what’s the point? It’s so easy to get caught out. I had no idea what Eva was talking about. I almost dobbed you in.’

Jon swallows loudly and flicks food from his teeth with his tongue. ‘You wanted me to get this job, didn’t you?’ He places the wrap on the coffee table. ‘I knew I wouldn’t get it unless I was able to tick all the boxes. Eva wasn’t just looking for skills and experience. She’s a greeny. She was looking for someone with the same environmental values as her. It mightn’t have been explicitly stated in the position description, but all politicians want to be surrounded with people like themselves. So I threw in a few green credentials to help get my foot in the door for an interview – simple.’

‘Jasper’s starting to tell fibs as well. He said it was you who told him to pretend to drown.’

I watch Jon’s face closely. His eyes flicker with disappointment.

‘That’s not on,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him about it when I get home tonight.’ Jon finishes the second wrap in silence then makes a show of brushing crumbs from his trousers. I notice a small clump of tomato seeds has fallen onto the front of his white shirt. It clings there, the wet pulp soaking into the material. I fish a tissue from my bag and lean across to dab at it. He takes the tissue and finishes the job himself. Afterwards, he tosses the rubbish towards the bin and this time it reaches its target. He smiles. ‘Anyway, what have you been doing with yourself all morning?’

The change of topic comes as a relief.

‘I drove into Port Douglas and caught up with Blythe, as a matter of fact,’ I reply, feeling pleased with myself. ‘She’s coming to the party, so you can add her to your RSVP list.’

‘Good.’

‘How many RSVPs do we have?’

‘About thirty-five, could be more.’

‘Blythe and I also bumped into Bill so I’ve invited him as well.’ I pause to finger the gold JJJ pendant resting in the small hollow of my throat, my heartbeat quickening as I decide to share the rest of my news. ‘Blythe also offered me a job.’

Jon’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘A job? What kind of job?’

‘Photography. For a tourism magazine she’s putting together.’

Jon frowns. ‘You’re not going to take it?’

‘I said I’d think about it. I’m guessing the hourly rate will be a lot lower than what I was earning before, but I get to work my own hours so it’s family-friendly. Besides, Jasper’s at school now so I’ve got a lot more free time.’

‘Are you sure you’re up for it?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘You haven’t worked for, what, almost five years now? Besides, you’re meant to be taking things easy.’

I stand up and position my handbag on my shoulder. ‘I’m starting to feel good,’ I say. ‘Better than I’ve felt in a while.’

Jon stands too and wraps his arms around me so that my cheek presses hard against the stiff wool of his jacket. ‘You know you don’t need to work,’ he whispers.

A warning bell sounds inside my head. ‘It’s just a small job,’ I say, my words muffled. ‘I’m really only doing this as a favour to Blythe. She’s pretty desperate. I guess I felt a bit sorry for her.’

Jon pulls away and studies me, his expression hurt. ‘Okay, if this is what you want. Just make sure you leave enough time in your new schedule to look after Jasper and me. Before we got married, you said that’s all you wanted to do. Have a family and look after us. So, I guess something must have changed.’

As I digest Jon’s words, nothing in the room looks properly balanced anymore. As if someone came into the office while my eyes were closed and rearranged the furniture, moving a chair slightly here, tilting a picture there, making the room feel slightly off.

Jon squeezes my hands and presses his forehead against mine. ‘I just don’t know what more I can do to make you happy.’

The room swirls dangerously.

‘You do make me happy.’

Jon pulls me away and eyes me closely. ‘Everything I do, I do for you and Jasper,’ he says. ‘I don’t need to tell you how much I’d prefer to be back in Sydney, but I’ve moved here, taken this job, everything, for you.’

Undeterred, I hold his gaze. ‘We’ve both made sacrifices.’

In a single, swift movement, Jon sends me sprawling backwards onto the floor. It happens so quickly I don’t have time to break my fall. The back of my head bounces against the rug, narrowly missing the sharp edge of the coffee table. Within seconds, Jon has pulled me back to my feet and is holding me close again. His hand rubs the back of my head. As my body begins to shake, my ears fill with a high-pitched ring. I try to pull away but Jon holds me tighter, his scent overwhelming. His breathing, like mine, is shallow. He rocks us both back and forth.

‘Shhh,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘Jen, oh god, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Please don’t say things like that. You know how it makes me feel. All I want is for you to love me. Love us. Jasper and me.’ After a few long minutes, my trembles subside and Jon loosens his grip and looks down into my face. ‘Do you forgive me?’ His voice is hoarse. I search his eyes, so full of despair and self-loathing. ‘Do you?’ he repeats.

My head is still spinning but I nod, desperate to leave his office and get as far away from him as possible so I can breathe again. Try to make sense of this dangerous new development in our marriage.

Jon steps away, but his hand still grips my arm. ‘Look, I’ve got another meeting to get to.’

I nod, even though I know Jon’s lying, again. Hadn’t Anne told me his next meeting wasn’t until 3 pm? I consider calling out the lie, but what’s the point? I don’t want to be here.

Jon smooths my hair and wipes my cheeks with his thumb then he hands me my handbag and guides me towards the door. Outside, Anne’s office chair is empty. I breathe a sigh of relief. Jon leads me to another door I hadn’t noticed earlier.

‘This takes you straight out to the car park,’ he says. Still unable to speak, I turn to leave but Jon catches hold of my elbow. ‘You know I love you, Jen,’ he says. ‘The problem is I love you too much. It’s not your fault.’

I move aside to allow the heavy wooden door to click shut between us. I look around the car park, disoriented by the bright sunlight and not quite able to remember where I parked or even what my new car looks like. Concentrate, I tell myself, traversing the first row of vehicles, then making my way along the second, trying to rid myself of the sensation that Jon is watching me from his office window.

By the time I find my car, my body is damp with perspiration and my fingertips have grown numb. I drop my keys onto the hot gravel three times before I manage to unlock the car door. Once I’m safely inside the car, I gulp in the air-conditioning.

Focus.

Breathe.

I tilt the rear-vision mirror so I can see my reflection. The face that stares back at me is still me, yet I feel like a different person. A shadow of someone I used to be. A woman who would never have tolerated someone pushing her, especially her husband – the one person in the world who was meant to love and protect her. I flick the mirror away, disgusted by what I see.

Yet, as I start up the engine and nose the car towards the exit, self-doubt begins to muddy my emotions.

I caused this.

Without me springing my new job offer on him without warning, Jon would never have pushed me.

He didn’t mean for me to fall.

He hadn’t meant to hurt me. He’d been so sorry. So upset.

Life, I know, hasn’t always been kind to Jon. Foster homes aren’t necessarily places of kindness or love. He was robbed of his parents’ love at just thirteen, right when he needed a mother and a father to help guide him into adulthood. I understand that’s why Jon feels his emotions – good and bad – so intensely. He was raised without love, never learning how to trust. I should have given more thought to how he might react to my desire to resurrect my career. He takes pride in providing for Jasper and me; being the breadwinner; taking care of us. Now that I think about it, it makes sense that he would interpret me wanting to return to work as a form of rejection.

Yet as I join the slow queue of traffic crawling along Mossman’s main street, I can’t help noticing all the professionally dressed women among the lunchtime crowd – uniformed council workers, a policewoman, the woman clearing tables outside the cafe. How many of these women are mothers like me? Is my desire to return to work really such an unreasonable suggestion? I tap my fingers against the steering wheel as I wait for the car in front of me to reverse into an empty car space, my resentment and resolve building.

Blythe’s my friend. I can’t let her down. I’ll prove to Jon that my decision to return to work has nothing to do with my love and commitment to my family.

Jon pushed me. I feel for the lump on my head. It’s sore to touch. Jon hurt me, whether he meant to or not. And I can’t let him think he got away with that. That I’ll simply do as he wishes. I’m not stupid. I’ve heard stories about how domestic abuse begins. It starts small, but it can spiral into more. Much more.

My marriage isn’t going to be like that. Jon and I are better than that.

Besides, Jon owes me.

Big time.

Chapter Fifteen

Despite my resolve, the drive home gives me plenty of time to ruminate on the other reason for Jon’s erratic, insecure outburst of anger. Deep down, I know it wasn’t just because of his sad, lonely upbringing. I drive aimlessly, unable to stop my thoughts returning to the past, back to the time I so badly messed up the beginning of my relationship with Jon.

Because of Thomas Morgan.

I often wonder what would have happened if Thomas hadn’t been away working in Victoria for a month when Jonathon Ashby strolled into my photography studio and stole my heart. If Thomas and I had plans to spend the night in at my flat, the same way we did on most Friday nights? Would I still have flirted with Jonathon? Hung around in the studio with him for hours drinking wine?

Up until that point in my life, I would have described myself as a loyal and honest person. With her lawyer’s hat firmly positioned on her head, Marion had raised me to feel empowerment in truth, to never be afraid of being honest. Lying and deceit, she believed and espoused, was the domain of cowards lacking in both character and good judgement. As a result, I’d grown up believing I had a solid moral compass. It never occurred to me that a situation might arise where I couldn’t tell east from west.

When I fell madly, hopelessly and passionately in love with Jonathon Ashby, many assumptions I had about my life began to change. His disruption of my steady, safe and predictable life had been instant and profound, launching me into an exciting and slightly dangerous new realm. Nothing in this new world mattered but Jon and me and our seemingly boundless love for one another. How quickly he became my oxygen, necessary for my very existence.

Yet, there was still the problem of my two-year relationship with Thomas Morgan. Not to mention the airline tickets he’d bought for me as a surprise just a few days after I’d met Jon, so I could visit him in Melbourne, along with his vague promise of a ‘surprise’.

The airline tickets were for the middle of March, a couple of weeks after I met Jonathon. As the days passed and I fell more deeply in love with Jonathon, I convinced myself I still had plenty of time to break up with Thomas. Yet every time I imagined having a break-up conversation with him over the phone, or even face to face over a video call, it felt wrong. Thomas was a good person. He came from a good family. Our parents were friends. He didn’t deserve a long-distance break-up.

I decided I’d make an excuse not to go to Melbourne, then break up with Thomas once he returned home to Sydney. I’d quietly go to see him at his share-house and break up with him face to face in a place where he’d feel comfortable. A place from where I could make a hasty escape after I’d delivered the bad news.

Jonathon had no idea at that stage that Thomas Morgan existed. It wasn’t that I deliberately chose not to tell him about Thomas; I just failed to mention him. Pretending Thomas didn’t exist became even easier after I removed all his photographs and personal items from my apartment before Jon’s first visit. I’d almost convinced myself I was a young single woman with the world at her feet. Inside my head, my mind was already made up. I would break up with Thomas as soon as he returned from Melbourne, which meant I had never compromised my relationship with Jonathon.

Of course I felt guilty about deceiving Thomas, but something had cooled in our relationship during the months before I’d met Jon. Right at the time when we should have been starting to plan a future, things had begun to feel stale and boring. As if we were already an old married couple who’d missed out on all the fun parts of being in a relationship. Yes, Thomas was reliable and trustworthy, solid and loyal. But now that I’d met Jon, I could clearly see the spark between Thomas and I had never been particularly strong.

But the longer I put off breaking up with Thomas, the more nerve-wracking it became pretending he didn’t exist, especially when he kept calling me and sending text messages, sometimes when Jonathon was asleep in the bed beside me, or while we were out walking, or out for dinner. Annoyingly, Thomas seemed to have cottoned on to my waning interest and was paying me more attention than he ever had during our entire two years together. He was also excited about my upcoming trip to Melbourne and kept sending me cryptic messages about what he had planned.

As the Melbourne date drew closer, I began to feel a real sense of dread about cancelling. Surely, with how stressful this had all become, it would be better to get the break-up over and done with? I could, I reasoned, fly to Melbourne, break up with Thomas – at the airport if possible – and then fly straight back to Sydney the same day. Jonathon wouldn’t even need to know. I could tell him I had a photoshoot that weekend in Melbourne and then if I arrived back early I could say it had been cancelled because of the weather. Wasn’t Melbourne notorious for having four seasons in one day?

But once my mind was made up and I’d told Jonathon my little white lie – with surprising ease – the relief I thought I’d feel was nowhere to be found. Instead, I felt sick. For the past couple of weeks I’d been lying to Thomas, betraying his love and trust. When I finally got to see him in person, I would have to confess what I’d been up to. I’d already decided to tell Thomas the truth, that I’d fallen in love with someone else and I had come to Melbourne for the sole purpose of ending our relationship in person, maturely and respectfully.

Boarding my flight at Sydney Airport, I felt trembly and nauseous. Even though it was early autumn, I couldn’t seem to get warm. My fingers were like ice, my toes unable to warm up inside my shoes. A dull headache began to pound inside my head. Inside the aircraft, the flight attendant directed me to a business-class seat and offered me champagne. Knowing how much Thomas must have paid for this privilege only made me feel worse. I declined the bubbles and asked for water instead, popping two painkillers into my mouth.

Pulling my jacket more tightly around me, I closed my eyes and settled back into my seat ready for take-off, looking up only briefly as a man in an expensive suit slipped into the seat beside me. As I registered his face, my eyes widened.

‘Thomas! What on earth? What are you doing here?’

‘Two champagnes please.’ With a broad smile, Thomas nodded his thanks to the flight attendant then reached for my hands as he leaned in to kiss me with a gentle brush of his lips. The flight attendant looked away discreetly, but I caught her smile. ‘Surprised?’ Thomas laughed in a low, sexy way, obviously pleased by my shocked reaction. All I could think about was that it had been a miracle that Thomas had somehow not spotted Jonathon and I together at the airport. Jon had insisted on driving me, then walking me to my departure gate. How was it I hadn’t noticed Thomas among the crowd? Or that he hadn’t noticed me with Jon? I swallowed my relief, but my stomach felt churned up and restless. This wasn’t how things were meant to go. I needed time by myself on the plane to think through the break-up talk; to plan it properly; rehearse what I needed to say. How could I do that with Thomas sitting right next to me, especially smiling like that, looking so very pleased with himself.

‘Seriously, what are you doing here?’ I asked.

The flight attendant handed us two glasses of champagne and this time I accepted one without question, taking a large gulp. By the time we ascended into the sky, Thomas had explained he wanted our holiday weekend to begin the moment we both got on the plane, together in business class. He’d caught an earlier flight from Melbourne just so he could accompany me there.

But as the aircraft rose above the clouds and reached cruising altitude, I quickly discovered that Thomas had another much more important reason for boarding my flight. As the plane’s PA system crackled to life and the pilot began his in-flight announcements, Thomas dug around in his jacket pocket, his fingers fumbling with uncharacteristic nervousness.

I frowned. ‘What are you looking for?’

He shushed me, bringing a finger to his lips and then pointing in the direction of the cockpit. The pilot’s tone grew more congenial as he announced it was his pleasure to let everyone on board know something very special was about to happen in row two of the aircraft.

Frozen, I watched helplessly as Thomas snapped open a small black box. Inside was a solitaire diamond ring, exactly the style of engagement ring I would have chosen for myself. Thomas’s hands trembled as he slipped the ring from the box and held it between two fingers.

‘Jennifer Carmody, marry me. Make me the happiest man in the world.’

Around us, curious passengers erupted in a collective cheer that quickly spread through the plane. In the aisle alongside us, the flight attendant applauded and wiped a tear from her cheek.

How could I say no?

Two hours later at the luggage carousel, as yet another passenger from our flight offered us their congratulations, Thomas lifted off my bag and directed us towards the taxi rank. It was only once we climbed inside the back seat that the numbness inside me finally began to thaw and I told him, in a tumble of sentences I’m sure made little sense, the real reason I’d come to Melbourne.

This time, thank god, we had only one taxi driver to witness our private conversation.

Drained, I turned to Thomas. ‘So, what now?’

Thomas had remained quiet throughout my confession, his hand never leaving mine.

‘You’re not well,’ he finally said. ‘Your nose is red, your eyes are watering and I can hear it in your voice. We may as well go to the hotel, just as friends, and I can help get you better. I’ll find a chemist and get you some cold and flu tablets. You can try to sleep it off.’

At some stage that night, between bouts of fever and a stabbing headache, Thomas told me how sorry he was for putting me on the spot with his surprise proposal. We both cried and the entire, agonising conversation broke both our hearts. He offered to get another hotel room, but I told him I didn’t want to be alone while I was feeling so sick. And so we spent the night together in our luxury hotel room mourning the unexpected end of our relationship instead of celebrating the beginning of our life together.

I wish I could tell you Thomas slept on the lounge. Or that I didn’t feel glad when he held me in his arms and cuddled me into his big strong body. Or that at some point we didn’t love each other one last time, our grief somehow finding a level of acceptance as our bodies said goodbye.

I knew it was wrong. But, like I said, my moral compass was all bent out of shape. And at least I’d finally told Thomas the truth. That had taken courage; it was probably the thing that had made me sick, not some random germ.

At 6 am the next morning, I woke to see Thomas’s bag packed at the door of our hotel room. He stood, dressed, by the hotel window, his attention drawn to the cityscape beneath. Hearing me stir, he turned.

I sat up. ‘You’re leaving?’

As he spoke, the resigned expression left his face. Something harder, more resolute, replaced it. ‘You’ve got everything you need and I’m pretty sure you’re going to live.’

I nodded as I gathered the blanket around me. ‘Thomas, I …’

At the doorway, he paused and turned back, his eyes lit with an emotion that filled me with a desperate yet futile sorrow. ‘Don’t worry Jen, I get it. I hope he’s worth it.’

Back home in Sydney, I felt like I was on top of the world, a bird soaring in the sky. On my walk to and from the train station to my studio each day, I was that ridiculously happy-slash-possibly-mad woman who smiled at strangers, cooed at babies and patted other people’s dogs. I bought myself fresh flowers, laughed uproariously at my barista’s dad jokes and emptied all the coins from my purse into the homeless man’s worn, upturned hat.

After a week or so, I’d almost managed to convince myself the reason for my good mood was finally telling Thomas the truth, rather than getting away with telling Jonathon a lie.

Jonathon had insisted on picking me up from the airport and had been elated to see me after our short time apart. I’d told him in enough detail to be convincing about how my photoshoot – private portraits for a wealthy family – had turned out better than expected. He’d been charmingly interested in finding out more, but I’d managed to brush aside most of his questions once we arrived back at my place and got to work messing up my neatly tucked-in sheets.

After another few weeks had passed, I’d all but forgotten my weekend in Melbourne. My phone was, at last, blessedly quiet now I didn’t have Thomas contacting me every few hours, and Jonathon was all I could think about. I lived, slept and breathed his name, hating every second we spent apart, and counting down the minutes until I’d see him next. Marion began to enquire as to whether I’d died and a couple of friends texted to ask if I’d joined a cult.

I’m fine! I texted everyone back, slightly annoyed by the interruptions. Just busy! Catch up soon!

The simple truth was that Jon and I had no time for anybody else. Our love was greedy and all-consuming. There was no space left inside our bubble of joy for anybody else. How was it possible we’d been together just six weeks? It felt as if we’d been lifelong soulmates. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know about my life – my moments of pride, joy, happiness, sadness; my upbringing, my high school years, my university days, the highs and lows of getting my artistic career off the ground; how I’d rescued my beloved dog, Saskia, from being attacked by a pack of much bigger dogs on the beach at Bronte, getting attacked myself in the process. Jon loved Saskia. Thomas had loved Saskia too, but Saskia had seemed only too willing to transfer her affections from Thomas to Jon. Much like her owner, I sometimes thought during my increasingly rare moments of guilt.

And then, just as I thought life couldn’t get any better, karma reared its ugly head and dragged me kicking and screaming back to earth with a shuddering jolt.

Jon and I had just finished making love and were lying naked on my bed, the cool breeze from the open window cooling our perspiration-soaked skin. Moonlight spilled across the crumpled sheets, bathing us in a milky glow.

‘Just going to the loo.’ With a sigh, I forced myself to roll away from him, unlacing my fingers from his. After I’d finished in the toilet, I decided to freshen up with a quick shower. As I washed my hair, I made plans to surprise Jon with his favourite dinner – baked pork bangers, mash, peas and gravy. So English! I’d tease him. I loved to make fun of his strange little habits. I had a present to give him that night too. He’d never asked about the photo of his parents he’d asked me to restore, which was just as well because I’d taken my time getting it perfect. The finished reproduction was so rich and detailed it looked like a photo that had been taken yesterday. Next, I’d found a special antique silver frame to show it off. I couldn’t wait to see Jon’s face when he unwrapped it.

But when I stepped out of the bathroom in my robe, my hair wrapped up in a towel, I was surprised to find Jon fully dressed. He even had his shoes on. Next to them was his overnight bag. It bulged with bad news, confirmed by the dark expression on his face.

‘I don’t think I’ll stay tonight after all.’

‘What? What do you mean? I’m about to get dinner started.’

I rushed to Jon’s side, but he stopped me before I was able to get too close and held me at arm’s length, the way you do when you rescue a turtle off the road but don’t want it to pee on you. Seeing my confusion, he dropped his hands and stepped away from me towards the dining room table. He picked up my phone and handed it to me.

‘You should have been smart enough to delete Thomas’s text messages.’

I felt the blood drain from my face. ‘What? That’s nothing. Jon, that was ages ago. I can explain. I was going to tell you but …’

Jon’s eyes hardened.

I tried to wrap my arms around him, but he shrugged me away and folded his arms across his chest, forming a surprisingly effective physical barrier between us.

I stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. I was always going to tell you, but the timing never seemed right. I didn’t want to taint things between us while everything was so new and magic.’

A tear slid down my cheek, but its sudden appearance had no effect on Jon. If anything, it seemed to make him even angrier.

‘So, what is it you’ve been playing at, Jen? Huh? Hedging your bets? Cheating on your boyfriend until you knew if things were going to work out between us? What’s he doing now? Waiting for you to come back to him?’

Jon’s accusations were like little explosions going off inside my head, shattering our love into a million pieces.

‘No. No! Of course not. I just needed to break up with Thomas face to face. It had nothing to do with you and me.’

Jon glared at me until I could no longer hold his gaze. ‘So, it was Thomas you went to see in Melbourne. There was no client, was there?’

I was bawling openly then, big fat tears streaming down my face. ‘I had to do it like that, Jon, I didn’t have a choice. It was the right thing to do.’

‘Right, so it took you a full weekend to break up with him?’

My face grew hot. ‘I was sick. Thomas looked after me.’

Jon’s jaw tightened. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jen, spare me the fucking details. I’m not an idiot. Do you really expect me to believe that shit?’

‘It’s true! I swear it’s true. I promise, with my life.’

Jon’s eyes filled with tears now. I longed to hold him but I knew there was no use. He wouldn’t let me near him at that moment. Perhaps he never would again.

‘I can’t believe you anymore, Jen.’ He paused at the door and gave me one last disgusted look. ‘Sorry, Jen, I didn’t sign up for this. Honesty means everything to me. You know that. I feel like I don’t know who you really are anymore. What you’re capable of.’

After Jon left, I drank an entire bottle of wine, smoked half a packet of cigarettes and cried myself to sleep. During the next two weeks, I watched my phone like a woman possessed, but Jon refused to respond to any of my calls or text messages, despite my using a range of tactics. At first, I’d tried apologising, then pleading, begging, rationalising and telling him I’d accepted we were finished but asking if we could at least remain friends. I’d even tried anger, asking him what right he had to snoop through my phone. But Jon and I both knew that him finding Thomas’s text messages was a far lesser crime than mine. Besides, hadn’t I occasionally picked up Jon’s phone when he was in the shower and wondered if it contained any secrets from his past?

Jon was right. I was an idiot not to have deleted Thomas’s messages. But to my way of thinking, doing that would have proved I had something to hide, when really, for the most part, I didn’t. All I could do now was be grateful Jon still didn’t seem to know about Thomas’s marriage proposal and my very public short-lived acceptance. Nor did he know Thomas had stayed the night in my hotel room. In my bed. These two small facts allowed me to cling to a very small hope our relationship might eventually recover.

My hopes were realised when, two weeks later, just as I was beginning to believe our relationship really was over, Jon appeared unannounced on my doorstep ready to talk. It took a few months before we were anywhere near as close as we had been in the beginning of our relationship, but I worked hard to regain Jon’s love and trust.

For the most part, my hard work paid off. I never mentioned Thomas Morgan’s name again and I made sure I never gave Jon another reason to doubt my love and loyalty.

Until the night of Marion’s sixtieth birthday party.

When Jonathon discovered Thomas and I together and all hell broke loose.

Chapter Sixteen

During the past week, Jon’s taken to working longer hours. In the mornings, he’s gone before I wake up. At night, he’s rarely home before eight.

‘What’s keeping you so busy?’ I ask. It’s his third late night in a row and I’m watching him heat up his dinner in the microwave. As he waits, he takes a beer from the fridge and drinks around half of it in several long loud gulps.

‘Just working on the strategy for the merger. Things are ramping up. The mayor wants me to drill down deeper on the economic case so she can prove the merger won’t achieve the savings the State Government claims it will.’

‘Will the state listen?’ I ask, setting a place for him at the kitchen bench.

He shrugs. ‘The mayor seems to think so.’ Jon doesn’t have time for any additional chitchat. He gives me a quick peck on the cheek as he picks up his knife and fork and heads towards his study. ‘Sorry, babe, under the pump. Don’t wait up. I’ll see you in bed.’

The clock in the kitchen tells me it’s eight-thirty. Jasper is asleep in bed and it’s unlikely Jon will emerge from his study anytime soon. I look around the house, but there’s nothing obvious that needs doing. I think about Courtney’s phone in my new studio but resist the temptation of making another attempt to crack its code, particularly with Jon just down the hallway. I’ve been feeling increasingly guilty about keeping the phone. Lately, I’ve been giving a lot more thought to the idea of returning it to its rightful owner – Courtney’s husband, Rob.

I take a wine glass from the pantry, fill it with white wine from the fridge then rummage through my handbag until I find the small piece of carefully folded paper hidden inside the cover of my diary. I study my handwriting.

Dr Rob O’Leary, GP

57 Kings Parade, Newport NSW 2106

Phone: 02 9877 4621

Email: rob.olearygp@gmail.com

Finding this information had been relatively easy using a simple Google search, but after I’d finally summoned the courage to call Rob’s listed phone number, I’d discovered it had been disconnected. Similarly, the test email I sent shortly afterwards (from a temporary email account I set up especially for the purpose of remaining anonymous) bounced back as undeliverable. A property search revealed Rob’s house where he also practised from had been sold.

I swipe open my phone, navigate to the White Pages, and type in Rob’s surname. The search finds forty-seven O’Learys living in the greater Sydney area, but none of them with the correct first initial.

Then another thought occurs to me. Perhaps one of the O’Leary families listed here is Rob’s parents? I instantly dismiss the idea of going down this track. The whole point of returning Courtney’s phone to Rob is to do it anonymously. I can’t very well call his parents out of the blue and expect them to give me their son’s postal address without explaining why. Of course, I could pretend to be someone else and give a false reason, but the thought of speaking to the parents of the man whose life I’d completely ruined paralyses me with guilt.

From my front-row position inside the courthouse, I’d scanned the crowd for Rob’s parents, but if they were present, they’d done nothing to draw attention to themselves. Courtney’s family was a different story. Her parents – the sobbing woman who hid her face in a handkerchief alongside the stony-faced man who held her protectively – had read out a heart-breaking victim impact statement. But nobody had spoken for Rob while he lay in his hospital bed.

Perhaps his parents were no longer alive?

I cross out Rob’s old house address and phone number on my notepad and mentally canvass my options.

LinkedIn?

I open the app on my phone and type in Rob’s name, then begin scrolling, dismissing all the Robert O’Learys who live overseas or who aren’t medical doctors. But when I try to open the first listing I find in Australia, the app requires me to join LinkedIn and create a profile to see the listing in more detail. I’ve never seen a clear photo of Rob – the media had mostly only published photos of Courtney – but I do know his age. Forty-three.

Frustrated, I decide to forget this approach and try social media. But I already know from my earlier searches of Courtney’s Instagram and Facebook accounts that she never posted anything about her husband or marriage. Her posts were all about herself and her sponsored brands. Rob’s name had returned nothing on social media. Nevertheless, I type it in again and try to ignore the flood of unpleasant memories of the messages I received on social media after the court case. My stomach flips unpleasantly, and I wonder if the cramping feeling in my tummy could be hunger. I head to the fridge, returning with another glass of white wine and an apple.

As I chew slowly, another idea forms.

A private investigator?

I type the two words into Google and am surprised by the long list of websites that come up. The search engine has picked up on my location, listing nearby private investigation businesses in Cairns, Atherton, Mareeba and even, I’m surprised to see, Port Douglas. I click on the first link – an operator in Cairns by the name of JS Investigations. Their website provides an intriguing insight into a world completely foreign to me.

Covert surveillance

Proof of extramarital affairs

Catch a dishonest employee in the act

Prove fake insurance claims

Then my heart skips a beat as I register the last listed service.

Missing persons

I glance back up at the clock. Nine-fifteen. Half an hour has ticked past. Jon could walk in the room anytime. I write down the website on my piece of paper and tuck the note back inside my diary. Then I clear my phone’s search history and change the lock code, just in case. Ever since Jon snooped in my phone years ago when we first met, I’ve learnt not to leave a trail.

I drain the last of my wine. But just as I’m getting up from my stool, my phone pings with a new email.

Blythe.

I click it open.

The photography contract.

I open it and scan through the terms. Everything is as Blythe described. The hourly rate is generous – nothing near what I used to charge, but I wasn’t expecting it to be and I know I’ll sign it without question. If only to show Jon I’m more than capable of juggling family and work life. My fingers find the spot on my scalp where Jon hurt me. The lump’s no longer there, but if I press hard enough I can almost still feel pain. I pull my fingers away and take a deep breath. In time, Jon will get used to the idea of me working again.

I’m just about to close the email when another thought occurs to me that’s so instantly and blindingly obvious that I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.

I type quickly, not giving myself an opportunity to change my mind.

Hi Blythe,

Contract looks great. I’ll print it off tomorrow, sign it, then drop it into you this week and we can run through the shot list for Carnivale.

I also have a favour to ask. I’m trying to track down an address for a cousin of mine I haven’t seen in years. Rob O’Leary. He’s a GP. Last known address in Sydney. I can’t find him through the usual channels. Thought you might have access to other means, from your investigative work?

Cheers,

J xx

I know what I’m asking Blythe is risky. There’s a chance her enquiries may turn up news articles about the accident and, even worse, my name in association with it. Thankfully, the bulk of the media coverage had concentrated on Courtney. After all, Rob had survived. Only one very early news article that I saw mentioned Rob by name. Hopefully, the coverage of him wouldn’t pop up on Blythe’s radar. Besides, what choice do I have? As a former investigative journalist, Blythe is my best chance of tracking Rob down. She would have access to all kinds of contacts, databases and information beyond my reach. And if Blythe does happen to find out about the accident, well, that’s something I’ll just have to deal with.

Apart from the constant murmur of the sea lapping against the shore, and the rustle of palm trees outside, the house is quiet. Saskia has fallen asleep, her belly full, beneath the dining room table. I call her quietly, but she’s out for the count.

I yawn and stretch, then slide off the kitchen stool and begin making my way to the other end of the house, switching off lights as I go. At the front door, I’m surprised to feel a warm draught of breeze on my skin. The room casts shadows but my eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. My breath catches. The front door, which I’m sure I locked earlier in the night, now hangs open to the night sky, a smattering of white stars strung bright beyond it. As I hurry forward, the soft white full-length curtain hanging in the adjacent window balloons and falls with the wind, and I become conscious of the beat of my heart.

‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Is someone there?’

A single bird call slices through the darkness, but other than that, the night is quiet.

And then I hear it.

A crunch. The quiet crush of tiny rocks. A footstep on the driveway.

My hand trembling, I flick on the external floodlights. White light illuminates the front yard, creating theatre among the manicured lawn and the shadowy rainforest beyond. My eyes dart across the scene once, twice, then again, but there is no movement from the stillness, nothing out of place.

On the hatstand nearby are a couple of umbrellas Jasper and I have made good use of to protect ourselves from the frequent tropical downpours on our afternoon walks around the property and down to the beach. I lock the door, double-checking it this time, and then, on a whim, grab the tallest and strongest of the umbrellas.

I lay it within reach on the floor next to my bed before I turn off my bedside lamp.

Chapter Seventeen

I’m lying on stainless steel, my body loosely covered in a white gown. My eyes are closed, my face pale, the skin around my lips a dull shade of grey. My hair is mostly hidden beneath an elasticised blue hospital cap, but a blonde strand has escaped. Only the hair is not my colour. It’s blonde. The exact same shade as Courtney’s.

Somewhere in the background, a baby wails, or perhaps that’s only my imagination. The sound seems real. It winds its way inside my head, under my skin. My breasts tingle in response. Although I can’t touch them, they feel hot. The baby’s alive. Which means it’s my baby, not Courtney’s.

The steel beneath me is cold. So cold. For a moment, I imagine I see snowflakes falling all around me, soft and beautiful. But wherever they land on my body, they inflict an icy-cold sting. I pray for them to land on my breasts.

Then comes scratching.

In my abdomen.

In the pit of my stomach, just above my pelvic bone.

It starts small, like a mouse, pawing.

It wants to get out. Or perhaps in. I can’t tell.

Then it begins to scratch harder, its sharp claws tearing at the soft skin, its white fur turning a soft pink that matches its greedy eyes.

I gasp in pain. Or at least, I try to. No sound comes out. I can’t find the air.

Above me, lights glare down. All around, people scurry, like rats. I hear sounds like cutlery. Metal on metal.

Then whoosh. A bulb explodes and the lights go out.

Just an eerie glow remains.

The rat-people are still now. They glow from the shadows.

‘It’s too late,’ the largest rat says. He’s holding a knife. Its sharp edge glows in the light. ‘She’s gone.’

‘No!’ I try to scream, but my voice won’t work.

I try to ask a question but the words get no further than my throat. ‘How can I be dead if I can still feel pain?’

The baby – my baby – is shrieking now too, in pain.

Or perhaps that’s me, my voice recovered.

But no, my lips are still closed, pressed tight.

Then I do gasp and this time I’m awake, my face emerging from my pillow, my arms wrapped around my stomach.

Outside the bedroom window, the bush curlew hears my pain and screams. I pull myself from the bed, being careful not to wake Jon, and make my way to the bathroom, stumbling across the tiles towards the toilet. When I sit down, I see it, real now.

Blood.

Blood!

I blink and rub my eyes, then look back down at my underpants.

Fresh sobs come, but now my tears are happy.

For I’m awake.

Gloriously awake.

Through the bathroom window, the sun begins to push its way above the ocean’s horizon.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper to the warm rays from my position on the toilet. ‘Thank you.’

Jon’s head appears around the corner of the doorway, his hair messy and flattened on one side in a way that once would have made my heart melt.

‘Are you nearly done?’ he asks, giving me a quizzical look through bleary eyes. ‘I need a shower.’

I shove toilet paper in my underpants and pull up my pyjama shorts, then move aside, waiting patiently as Jon executes a lengthy early-morning pee. When he turns to find me still in the bathroom, he arches an eyebrow and wipes the sleep from his eyes.

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve got good news.’ I step forward and circle my arms around his bare torso before he can step into the shower. ‘My period’s back.’ My voice is jubilant, my words barely audible through my wide smile.

Jon unwraps my arms and scrutinises my face. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa.’ He shakes his head. ‘Don’t forget what the gynaecologist told us. No more kids. It’s too risky.’ He frowns. ‘How did he describe it? An intensive-care pregnancy, that was it. You’d be in hospital for the last few months, if not the full nine months. That’s what he said, remember?’

He steps inside the shower and reaches for the taps. I turn away from him and watch the sunrise shimmering from the ocean, its reflection casting sweeping golden ripples across the surface.

Behind me, the water from the shower gurgles its downward journey and the smell of soap fills the room.

‘I’m just so happy I have a chance again. A choice.’

‘What’s that? I couldn’t hear you.’ Jon wipes soap from his face as he pokes his head out from behind the glass screen.

Surprised, I realise I’ve spoken the words out loud. ‘Nothing,’ I say quickly.

An hour later, over breakfast, long after Jon has left for work, my phone pings.

Blythe.

I tap open her text message.

Rob O’Leary

PO Box 534

Avalon NSW 2107

I stare at the address for a long moment, then type back a quick thank you.

‘Mummy, why are you smiling like that?’ Jasper asks from across the table.

I reach over and wipe the smear of Vegemite from his cheek.

‘Do I need a reason to smile?’ My smile widens.

‘Yes.’

‘Today’s a good day, that’s all.’

Suddenly feeling famished, I push the last of my toast inside my mouth. I’m contemplating a third piece when a knock sounds at the front door. I frown, wondering who it could be so early in the morning, then realise it’s Thursday. The day Bree and I agreed would be her cleaning day.

I drain the last of my tea and head towards the door, but before I reach it, it’s already opening and Bree’s stepping inside, her long black ponytail swinging behind her. She looks surprised to see me.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I assumed you’d already left to take Jasper to school, so I …’ She lifts the flap of her bag and drops a bunch of keys inside without finishing her sentence.

‘You have a key to the house?’ I ask.

Bree’s face grows crimson. ‘Yes, Jon gave it to me. Is that okay?’

I feel my own cheeks flush warm. ‘Of course. You need a key. I hadn’t thought about it before, but yes, that makes perfect sense.’ Silently, I wonder who else might have a key. Bill too?

Noticing Jasper’s eyes on her, Bree moves to the dining room table. ‘Hey there.’ She earns herself a shy smile as she tousles Jasper’s hair.

As I carry our breakfast dishes to the sink, I call to Jasper over my shoulder. ‘Time to do your teeth, mate. Chop chop.’

Bree follows me to the kitchen. ‘So, are you looking forward to your party? Jon’s asked me to babysit so you can relax and enjoy yourself.’

I smile. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting some new people.’

‘How old will you be? Jon didn’t say.’

‘Forty.’

‘Holy shit.’ Bree’s eyes widen. ‘Sorry, I just … you don’t look forty. I mean forty sounds so freaking old. You don’t look that old.’

I force a laugh, determined not to let Bree’s comment ruin my fantastic mood this morning. ‘Sometimes I feel it.’ I nod in Jasper’s direction. ‘Especially running after him.’

‘He’s adorable. I just want to eat him up.’ Bree’s expression turns wistful. ‘You’re so lucky. You’ve got everything. Gorgeous kid. Beautiful house. Hot husband.’ She blushes, flashing me a cheeky smile. ‘I hope I’m as lucky as you one day.’

I roll my eyes but smile to show I’m teasing. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

‘You’d choose something different?’

‘You’ve got your whole life ahead of you is all I mean.’ I’m suddenly touched by the intensity of the young woman’s naive longing. Hadn’t I been just as idealistic not so many years ago? Like Bree, I’d longed for a perfect family of my own, but she still seems so very young. My hormones were much later to the stage than hers. I pat Bree’s hand. ‘You know, I haven’t had a chance to really thank you for everything you’ve done to help Jon get the house set up. You’ve done an amazing job.’

She runs her fingers through her ponytail then begins to clear the breakfast clutter from the dining room table. ‘Thanks. I can’t wait to have a home of my own one day. I love setting everything up and decorating all the rooms. I guess you could say I’m a sucker for pretty things.’

We catch each other’s gaze. ‘You and me both.’

At the school half an hour later, my good mood is fully restored. I watch the students who’ve volunteered for the street parade – Jasper included – practise their dance moves in the hall. This year’s float is pirate-ship themed and the enormous job of transforming a flat-bed truck – lent by a grandfather of one of the students especially for the occasion – into a very convincing pirate ship has been completed.

As the dance concludes, Melissa finds me. Her stomach looks huge. She rubs it absently. ‘All good for Saturday night’s photos?’

I nod. ‘I’ve just started a photography contract with the Port Douglas Guardian so I’ll be taking a lot of other photos on Saturday night, but I’ll make sure I get plenty of shots of the float, don’t worry.’

Melissa smiles and claps her hands. ‘That’s great news,’ she says. ‘Congratulations. I bet Blythe can’t believe her luck.’

‘You know Blythe?’

‘Everyone knows pretty much everyone up here.’ She laughs. ‘Get used to it.’

‘Blythe and I went to uni together. In Sydney. Years ago, of course.’

Melissa’s face is surprised. ‘Really? Now that is a small world. I guess that almost qualifies you as a local.’ She laughs, then stops abruptly. ‘Laughing makes me pee now.’ She gives her stomach a prod. ‘There’s just too much pressure on my poor little bladder these days.’

As Melissa turns to go, I catch her arm, unable to keep my brand-new secret to myself another second longer. I lean in and whisper my morning’s news quietly into her ear. She immediately hugs me, her stomach a warm mound between us.

‘Oh, Jen,’ she says, her eyes shining. ‘I’m so happy for you.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘See? Life in the tropics agrees with you. And, more importantly, the land is looking after you. Where you live, where we both live, is powerful women’s country. Do you ever feel it?’

I nod, unable to keep the huge grin from my face.

Chapter Eighteen

The rest of the week passes in a happy blur that sees me buying too many sanitary supplies and barely thinking of Courtney’s phone. Nor do I particularly notice or care about Jon’s late-night and early-morning comings and goings. I feel whole again. Complete. Flushed with fresh fertility. Before I know it, Saturday afternoon has arrived and, with it, our final preparations for tonight’s Carnivale street parade. I’ve checked and double-checked my photography equipment is intact, charged the batteries and cleaned the lenses. At the last minute, I remember to pack Blythe’s shot list as well as a notepad and pen in case I need to record any details for the photos.

Blythe’s given me a heads-up that there’s likely to be some protest action from the Supporters of Greater Daintree Shire lobby group. The street parade is a highly popular event that attracts regional and state television coverage, providing the activists with a perfect opportunity to draw attention to their cause. If that happens, Blythe’s attention will be focused on pulling together material for an online news story that she can upload as soon as possible to the Guardian’s website and social media platforms.

I glance at my phone: 3 pm. We still have an hour before we need to leave. Satisfied my camera bag is intact, I head upstairs to Jasper’s bedroom to get him dressed in his pirate outfit. When we head back downstairs, it’s almost four and Jon is sitting in front of the television, an open bottle of beer in front of him. He’s perched forward on the lounge, his attention firmly fixed on the screen. Hearing us approach, he reaches for the remote and turns up the volume.

I notice he’s wearing his best suit. ‘You’re looking very sharp.’

He looks up at me, then at Jasper, immediately teasing him in his best pirate voice. ‘Aye aye, me hearty. Great costume, Jasper. You going to walk the plank tonight?’

‘Do you have some official council business at the street parade?’ I suddenly feel self-conscious in my own casual attire – jeans and a T-shirt.

‘Nothing formally,’ he says, then takes a swig of beer. ‘But there will probably be some media interviews, that sort of thing.’

The advertisement on the television ends and Jon turns the volume up higher. As he does, Jasper begins to slash his pretend sword through the air with shouted warnings to an invisible enemy. It’s times like this my heart breaks that I haven’t been able to provide Jasper with a little brother or sister to play with.

Jon’s focus is still on the TV. ‘Keep it down, Jasper. I need to watch this.’

The screen turns to the local news and a sombre-faced newsreader begins her bulletin.

‘And now to some breaking news in the Greater Daintree Shire. A bombshell investigation by Channel 7 reveals long-standing Mayor, Councillor Eva Manderley, may have exploited her position by awarding a lucrative local government contract to a family member without declaring a personal interest. The alleged corrupt behaviour relates to the awarding of the Daintree Ferry contract to local company FNQ Transport Holdings.’

Jon flicks off the television and lets out a long whistle. ‘Just goes to show you, doesn’t it?’

‘What? You don’t think she’s guilty, do you?’ I’m finding it difficult to reconcile my impression of the mayor with the accusation being made against her. ‘She seems so, I don’t know, genuine. Sincere. Honest.’

Jon shrugs. ‘Who knows? She’s a politician, isn’t she? They’re all up to their necks in it one way or another. It’s only really a matter of luck who gets caught and who doesn’t. Some are obviously smarter than others. That helps too.’ He checks his watch. ‘We’d better hit the road if we want to get Jasper to the street parade on time.’

As we load up the car, Jon eyes my camera bag. ‘You really need all that gear?’

‘Yes, I told you I’m working, remember?’

‘What about Jasper? I’m going to have interviews and other work stuff going on until late.’

‘That’s okay. I assumed you’d be busy so I’ve organised for Melissa to look after Jasper at the street parade. Not that I expect there’ll be much for me to do after that. Most of the photos Blythe needs are of the parade itself.’

But Jon’s now busy fiddling with the car radio. He finds a local news channel and turns up the volume.

By the time we find a car park in the back streets of Port Douglas near the floats, it’s very clear that Eva Manderley’s corruption allegation has become the region’s number one news item.

Almost as soon as we’re out of the car, Jon kisses Jasper goodbye and disappears in the opposite direction to us on council business, his phone running hot. I find the school float among a long line-up of other colourful floats and leave Jasper in Melissa’s capable hands, reassuring her again I’ll get some good shots.

I make my way through the assembling crowds towards Macrossan Street. The sun is low when I reach the town centre. A neon pink and orange sunset casts a pretty stain across the darkening sky. The air is unusually still, creating a steamy atmosphere that warms a growing sense of anticipation. Music and laughter spill from the doorways and verandas of the town’s two main pubs, while restaurant staff dart between tables that have been swooped upon by early-bird revellers keen to nab the best vantage point to watch the parade.

Down the middle of the tree-lined street, the lush palms and towering African Mahogany trees have taken on a mystical appearance, their sweeping branches littered with thousands of tiny brightly coloured fairy lights. The spicy aromas from restaurant kitchens merge with the sizzle of outdoor barbecues, making my stomach growl. I realise I’m famished. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I felt this ravenous.

My mouth waters as I reach the end of the street, where I find a vendor whose queue is shorter than some of the others. I order a kebab with the works then find a patch of grass in the park, where I demolish the entire wrap in less than ten minutes. As I stroll back towards the busy end of the street, I take a few test photos, enjoying the heavy feel of the camera and its flash in my hand. Noticing my camera, bystanders happily pose and ask me to take their photos. Before long, I’m laughing along with them, encouraging their antics and even persuading most of them to give me their names for the Guardian’s social pages.

Then, through my viewfinder, I recognise unruly dark hair. Bill. He turns my way as I drop the camera to my chest. Happy to see a familiar face, I lift my hand to wave. But as he looks past me and turns away, I realise I was mistaken. He hadn’t seen me after all.

All around me, the crowd is thickening. A microphone crackles to life and an MC with a booming voice welcomes the crowds and thanks sponsors as I search for a suitable vantage point. The floats will be travelling slowly, one by one, from the far end of the street, up past the main shops and restaurants until they reach the Court House Hotel on the corner opposite the park, where they’ll turn left.

Keen for my shots to include as much colourful background as possible, I head towards the Court House and find a bench seat beneath a tree. I place my camera bag at my feet and climb up onto the wooden seat. From this position, the visual clearance along the main street couldn’t be more perfect.

Satisfied, I search for my water bottle. As I drink, my gaze wonders to the nearby pub. The outdoor tables heave with revellers and the line-up at the bar is ten deep. The women are dressed in their summery best – light, colourful dresses and strappy sandals – while the men wear brightly patterned shirts with rolled-up sleeves, exposing tanned necks and heavily tattooed forearms.

My people-watching is interrupted by a tap on my thigh.

I look down. Blythe’s red curly hair is tied up high on her head. Her face is free of make-up and she’s wearing an old pair of jeans with runners and a slightly stained top, as if she’s come straight from cleaning her house. Both her hands are glued to her hips and her feet shuffle restlessly.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Her voice is agitated and I can smell coffee and cigarettes on her breath.

I jump down off my seat. ‘About the mayor?’

‘It’s a freaking deliberate smear campaign. I know it. I’ve got an instinct about these things.’ A couple of loose curls spring free as she runs a hand through her hair. ‘Something’s not right. I’m sure it’s tied up with the merger. The State Government’s trying to discredit her, prove to the community that local leaders can’t be trusted.’

‘Did she do what they say?’

Blythe’s nostrils flare. ‘Everyone’s related to everyone up here, one way or another. Eva doesn’t have anything to do with the relative they’re talking about. It’s a very, very loose family connection, trust me.’

‘Well, surely that will come out?’

Blythe snorts loudly. ‘After the damage is done. Perception is a powerful thing. You can see how the television and radio networks have grabbed hold of it already. As far as they’re concerned, she’s guilty.’ She gives a bitter smile. ‘I don’t suppose it’s got anything to do with the massive advertising spend the state’s about to do with them for the upcoming election. Not to mention what private developers are throwing at them.’

‘Doesn’t the Guardian get a share of the state’s advertising spend too?’

Blythe snorts again. ‘What we get is minuscule compared to the electronic media.’ She sniffs. ‘It’s all about audience reach. And who’s politically sympathetic. To be honest, I’d hand their money straight back to them if I could afford to. Commercial reality sucks sometimes.’ She sighs. ‘But listen,’ she leans in closer, ‘there’s more. The state’s going to make some kind of big announcement tonight.’ Blythe kicks the wooden seat to emphasise her point. ‘They’ve decided to give in to the Feds and hold a referendum. Let the community decide if they want the merger to go ahead.’

Blythe’s obvious displeasure confuses me.

‘But isn’t that a good thing? Giving the community a chance to have their say? Won’t most locals vote against the merger?’

‘I suspect it’s all part of a bigger plan,’ she replies. ‘The way I see it, the State Government’s finally realised how unpopular these mergers are and worked out it could cost them at the election, particularly if they lose a couple of key seats like this one, which they need to retain in order to get the numbers in parliament. So, they agree to hold referendums in those key seats, so that they’re seen to be listening to the people and bang – suddenly everyone sees them as the good guys. After all,’ she continues, ‘not everyone’s against the merger. There’s a lot of vested commercial interest, both here and overseas, if the current planning rules are loosened and more development’s allowed to go ahead.’

‘But how do they think they’re going to turn the vote around? Why take the risk?’

‘Think about it,’ Blythe says. ‘What do they have to lose? They’re going to lose this seat anyway, the way they’re going. They have a plan up their sleeve, trust me.’ As Blythe’s expression intensifies, I can almost hear her brain ticking. She’s lost none of the sharp political acumen that saw her elected president of the student union back in our university days. ‘This way,’ she’s saying, ‘the state gets the community back onside by giving them a say, but in the background, they’re using all sorts of other dirty tactics, like this one today, to try to damage Eva’s reputation. Plus, they’ll be making other promises – financial promises – to local businesses behind the scenes. If the merger goes ahead, there will be a lot more developer money flooding into the shire.’

‘But Eva’s so popular. She’s been mayor for over twenty years.’

‘People are loyal up to a point.’ Blythe looks out across the crowd. ‘But remember, businesses up here have been hurting for a long time. Those that survived the pandemic are still paying off big debts. I’m guessing they’d be prepared to do a deal with anyone willing to pay,’ she says knowingly. ‘Even China. Rumour has it that’s where most of the investment interest is coming from, not that the state would ever admit to that just yet.’ Blythe leans in so close I can count the freckles on her face. ‘A five-billion-dollar eco-resort and a one-billion-dollar bridge across the Daintree River will just be the beginning if the merger goes ahead and the state wrestles planning controls away from the local council, trust me.’

I’m keen to learn more, but our conversation becomes lost in a loud, rallying cry from the crowd. Instinctively, I jump back up on my seat, camera poised.

As unsettling as Blythe’s revelations have been, my excitement rises as the first of the floats makes its way along Macrossan Street. As it rolls closer, the Miallo State School banner comes into view and a wide smile spreads across my face. The pirate ship is complete with navigation wheel, mast and black sail, a couple of coconut trees, two giant papier-mâché parrots, numerous monkeys and three dozen mini pirates.

It draws closer, and I spy Jasper up the front, brandishing his sword and giggling furiously as he tries to remember his dance routine. I snap my camera enthusiastically until I’m confident I have enough shots to keep both Melissa and Blythe happy. But before the float disappears past me, I lift my fingers to my mouth to deliver an ear-splitting wolf-whistle I know Jasper will instantly recognise. He’s spent most of his life trying to copy it.

It works.

Jasper turns, his eyes scanning the crowd. I whistle a second time and he finds me. I give him a double thumbs-up and his face beams with pride. The next float rolls along close behind it, followed by the rest of the procession, most of which I witness through my camera’s viewfinder.

Sometime around 10 pm, Blythe finds me.

‘No sign of the protest,’ she says. ‘Something’s going on. They’re holding off. Here, take a break.’ She twists a lid off an icy-cold beer and hands the bottle to me.

Grateful, I remove my camera and rub the soft skin on the back of my neck.

‘Do you want to give me the memory card?’ Blythe asks. ‘I may as well take it back to the office now and start downloading the images. I can give it back to you tomorrow once it’s cleared.’

‘Good idea.’ I begin to slide open the black slot on the underside of the camera but then the loudspeaker crackles to life again and Blythe gestures for me to stop.

‘I bet this is it,’ she says. ‘The announcement. Let’s go.’

Abandoning our beers, we make a beeline through the crowd towards a makeshift stage outside the Court House Hotel. The red carpet and strategically positioned pot plants look oddly formal against the rest of the festivities. The MC is speaking into a single microphone in the middle of the stage. Off to one side stands Kevin Devlin, the State Member for Cook, and alongside him are Stretch and Jon. Noticeably absent – not that I can blame her – is the mayor. I experience a stab of sympathy for her rapidly deteriorating reputation. This is an event I assume she would normally share with her local community. Had she been invited to be part of the announcement but couldn’t bring herself to face the crowd after the day’s news? Or had the State Government deliberately wanted to keep her away?

‘Get photos of everyone,’ Blythe whispers. ‘Individual headshots, plus a group shot if you can. Make sure you show the crowds. Try to capture some reactions.’

As I begin clicking, an expectant hush falls over the crowd. Several TV camera operators jostle for position, their lights bathing the stage in a pale glow. Given the State Government’s lack of popularity, I’m surprised there’s no heckling, but then I realise Stretch’s presence on stage as head of Supporters of Greater Daintree Shire must be helping to keep the community polite – at this stage, anyway.

The MC introduces Kevin, who takes his place at the microphone. The crowd holds its applause. I brace myself for a long, irrelevant speech, but Kevin reads the mood of the crowd astutely. His delivery is succinct, sincere and on point.

I sneak a quick look at Blythe. She catches me and nods towards the stage, rolling her eyes.

‘We want to listen,’ Kevin says, after announcing the state’s backflip on the referendum. ‘We want you – the community – to have your say. And we will do what you ask. Simple. We will hold a referendum and we will listen to what you want.’ He pauses to let the cautious but growing applause from the crowd die down, then steps back to the microphone. ‘This decision has been all about working together. About two tiers of government – local and state – finding solutions together. To that end, I’d like to thank two men who’ve been pivotal in making that happen: Greater Daintree Shire Council’s new General Manager, Jonathon Ashby, and Supporters of Greater Daintree Shire President, Dr Marcus Spender. Without their support, we would not be where we are tonight.’

Beaming, Kevin lifts both men’s hands high in the air as if they’re boxers in a ring. I take a few shots, then sneak a look at Blythe.

Her face has darkened to an even deeper scowl.

Sensing my gaze, she turns to me.

‘See?’ she says, kicking at the loose stones in the bitumen. ‘All the state’s chess pieces are already falling into position.’

Chapter Nineteen

In the car on the way home later that night, Jon lightly bounces his fists on the steering wheel. His eyes shine in the moonlight. ‘What a night. Did you hear the crowd go off when Kev announced the referendum?’

‘Kev?’ I’m unable to contain my surprise.

Jon purses his lips and takes his eyes off the road for a beat or two to shoot me a disapproving glare.

‘Sorry,’ I say, not sounding at all sorry. ‘I just didn’t realise you’re on a casual-name basis with the State Member. I assumed you’d be keeping a bit of a distance from him.’ In the back seat, Jasper has fallen asleep, his faint snore a reminder to keep our voices low. ‘It was a huge about-face by the state, considering how opposed they were to the idea of a referendum.’ I steer the conversation towards the bigger subject. ‘Blythe was saying earlier tonight that she suspects the state’s got some kind of strategy up its sleeve to influence the majority of the community to vote in favour of the merger. She thinks it’s all to do with the state needing to get the community onside, so the vote turns in favour of the merger at the referendum, and then the State Government gets the votes it needs to win its marginal seats at the election.’

Jon frowns across at me. ‘Blythe said that?’ I nod, and his gaze remains fixed on the road. ‘Possible, but unlikely they’d take that kind of gamble,’ he says.

‘But why else would the state agree to a referendum they’re going to lose? They must have some plan.’

Impatience tightens Jon’s mouth. ‘Like Kev said, the state just wants to listen to the community. Sure, there’s a vocal minority but not everyone’s going to vote ‘No’ to the merger. That’s just nuts.’

The warning tone in his voice prompts me to change the subject.

‘Jasper had a great time on the float tonight.’

‘Did he?’

‘You didn’t get to see him?’

Jon shakes his head. ‘No, unfortunately. Working.’

Then I realise I still have the memory card containing the photos from the street parade. Blythe only took the card I used for the State Government announcement at the end of the night.

‘I got a lot of great shots. I’ll show them to you when we get home.’

Jon smiles now and reaches for my hand. ‘That’s great. I’m sorry I missed his float.’

Half an hour later, I tuck Jasper into bed and kiss his cheek, breathing in his combined scent of fairy floss, tomato sauce and toothpaste.

Downstairs, I find Jon pouring two glasses of red wine.

As he slips into a chair, I place my camera in front of him on the dining room table and click open the viewfinder.

‘Press here to go backwards,’ I instruct, placing his thumb on a button.

After a minute or two he pushes the camera away. ‘Yeah, looks like he had fun.’

‘So what kept you so busy all night that you missed seeing Jasper’s float?’

Jon sighs. ‘Just work. Look, Jen, you’ve got to understand not everyone’s against the merger. Yes, Eva and Stretch’s band of merry men are caught in some kind of sad nineties time warp trying to save the forest, but development doesn’t have to be a dirty word. Developers try much harder to do the right thing these days. And Mossman needs a fresh cash injection. It’s becoming a tired old ghost town. The cane industry’s dying on its arse.’

Although Jon’s politics are different, his argument reinforces Blythe’s suspicions.

Jon’s on a roll now and I listen with interest.

‘The fact is there are some very wealthy and influential people, quiet people with considered views, in the background who think the merger is a good idea. It’s taken me a lot of time and effort to fully appreciate many businesses are hurting. There are many different views on the merits of a merger.’

Apparently done talking, Jon pushes his chair out from the table and pulls me onto his lap.

‘And what’s your point of view? Which side are you on?’ I ask.

Jon takes a long sip of wine. ‘It’s not really my job to take sides. I’m just a bureaucrat. My job is to provide support and advice to the political leader of the day, regardless of their ideological bent. But I am responsible for making sure Council is financially sound, and right now, Greater Daintree Council is in a lot of trouble. Being green is expensive.’

I begin to ask another question, but Jon’s lips silence me. I kiss him back deeply, relishing the softness I find in his lips as his hands travel the length of my back. The kiss grows urgent. Jon lifts me from his lap and manoeuvres both of us down onto the floor, his fingers finding the top button of my jeans.

But as the last of our clothing is discarded, he pulls away.

‘What about your period?’

‘It only lasted a couple of days.’

He sits up and sighs. ‘Well, I guess I’d better use a condom now that we’ve got that issue again.’

‘Jon, it’ll be fine.’ I try to pull him back down next to me, but he’s stronger than me. He gets to his feet in a single, fluid movement.

‘Not worth the risk. Wait there. I’ll be back in a minute.’

I realise with a sinking feeling it could be a tough battle to get Jon to agree to try for another child. A sense of unease envelops me, but before I’m able to pinpoint its cause, Jon is back beside me, his hands cupping my breasts. In this moment, I’ve never wanted anything more than my husband. As our bodies begin to move together, I groan, holding him tight. His eyes lock onto mine and there is nothing else, nobody else, just the two of us wrapped up together. When we finally pull apart, Jon rolls onto his back, leaving me staring up at the ceiling high above. As my breathing returns to normal, the sense of uneasiness returns and my mind begins to clear.

Why does Jon have condoms?

‘What is it, stare-bear?’

‘Nothing.’ I roll away from him.

Yawning, Jon sits up and reaches for his clothes. ‘I think I’ll hit the sack.’ He finishes the remaining wine in his glass. ‘You coming?’

‘In a little while. Don’t wait up. I’ve got some photos to download.’

As I watch his naked form retreat, the uneasy gnawing feeling intensifies. I lie on the floor and listen to the empty tick of the clock, eventually deciding Jon must have bought the condoms within the past few days after he found out my period had returned. Then I see the empty foil packet on the floor. I pick it up and notice the expiry date stamped on it in small black faded print. January this year. Which means the condom Jon used tonight was three months out of date.

After a while, the concrete floor grows cold. Jon and I haven’t had to use condoms since Jasper was born. With me no longer having a period, there had been zero chance of us getting pregnant. So why would Jon have any reason to have condoms with an expiry date of January this year? Jon would never, ever have an affair. There had to be another explanation. A vending machine? Perhaps he’d bought a few condoms in one of those vending machines in public toilets. Perhaps he was unlucky enough to use a machine holding old stock? This explanation makes more sense, but I still can’t shake my uneasy feeling.

I jump to my feet and dress quickly then go to my studio, already anticipating the sense of calm I know will come once I have Courtney’s phone and my notebook in front of me, contemplating possible number combinations as I hunt through her social media platforms looking for clues.

Who knows? Perhaps tonight will be the night I crack the code. Then, once I’ve had a chance to finally look through her photos, to better understand who she was and the private life she lived, I’ll post her phone back to Rob. Anonymously, so nobody ever finds out it was me who took it. Not Rob, not Jon, not the police, not anyone.

At my desk, I swipe through Courtney’s Instagram and TikTok accounts, clicking on all of her contacts and jotting down notes, so deeply engrossed in my task that my uneasiness about the out-of-date condom disappears.

Which I suppose is why I fail to hear my studio door open until a shadow falls across my shoulder, darkening the white page in front of me.

Chapter Twenty

I jump in fright. The pen falls from my hand, rolls across the desk and lands with a dull thud on the timber floor. Without speaking, Jon picks it up and returns it to me. As I take it, the room seems to tilt at a peculiar angle. My bare toes grip the floor.

Jon scratches his head, reaches for the notebook and flicks through it. Aside from the page with the four-digit numbers, I’ve filled the book with snippets of information about Courtney that might be useful in trying to guess her password.

‘What in god’s name are you doing?’ Jon asks.

My mind draws a blank and the moisture inside my mouth evaporates. My fingers tighten around Courtney’s phone.

Jon points at it. ‘What’s that? No, ignore that, I can see what it is. Whose is it?’

I stand abruptly, as if I’ve suddenly remembered something, and hurry towards the open door. ‘It’s nothing. It’s private.’

Jon calls after me. ‘Wait. Where are you going?’

Without a backward glance, I walk at a brisk pace along the hallway then through the main living room to the kitchen. I pull open the door to the downstairs bathroom, yanking it shut firmly behind me then lock it, my heart pounding. Within seconds, Jon begins to pound his fist so hard against the door I’m afraid he’s going to burst it open. But the timber is solid, the lock sturdy.

‘Open up, Jen.’

‘In a minute.’

I can’t hide from Jon forever, but before I face him there’s something important I need to do. I scramble through the bathroom drawers and cabinet in search of an object that will assist me with my task. Once I’m finished, I catch sight of myself in the vanity mirror, barely recognising the pale, pinched features staring back at me. The kebab I ate earlier is now an unwelcome weight in my stomach. I contemplate forcing myself to throw up, but Jon is pounding at the door again. I fumble with the lock and inch open the bathroom door. Through the crack, I see Jon leaning against the far kitchen bench. I half expect him to rush at me, to push me to the floor again, but he stays where he is, waiting for me to come to him.

He holds out his hand. His features harden as his eyes pin me with a cold intensity. I know the man who stands before me is Jon, my Jon, but in this moment I see my husband as someone else. A stranger.

When he speaks, his voice too sounds different. Higher and more tightly strained, as if from the effort it takes to curb his fury.

‘What are you up to? Who is it this time?’ He shakes his outstretched hand in a furious gesture. ‘Give it to me.’

My thoughts spin on a pinwheel. Somewhere in the background, the familiar tick of the kitchen clock marches forward. Had I always known this time might come? My actions tonight had been careless to the point of recklessness. Perhaps, deep down, I’d wanted Jon to discover my secret so he could help me work out what to do, in the way he always knows what to do. Fix things. Keep our family safe.

My legs feel dangerously close to buckling but I force myself to cross the kitchen floor and place the phone in Jon’s hand. ‘It’s not mine,’ I tell him, my voice small.

He turns it over a couple of times, examining it. ‘If it’s not yours, whose is it?’

I stare at my toes, unable to meet his gaze.

A few seconds tick past before his voice explodes through the silence, leaving my ears ringing. I jump and rub at the goosebumps on my arms.

‘Whose is it? Who does the phone belong to and why do you have it? Tell me.’ Jon’s face flashes crimson and he wipes a spray of spittle from his face.

‘Courtney’s.’

He shouts again, louder.

‘And what the fuck are you doing with it? What the fuck are you playing at?’

My body is trembling now and I begin to cry. I cover my eyes with my hands, unable to bear seeing how angry I have made Jon this time. When Jon speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper.

‘For god’s sake, Jen, stop blubbering. Just spit it out.’

I hear the tap and then he presses a cool glass of water into my hand. I gulp all of it down, then wipe my face. Then, left with no other choice than to tell the truth, I begin to recount the unlikely chain of events since the night of the accident. Jon listens silently, his expression unchanged as he stares at the glittering pink phone case on the kitchen bench. When I’m finished, he stays quiet for a long moment, his arms folded across his chest, then he holds up a hand. I eye it nervously.

‘Let me make sure I understand this correctly,’ he begins quietly, eyeing me closely. ‘For reasons you can’t quite recall, you found Courtney’s phone on the ground the night of the accident and it somehow ended up in your jacket pocket. Then, on the day of the court case, you put on the same jacket and discover the phone in the pocket, but you decide not to tell anyone about it. When the police phone you and ask you about it, you decide to lie. Pretend you know nothing about it. And you do this because you’ve decided you want to keep the phone. Ever since, you’ve been trying to unlock it because you’ve become obsessed with finding out more about Courtney’s life. Then you lie to Blythe and trick her into tracking down Courtney’s husband’s postal address because you’ve somehow now convinced yourself that the right thing to do is post the phone back to him.’

Hearing my actions summarised like this brings a hot glow to my cheeks.

Jon runs a hand through his hair, then refolds his arms across his chest. ‘Do I have all that correct?’ I stare into his eyes, silently imploring him to understand. Instead, he slams his fist down on the kitchen bench. ‘Do I have all that correct?’

His voice makes me jump again and I instinctively move away from him. ‘I just want to do the right thing. The police told us how upset Rob was that the phone had been lost. Remember?’

Jon’s expression grows incredulous. ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to let you return it, do you?’

I swallow hard. ‘But he wants it back. He deserves to have it back.’ My voice chokes. ‘We’ve still got our family but this phone full of photos is all that poor man has left.’

Jon gives me a hard look. ‘You didn’t think that maybe Rob might take the phone to the police? Tell them that it was you who had it all along? Get them to investigate everything all over again?’

‘I was going to post it anonymously.’

I’ve barely finished uttering the sentence when Jon grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me so hard I bite my tongue. The metallic taste of blood spreads through my mouth.

‘You really don’t think he’d figure out who sent it? Where were you going to post it from? Mars?’

‘I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t think.’

He lets go of my shoulders but I can still feel his fingers pressed into my skin. A throbbing heat begins to rise from the muscles there. I rub them hard.

Jon’s looking at me, his expression near disgust. ‘You know, I can understand him wanting his wife’s phone back, but you … Why are you so obsessed with unlocking it, looking through it. It’s fucking sick.’

‘I don’t know, Jon, I don’t know. Maybe I feel like if I know more about her, about who she really was, not the social media persona but the real Courtney, that I could apologise to her, ask her to forgive me, finally say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye?’ Jon’s voice pitches so high that the word cracks halfway through. ‘You didn’t know her. You don’t know her. You’re never going to know her. She’s nothing to us. Nobody. A road statistic. And she’s dead.’

I realise that as Jon’s been talking he’s boiled the kitchen jug. He fills the sink now with boiling water and drops Courtney’s mobile phone into it, watching me the entire time, daring me to stop him. We stand in silence, staring at the sink, then I gasp as Jon plunges his hand into the still-hot water, throws the phone on the bench and then reaches for the heavy metal jug. He holds it high in the air and brings it down on top of the phone with all his strength. A small scream gets stuck in my throat as Jon, now in an unstoppable fury, smashes the jug onto the phone, sending shards of plastic and glass spraying through the kitchen.

‘Mummy?’

Jasper’s small voice comes from somewhere near the dining room table.

I turn.

He’s clutching his teddy bear, his eyes round. ‘I’m scared.’

The sight of Jasper propels me into action. I run to him, scoop him up in my arms and run across the lounge room towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. Jon’s voice follows us.

‘Go on, fuck off.’

Halfway up the stairs, the metal jug hits the wall to our right. I make it to Jasper’s bedroom and collapse to the floor, my back against the wall. Jasper is bawling in earnest now, hot tears wetting his cheeks, his hair, his pyjamas. An eternity later, or perhaps it’s just a few minutes, I hear a door slam somewhere downstairs. Another sound follows, the restrained mechanical hum of the garage door rising. Shortly afterwards, I hear a car door slam then the car engine starting up. The motor idles momentarily, then revs loudly. Tyres spray rocks across the driveway before a deafening silence settles in my ears. A minute or so later, I hear the whine of Jon’s car accelerating along Daintree Road. I picture his headlights cutting two swathes of yellow light through the dark night, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, his face pinched tight. Headed where?

As exhaustion floods my body, I realise I don’t care. My body grows limp with relief and I kiss the back of Jasper’s head before carrying him to his bed and sliding in alongside him.

In the darkness, I reach for the pendant around my neck.

The three Js are connected by a thin gold band across the top of the letters. My fingers find the first J and begin to work it back and forth until the metal grows warm. Encouraged, I wriggle the metal back and forth more quickly, feeling the metal slowly yield, bit by bit. When the gold is almost too hot to touch, the first J finally breaks away, leaving the remaining two Js intact, almost as if the third one had never been there at all.

I let it fall from my fingers, lost to the darkness, and wait for sleep to come.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘When’s Daddy coming home?’

The remains of a half-eaten chicken sandwich sit on the kitchen bench in front of Jasper. Evidence of last night’s destruction – the sharp shards of plastic and glass – have been wrapped in newspaper and tucked inside the kitchen bin. The electric jug, its metal surface now scratched and dented, sits wounded in its stand but has been refilled with water, ready for a return to normal duties.

I check the time on the kitchen clock. It’s just gone lunchtime and I still haven’t heard anything from Jon. Last night I’d felt nothing but relief when he had taken off in his car, but today his absence pulses like a dull ache.

‘I’m not sure.’ I shrug as I remove Jasper’s plate and toss the scraps into Saskia’s food bowl. She pads across the floor and devours them, leaving only the lettuce behind. ‘He’s probably just at work. I’m sure he’ll be home a bit later today.’

‘Why was Daddy shouting? Was he angry at me?’

I gather Jasper up in my arms and smother him with kisses. ‘Of course not, sweetheart, Daddy would never be angry with you. Daddy loves you.’ Jasper wriggles free of my arms and skips towards the lounge room. ‘Where are you off to?’ I ask.

‘Movie.’ He stops abruptly and turns to face me. ‘Is that okay please Mummy?’

His sincerity melts my heart. ‘Of course, sweetheart. Enjoy some quiet time. Yesterday was a big day being a pirate.’

I pour a coffee, pull up a kitchen stool and contemplate Jasper’s question.

Why had Jon been so angry about Courtney’s phone?

Why hadn’t he been more relieved to find out the phone wasn’t mine, that he had no reason to suspect I was texting another man?

Why had it made him so furious to discover the phone belonged to Courtney?

I finish my coffee then get up and wash my cup in the sink, dry it and put it away. Was it only my stupidity that made Jon so angry, or was it something else? There was something about the way he’d looked at me in the kitchen that chilled me. His expression wasn’t one I’d ever seen before. Like he hated me, or something close to it. Was it just that he’d come so close to thinking he’d discovered I was having an affair? Had he wondered for a moment if I was messaging Thomas on a secret phone? Perhaps once that suspicion had overwhelmed him he hadn’t been able to shake it free.

Or was it just that I’d stirred up memories of the night of the accident? So much attention has been focused on how I’m recovering, how I’m feeling, but how does Jon really feel, deep down? Not only about what happened the night of the accident, but everything since. Perhaps the after-effects are finally beginning to take their toll? As I stroll towards the sideboard and pick up the photo of Jon’s parents in the silver frame, I feel a frown deepen between my brows. Jon’s job has been stressful too. He’s been working such long hours lately and didn’t he say, just the other day, that he’s not enjoying his new job? That it’s a little beneath him? If that’s the case, it probably means he’s not enjoying living here either.

All of this I know to be true and yet I feel a stirring of anger of my own. Jon should be here at home. We should be talking this through in an open, honest, adult way. Instead, he’s god-only-knows where, ghosting me the same way he did after he found out about Thomas, all those years ago when we first met. Sulking like a petulant teenager.

I stare at the photo a moment longer, wondering what sort of man Jon would have grown into had his parents still been around. Would he be better at handling his emotions? Less prone to running away and dishing out the silent treatment? I sit the photo frame back down and return to the kitchen in search of my phone.

As I pick it up, it pings loudly. My hopes soar, then crash.

Blythe.

I’m nearby and thought I’d pick up the second memory card. Will you be home in an hour or so?

As I type out a reply, my other hand fidgets with the new sharp edge of my pendant.

Yes, I’m here. See you soon.

I check to see if I’ve received any other messages, but my inbox is empty. I push my phone away, vowing not to check it again until tonight. Determined to distract myself, I head to the bookcase and run my fingers across the spines, pulling out a popular novel Marion gave me several Christmases ago that I’ve never gotten around to reading.

Half an hour later, I’m sitting by the pool keeping an eye on Jasper while he swims. I make it through the first couple of chapters of the book without thinking about Jon. Reading about the main character’s troubles quickly makes me forget about mine.

The pool looks cool and inviting. I mark my page and stand to stretch, then walk to the deepest end and dive in, enjoying the cool rush of water across my bare skin. When I resurface, Jasper is gazing at me, his expression admiring.

‘I didn’t know you could dive like that.’

I smile back. ‘I can do lots of things you don’t know about.’

‘Sure you didn’t just fluke it?’ Jasper’s tone is cheeky now. ‘Do it again.’

And with that we’re busy lining up at the edge of the pool taking it in turns to dive into the water, then awarding scores. We start with ten points each then deduct points for sloppy offences – feet not together, legs bent instead of straight, fingers splayed and so on.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ A familiar voice reaches my ears just as my head breaks the water’s surface after what I’m pretty confident was a flawless dive. Blythe opens the pool gate and lets herself in. ‘The front door was unlocked.’

Saskia moseys around her feet, panting, her tail wagging. Blythe strokes the top of her head.

‘Come in.’ I swim to the pool steps and haul myself out. ‘I lost track of time.’

Blythe hands me my towel. ‘Nice dive.’

‘This is my official judge. Jasper, this is Blythe.’ I point towards Jasper, who giggles before diving back into the water, suddenly shy. ‘Do you have time for a cuppa?’ I begin to dry myself off. ‘Or a beer?’

Blythe positions a sunlounge in the shade and smiles up at me as she sets herself down. ‘A beer would be great.’ She stretches herself out full-length.

When I return from the kitchen with two beers, Jasper is deep in conversation with Blythe.

I lift his hand and examine his fingers. ‘You’re all wrinkled like an old man. Why don’t you head inside and put your movie back on? Give Blythe and me some adult talk time.’

Jasper leans over Blythe’s chair, shy again. ‘Do you want to watch something with me?’

My maternal hormones practically scream at me to have another child so Jasper can have a little playmate.

‘I do,’ Blythe says. ‘I tell you what. I’ll watch something with you for ten minutes after I’m finished talking with your mum, okay?’

‘Shrek?’

‘My favourite.’

As Jasper disappears inside the house, I turn to Blythe. ‘Looks like you’ve won a heart there.’

‘He’s cute. Apart from his eyes, he looks so much like you. Speaking of which, where is your hunky husband?’

I take my time swallowing a mouthful of beer. ‘Work.’

‘Bit rough on a Sunday.’

I nod.

Blythe shifts on her lounge and her expression grows serious. ‘Well, it’s probably good he’s not here. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘Sure.’ I pick at the label on my beer, hit with a sudden bout of nervousness.

Blythe places her beer bottle on the ground. ‘Look, I know Rob’s not your cousin. I know about the accident. You could have told me, you know.’

As she speaks, her tone turns hurt but I barely notice it beyond the burn in my cheeks. Of course I knew when I asked Blythe to find Rob’s address that there was a chance she’d uncover more than I wanted her to. I’d just really hoped she wouldn’t.

I pull my towel around me more tightly, bracing myself for the inevitable judgement. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t find out.’

Blythe lights a cigarette. The smell of smoke fills my nostrils. ‘It wasn’t hard.’ She shakes the packet towards me. I take one and light it, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs and enjoying the light-headed feeling that follows. Blythe continues. ‘While I was looking for his address, I came across a news article. It mentioned you. I wasn’t going to say anything, but … I mean, it’s your business.’ She blows a long stream of smoke high in the air above us. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

I wrestle with the temptation to tell Blythe everything that happened the night of the accident. Every single detail, from start to finish. Instead, I bite my tongue, not trusting myself to reply.

Blythe reaches across and rubs my knee. ‘What a bloody shitshow. You’ve really been through the wringer, huh?’ I nod, and Blythe interprets this small gesture as permission to continue. ‘I thought something must’ve been wrong when I saw that book fall out of your bag in my office. The one about surviving trauma. Is it helping?’

I shrug. ‘It’s complicated. A little, I guess.’

‘And, if you don’t mind me saying, Jen, you’re so thin. You’ve always been slim, but shit, are you eating?’

‘Not much, but my appetite’s come back a bit lately.’

‘At least now I can understand why you wanted to move so far from Sydney. It must have been such a tough time, not just for you. Jon too.’

I drain the last of my beer, surprised to discover the bottle is empty. Blythe’s penetrating green eyes are filled with sympathy.

‘Jon’s not at work.’ The words come from nowhere, as if my mouth has disconnected from the part of the brain that controls common sense.

Blythe appears perplexed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘We had a fight. He packed a bag and left. Late last night. I haven’t seen him since.’

‘What kind of fight?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I suddenly feel overwhelmed with a tired kind of sadness, but more words rush from my mouth without permission. ‘He has a childish tendency to run away when things aren’t going his way. He had a pretty tough upbringing.’

Blythe says nothing for a long time, then leans across and wipes my cheek. When had I begun to cry? I try to force a laugh but the sound that comes out is more like a choke.

‘Do you have any idea where he is?’ Blythe asks.

I shake my head.

‘Is your marriage, you know, solid? You don’t think he’s, you know … it happens.’ Blythe’s voice trails away.

This time my laugh’s real. ‘I’m the only one who’s done the wrong thing in our relationship, trust me. He’s probably sleeping on the lounge at the office. Jon’s very big on loyalty and trust. It means everything to him.’

Blythe almost spits out her beer. ‘You? I don’t believe it.’

I’m unable to meet Blythe’s eyes. ‘Well, it’s true. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal and it was a long time ago, but it’s kind of tainted our relationship ever since. Things like that never really go away, I guess. Not for Jon, anyway.’

A long silence settles between us before Blythe changes the subject. ‘Are you okay being here on your own? I’ve got plenty of room at my place. You and Jasper are welcome to stay with me. Anytime. For as long as you want.’ Saskia wanders past and licks Blythe’s hand. She pats her head. ‘My place is dog-friendly too.’

I shake my head. ‘I’m okay. It’s more relaxed with Jon not here, to be honest.’ As I say it, I realise it’s true. ‘Another beer?’

Blythe nods.

When I return, Blythe appears troubled. ‘You know, something has been bothering me about you asking for Rob’s address.’

My stomach flutters uncomfortably. ‘What’s that?’

‘Why did you want Rob’s postal address?’

‘I want to write to him, explain things. Tell him I’m sorry. Maybe it will help him somehow.’

Blythe takes a sip of her beer and eyes me closely. ‘Yeah, I get that, but why not just send him an email?’

‘An email’s too impersonal. I want to send something I’ve written by hand, so he knows it’s from my heart.’

Blythe nods and finally lowers her gaze.

I’m almost certain she doesn’t believe me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Monday morning arrives with still no word from Jon. Yesterday, I’d rushed to the front door at least half a dozen times imagining I’d heard his car coming up the driveway, only to find the front yard empty. By nine o’clock last night, after Jasper was snoring, I’d begun to pace the house, unable to sit still or decide what I should do. Drive to Blythe’s house? Call the police? The person I most wanted to talk to was Marion, yet she was also the one person in the world I wasn’t prepared to let in on what Jon had done. After gulping down two glasses of white wine, I’d finally swallowed my pride and called Jon’s number at around ten. Predictably, his phone went straight to voicemail. A third glass of wine finally helped me get to sleep.

At the school gate, there’s no sign of Melissa. Although the schoolyard is filled with its usual happy sounds of chatter and laughter, it feels strangely sombre without her. As Jasper wipes my kiss from his cheek and disappears, I realise today is Melissa’s first day of maternity leave. Stretch must have dropped their boys off to school. Back in the cool comfort of my car, I decide to send her a text.

School drop-off’s not the same without you. Hope you’re taking it easy. x

She replies straight away: I’m bored! Fancy a walk on the beach after you drop Jasper at school?

As tempted as I am to say yes, Jon’s extended absence has cemented my plans for the morning.

Sorry. Just about to head to Cairns. Do you need anything while I’m there?

All good. How about next Monday? I’ve got a few early-morning medical appointments between now and then.

All okay?

Yep.

Deal. We need to get this baby moving! Meet you on the beach at 9.30 am.

The drive from Miallo State School to Mossman is slow with school traffic. The leisurely pace allows me to scan the council car park as I drive past it. If Jon’s car is there, it’s camouflaged among all the other vehicles. I force my eyes back to the road and flick on the radio just in time to catch the local news bulletin.

‘Breaking news this morning as a second allegation is made concerning Greater Daintree Council Mayor, Councillor Eva Manderley. This time, compromising text messages between the mayor and an as yet unnamed developer have come to light. The text messages appear to show the mayor promising to do everything in her power to stop a multi-million-dollar development going ahead, despite the fact—’

I flick the radio off. It sounds like Blythe is on the right track. The smear campaign is swinging into top gear already. I idly wonder what kind of reception Eva is receiving from the staff at Council today. She doesn’t strike me as the type of person to surrender without a fight. Whoever is behind the campaign had also better be careful of legal action. The allegations being peddled out against her so far, if untrue and can’t be proved, are extremely damaging to her career and reputation. Defamation wouldn’t be out of the question. Not that the State Government would be too concerned about that. They only have one plan in mind – to convince the community to return a ‘Yes’ vote at the referendum so they can give the merger a green light and win the upcoming election.

As I leave Mossman and the turn-off to Port Douglas behind me, the road opens up to soaring sandstone cliffs on my right and a rippling expanse of ocean to my left. The raw beauty of the coastline lightens my mood. The drive to Cairns passes surprisingly quickly and an hour or so later, I’m turning right off the Captain Cook Highway into the sprawling car park of the region’s major shopping centre. My good mood continues as I manage to find an empty car space beneath the large shade cloth. I lock the car and hurry towards the main entrance. Inside the shopping centre, the air is cool and I relax my stride as I hunt for the store directory. The shop I want, the map shows me, is almost all the way at the opposite end of the centre. As I get closer, its distinctive signage becomes visible. I take a deep breath and head inside.

A bearded sales assistant hovers nearby. ‘What model are you after?’

‘I’ll know it when I see it.’

He points to a large wall. ‘Everything in stock is over there on display.’

I immediately recognise the model I’m after. ‘What about cases?’

He frowns. ‘We only have that small selection over there, but there’s another store back that way on the right that has a much larger range than us.’

There’s nothing in the colour I want, so I pull out my credit card and pay for the phone, then head in the direction of the other store. Inside, I discover a large collection of smartphone covers.

‘I’m looking for pink, hot pink,’ I tell the salesgirl. ‘With diamantés.’

‘What model phone?’

I pass her the boxed smartphone.

She chews hard on her gum and scans the heavily stocked shelves. I follow her to the back of the shop where she presents me with a case that’s identical to the one I’m looking for.

‘That’s it.’

Back in the car, I discover a text message from Blythe.

Any word from Jon? I was at Council today and he was in his office. Thought I should let you know. Remember, I’m here if you need anything. B x

Thanks, Blythe. I’m sure everything will be fine. Sorry to worry you. Xx

At home in the kitchen, I unwrap the phone and its cover from the sleek packaging. The cover locks neatly into place around the phone, a perfect fit.

Next, I head to my photography studio and slide open the door of the built-in wardrobe. Reaching up into the darkness, I immediately find what I’m looking for – the memory card I’d quickly removed from Courtney’s phone in the bathroom before I handed it over to Jon. I make my way back to the kitchen and insert the original card into the new smartphone.

I have no idea how much attention Rob ever paid to his wife’s phone. Perhaps he’ll notice this one is newer, its case less worn. Or maybe he won’t. I shrug, realising it doesn’t really matter. I could have just returned the memory card and Rob would still be happy. But somehow it feels more respectful to return the card inside a phone. Despite the afternoon heat, a tremble travels through my body as I contemplate just how close I came to losing the contents of Courtney’s phone. The SIM would never have survived the treatment Jon dished out to it.

As I watch the new phone glow to life, I steady myself on a stool and get to work trying the new number combinations I’d spent hours researching the night before. There’s one in particular I have a very good feeling about. Courtney’s mother, I’d noticed, featured in many of her social media posts. It hadn’t taken me too many hours to eventually find out her date of birth. Of course, I might be on the wrong track entirely. But I’d barely been able to sleep last night as the exciting prospect of finally guessing the correct code to unlock the phone bubbled inside me. Somehow, I knew I was right.

Less than an hour later, I take the notebook and the packaging from my morning’s purchases outside to the balcony and toss it all in the metal firepit. I strike a match and the paper and cardboard momentarily catch alight but then the flames extinguish themselves into smouldering smoke. I search the box for another match but they’re all dead. Swearing softly, I head back inside the house to find a new box. I’m just about to strike a fresh match when a familiar voice makes me jump. I turn to find Bill standing at the top of the balcony’s external steps.

‘I smelt smoke. Thought I’d better check it out.’

‘Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.’

As Bill eyes the contents of the firepit, his expression grows curious. ‘Everything okay?’ He walks over and gives the firepit a small kick with his work boot, as if the movement might miraculously return the flames to life. ‘I can take all this … paper, is it? … downstairs and throw it on the fire pile if you want. I’ve got some dead fronds and things I need to burn this afternoon anyway.’

He moves forward as if he’s about to scoop up the contents, but I block him with my arm.

‘No.’ The word comes out too forceful and loud, surprising us both.

He studies me for a moment then shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’ He’s still eyeing the contents of the firepit. ‘Want me to light it up for you?’

I clutch the matchbox more tightly in my hand. ‘No, that’s fine. I quite enjoy lighting fires, as it happens.’

But his attention’s still on the empty boxes in the firepit.

He squats and squints at what’s left of them. ‘Bought a new phone?’

A slow scream builds inside me. The one time I actually want Bill to go away, I can’t fucking-well get rid of him. What if Jon were to appear on the balcony right now? The packaging lying in the firepit clearly shows the type of phone and phone case I’ve just purchased. It’d take him less than ten seconds to work out what I was up to.

I clear my throat loudly. ‘Yes, yes I did. Look, to be honest, Bill, I’ve got quite a bit to do this afternoon. But thank you. I appreciate the offer. I’ll just, ah, I’ll just get on with it now.’

I turn my back to him and strike another match, hoping he’s unable to see the way my fingers shake.

‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it.’

I don’t bother to turn around or reply. Five minutes later, I breathe a sigh of relief as the very last of the firepit’s contents turn to ash.

Back inside the house, I put on surgical gloves, wipe down Courtney’s new phone with sanitiser, then wrap it up in nondescript brown paper. I stare at it for a long time, my heart hammering, before getting a pair of scissors and cutting out a message I’ve typed on my computer and printed out. My hands shaking, I sticky-tape it to the package.

I picked up this phone by accident. I’m sorry I haven’t returned it sooner. Please don’t tell the police.

Jon is correct. There’s nothing I can do about Rob seeing that the parcel’s been sent from Far North Queensland. Even with no sender details, the parcel will automatically be postmarked by the post office as it’s processed. I just have to hope the postmark isn’t legible, or that Rob is so relieved to have the phone returned to him that he won’t care who’s sent it or why. I try to take comfort in the fact that, apart from my name, Rob knows nothing else about me. He probably has no idea I’ve moved away from Sydney. And if for some reason he is aware I’m now living in Far North Queensland, and he guesses correctly that it was me who returned the phone, is there any real way for him to prove it? Why would he even want to?

I swallow hard.

What Jon doesn’t know is that Rob finding out who returned the phone to him is the least of Jon’s problems now.

Because unlike me, Rob’s almost certain to know the code to his wife’s phone. He won’t have any problems unlocking it. Finding everything it holds.

I glance at the clock. I still have an hour until the school bell rings – just enough time to make it to the post office. Feeling inexplicably jubilant, I grab my handbag and car keys and head for the garage.

Chapter Twenty-Three

On Tuesday morning, I wake to find myself alone in my bed. I’d been so sure Jon would return home last night, that I’d wake to find him here alongside me this morning. I stare at his perfectly plumped pillow and the undisturbed sheets on his side of the bed, still as smooth as when I’d made the bed up yesterday morning. The guilt I’ve felt ever since posting Courtney’s phone is intensifying by the hour. And, for some reason, Jon’s continued absence is only making my feelings of remorse – and pending disaster - even worse. I sit up and reach for my phone. For what now feels like the hundredth time since he left on Saturday night, I call his number. Again, it goes to voicemail. I decide to send another text.

Jon, I love you. Please come home.

But before I hit send, I delete it. On previous occasions when Jon’s needed to get away to clear his head, he’s never responded to any of my messages. In fact, he once told me that messaging him only made him feel worse, which in turn made him stay away even longer. My body flushes with fresh anger. How dare he run away from us, his family? How does he think I explain these sudden absences to Jasper? This wasn’t how our new life, our ‘fresh start’, was meant to be. He’d promised. I pick up my phone again and open a new text, wondering what it would feel like to send a very different kind of message. Would a different approach be a more effective way of encouraging my husband to come home, or at least get his attention? I begin to type.

Jon, you are a pathetic, emotionally stunted man-child. Stay away. I don’t want you to come home.

Seeing this message on my screen gives me an unexpected thrill. I stare at it for a few minutes, relishing the power of the words. Could I ever be brave enough to send Jon a message like this? Just the idea of sending it makes me laugh out loud. Embracing my recklessness, I delete the message and begin another one.

Jon, you’re a fucking arsehole. I hate you and I want a divorce.

I laugh again, harder this time, at the impossibility of ever actually sending Jon a message like this. Some women would. Some women did. Reluctantly, I delete this message too, but almost immediately write another. This message is far more dangerous and the thrill of this one glides through my body as cold and deadly as mercury.

Jon, you’re a selfish and lazy lover. Thomas Morgan was a thousand times better than you in bed.

I erupt in a fit of giggles. What I’ve written isn’t true, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t feel good to fantasise about hurting Jon in the same way that his missing-in-action antics are hurting me and Jasper. I’m sure Jasper can see through the excuses and distractions I’m inventing to cover for his father’s continuing absence. The longer Jon’s away, the more I’m beginning to wonder where it is he’s sleeping at night. At his office? At a motel? And how many people in our new community are now aware that he’s not coming home at night to his wife and family?

Back in our life in the city, none of our neighbours would have noticed or thought twice about Jon being away from home for a few days or even a week or two here or there. But in a small town, his antics inflict a new level of shame. Everybody, it seems, knows everybody else’s business. If Jon’s sleeping at the office, his secretary Anne would surely be aware of it. If he’s staying at a motel in Mossman or Port Douglas it’s only a matter of time before one of the hundred or so staff on Council notice his car in the car park and draw their own conclusions. As each day and night passes, Jon’s absence is beginning to feel as much like a public humiliation as a personal one.

I’m still staring at this last text message when my phone suddenly rings in my hand. Marion. The shrill electronic sound makes me jump so hard the phone slips from my fingers. I swear softly and scramble among the bedclothes to retrieve it. When I pick it up, I accidentally decline the call and the phone falls silent. Before I call Marion back, I quickly return to my messages to delete the draft text to Jon.

Only now the message is no longer sitting in the box with the winking curser.

Instead, it’s sitting higher up the screen in a little green message bubble. My breath catches in my throat as I register the catastrophic fact that my pretend text message has actually been sent. Within seconds, before I have a chance to work out how to unsend it, a note morphs onto the screen directly underneath the message.

Read 6.27 am

There’s no doubting I have Jon’s full attention now. I grab my pillow and push my face into it.

‘FUUUUUUUCK! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.’

Ripping away the sheets, I sprint towards the bathroom, but the room grows black and my legs buckle beneath me. A hard landing brings me circling back to the bedroom and I make it into the ensuite just in time to throw up in the toilet.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Somehow, I force myself to push the disastrous start to my day to the back of my mind. The Carnivale events calendar has reached a crescendo of mid-week activity and, even though all I want to do today is curl up in a foetal position and scream into the void, I am now in the real world of working adults with a photography contract to fulfil. Since dropping Jasper at school this morning, I’ve photographed the yacht race, the Longest Lunch, the fishing competition and the official opening of the art exhibition. Tonight, I’m scheduled to take photographs at an outdoor concert in Port Douglas, Jazz Beneath the Stars.

With still no word from Jon – half of me is deeply grateful for this fact; the other half is terrified – I try to call Bree to see if she’s available to look after Jasper tonight. She doesn’t pick up so I send her a text, but as the afternoon turns to night it becomes increasingly obvious she’s not going to have time to respond and get herself to my place before I need to leave. By six-thirty, Jasper is fed and showered and settled in front of a movie. I try Bree one last time, but again her phone goes straight to voicemail.

Frustrated, I call Blythe and explain the situation.

‘Don’t worry, it’s no problem. I can ask one of the journos to head down there instead.’ Blythe doesn’t do a very good job of masking her disappointment. The newspaper’s photographic equipment is no match for mine. The photos will never do the event justice and it’s unlikely she’ll be able to use them in the upcoming tourism magazine.

‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘How about I drop Jasper at your place? He doesn’t need anything except maybe a movie to watch. He’s fed, washed and already in his PJs. He’ll probably fall asleep pretty quickly.’

Blythe agrees without hesitation.

Her townhouse is easy to find. It’s not far from the main street – close to the large ocean-side park where the event I’m to photograph is being held. Inside, it’s roomy but messy in a well-loved, homely kind of way, bulging bookshelves lining two huge walls.

‘Wow, look at you,’ Blythe says as I direct Jasper to the couch in front of the TV.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, somewhat flustered.

‘I love that shirt.’

I’m wearing a hot-pink linen shirt Marion gave me before I was married that I’d never seemed to get around to wearing in Sydney. Plus, in an effort to cheer myself up, matching lipstick.

‘Not too bright?’

Blythe shakes her head. ‘It suits you.’

‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours max.’

I kiss Jasper goodbye and return to the car for the short drive to Rex Smeal Park. Before I start the engine, I check my phone again, my stomach flipping in anticipation of a message from Jon, but there’s still no word from him. A constant feeling of nausea has trailed me throughout the day, the recent return of my appetite having disappeared entirely. Several times, my hands have felt so jittery it’s been difficult to hold the camera still. I suspect if I don’t hear from Jon soon there’s a strong chance I’m going to suffer a full-blown heart attack.

Party lights remain strung up in the trees from the night of the Carnivale street parade, giving the park and its surrounding streets a surreal glow. I park the car, show security my press pass, then make my way through the crowd towards the main stage. A band I recognise the name of is halfway through a song. Most of the audience are on their feet dancing barefoot on the grass. I edge my way to the stage for some close-up shots, then move further back to change my lens for a wider photo to show the size of the crowd.

Once I’m done, I make my way to another stage, where a lesser-known band is playing to a smaller audience. The music here is more laid-back and has attracted mainly couples, some of whom are stretched out on the grass with picnic baskets, blankets and bottles of wine. I snap away at a leisurely pace, watching them watch the band perform, feeling voyeuristic and also a little envious of the easy way the couples lean in against each other, enjoying the music together.

At the last stage, a DJ in a red lycra dress has a younger crowd on their feet. They’re huddled close to the stage, limiting my choice of shots. Half an hour or so later, I’m satisfied I have a sufficient number of photos for Blythe to choose from. I pack my camera away, take a swig from my water bottle and check the time. It’s been almost two hours since I dropped Jasper off to Blythe. And still no response from Jon.

Wiping perspiration from my brow, I swing my camera bag over my shoulder and pick my way back through the crowd towards the car park. Away from the glaring lights from the stages, the park is much darker than when I arrived. I’m busy concentrating on not tripping on the large tree roots pushing through the ground’s surface when a strong hand clutches my shoulder.

I turn in surprise and am hit with the strong stench of red wine mixed with a familiar spicy aftershave. I recoil, stepping back onto a tree root that almost throws me off-balance. Jon catches my arm to steady me. I reposition the heavy camera bag on my shoulder and force myself to meet his gaze.

‘Jon, I’m so sorry about the text. It’s not true. I swear. I’ve just been so upset. Why won’t you talk to me? Why haven’t you come home?’

Ignoring me, he fingers the front of my shirt. ‘Is this new?’ His words are slurred.

‘No, it’s old.’

‘I’ve never seen it before. Who are you dressing up for?’ He leans forward to kiss me but I move my head and his lips land on my cheek. His arms lock around me, too tight, but anyone walking past would easily mistake us for just another loved-up couple. He whispers in my ear. ‘You’re a two-timing slut. What are you?’

I begin to sob.

‘Say it. What are you?’ His grip on me tightens unnecessarily. I’m already no match for his strength. ‘Say it.’

‘No.’ The word is barely audible with my lips squashed up against his shirt, but he hears it. His arms tighten again and now I can’t breathe but I manage to squeeze the words out. ‘I’m not. What I texted to you … it’s not true. I was just trying to hurt you. I didn’t even mean to send it.’

He loosens his grip just enough for me to fill my lungs with air. Just metres away, people walk past us in small groups of two and three, laughing. Their proximity makes me feel safer, more bold.

‘Let me go or I swear I’ll scream,’ I whisper. Jon begins to laugh, then he stops and releases his arms but pushes me away with his chest. I stumble backwards but manage to stay on my feet. ‘Look, forget about the stupid text. Why aren’t you at home? That’s what this is about. You, not me. You’d been gone for days before I even sent the text. Why are you doing this?’

All of a sudden, Jon looks defeated. He sways a little then corrects his posture. A hurt expression sweeps his features but the hardness in his eyes lingers.

‘I’m tired of it all, Jen. Your lies have plagued our entire fucking marriage. Every time I turn around, there’s another secret with you. You know, sometimes I wonder why you didn’t marry Thomas instead.’ Guilt flares inside me and Jon pounces on it. He points at my face, his expression triumphant. ‘See, there it is. Right there. I can read you like a book. You thought about it, didn’t you? Marrying him instead?’

‘No.’

‘He never asked you? You never talked about it?’

I know there’s no way Jon could know about my very brief two-hour engagement to Thomas. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself confronting me with it years ago. I’ve never told a single soul about what happened in Melbourne and I’d bet my life on the fact Thomas has never mentioned it to anybody either.

‘No.’

‘You’re lying. Just like you lied to Thomas when you and I first got together. Just like you lied to me about the night of Marion’s sixtieth.’

‘That’s bullshit, Jon.’ My fingers clench my camera bag strap and my chest feels tight.

‘I caught you, remember. I found you with him.’

‘You saw what you thought you saw.’

‘You were together.’

‘Thomas was saying hello, Jon. For fuck’s sake. Thomas was giving me a hug as an old friend who hadn’t seen me in a long time. Years. I’ve told you this a thousand times but you’re never going to believe me so what’s the fucking point saying it again? And I told you about Courtney’s phone. I was scared, I didn’t know what to do. I needed time to think it through myself.’

Jon glares at me, his face furious and hurt. ‘How can I ever trust you, Jen?’

‘This is ridiculous, Jon. I need to go. I’m late to pick up Jasper.’ I turn to leave, then pause and turn back. ‘And Jon? Don’t ever fucking push me again.’

‘Have you been crying, Jen?’

Blythe and I are standing beneath the bright light by her front door. Jasper is sound asleep and I’ve just finished buckling him into his car seat.

‘No, just tired.’

Blythe eyes me dubiously but doesn’t probe any further. ‘Look, why don’t you stay here tonight instead? I’ve got plenty of room, spare beds. Head off early in the morning when you’re feeling more refreshed?’

I shake my head as I give her a quick hug goodbye. ‘If you could see what I have to get through in the morning with Jasper, you’d realise that’s a physical impossibility. I’ll keep going, but thanks. I appreciate the offer, I really do.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

I force a smile. ‘Absolutely fine.’

But back home, in bed at last, sleep refuses to come. Feeling hot, I kick the tangle of sheets from my legs and stretch my arms high in the air above my head. The moonlight from the window casts a dull reflection off my wedding band. I twirl it on my finger and it slips off easily. Even when my fingers swelled when I was pregnant with Jasper, I refused my doctor’s suggestion that I remove my wedding ring. It hasn’t been off my finger since my wedding day. I place the ring on my bedside table and feel the deep groove at the base of my finger where the ring has rubbed over the years. In the moonlight, I can see the skin there is pale. I remember how heavy the ring felt when Jon had first slipped it onto my finger. How solid and precious and seductive it had felt. With a deep sigh, I retrieve the ring from the bedside table and place it back onto my finger.

Sometime later, I fall asleep, my ears strained for the sound of Jon’s car.

At dawn, I wake to find Jon curled behind me beneath the sheets, his hand large and warm across my stomach. He stirs and pulls me closer, nuzzling his face into my hair. I feel him grow hot and hard against my back as he whispers in my ear.

‘I’m so sorry about how things have been lately, babe. I’ve been thinking about everything and I realise how much you want another baby, a playmate for Jasper.’ He pulls me closer and kisses my neck. ‘So why don’t we get started on that?’

I roll towards him, unable to wipe the smile from my face.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The following Monday morning I’m bursting with excitement to meet Melissa on the beach to share my exciting news that Jon wants to try for another baby. And try we have! The past few days since Jon came home have been like a second honeymoon. Jon’s turnaround on wanting to have another child seems to have instantly deepened our connection, made us more gentle and nurturing with one another. He even took Friday off work so we could spend some time alone together. After we dropped Jasper to school, we drove north to Cape Tribulation, stopping at several beaches to explore the picturesque coastline and restaurants hidden among the towering trees, thousands of years old.

At lunch, Jon had reacted with surprise when I’d declined a glass of wine.

‘If we’re going to do this, I want to get my body in the best possible shape,’ I’d told him. ‘I’ve also been trying to eat three balanced meals a day. I need to get back to my ideal weight.’

His eyes roamed my body as he took a deep sip from his own wine glass. ‘You don’t need to become a teetotaller. You look pretty damn good to me.’

Perhaps it was only my imagination, but already I felt more clear-headed and productive for steering clear of alcohol.

Later, as I tucked into a chicken salad, I’d shared more of my plans with Jon.

‘Diet’s just a small part. I’m going to need to go and see a doctor.’

Jon put down his knife and fork. ‘Sweetheart, don’t get your hopes up too high, will you? That surgeon said more kids was pretty much out of the question, remember?’

I set down my glass of water, my voice triumphant. ‘He also said there was only a very small chance my period would return and it has. That has to be a good sign, don’t you think?’ I was determined to keep my optimism alive with this lovely fact. But the sooner I found myself someone, the better. ‘I’ll ask Blythe to recommend a local doctor. She’ll give me the full run-down on who to see.’

I arrived home that afternoon from Cape Tribulation to find an enormous bunch of flowers on the doorstep from Blythe. Her card read simply: Read my email.

I brought up the email on my phone.

Jen,

The flowers are to say thank you for all the amazing photos you submitted from Carnivale. Talk about a pro! The magazine is going to look fantastic. I’ve been thinking I’d like to do a news article about your arrival here and your photography. It might lead to other work for you – and also get local businesses keen to support the new tourism mag when we start selling ad space.

In the meantime, I’m planning a restaurant guide. We have sixty restaurants in Port Douglas. Interested?

Love your work. Almost as much as I love having you here.

Blythe xx

After I drop Jasper to school, Saskia and I make our way across the back lawn towards the now-familiar track that winds its way down through the forest to the beach below. Rain beat down steadily overnight, leaving the trees glistening with raindrops. I breathe in their sweet, earthy smell as Saskia attempts to snatch the ball I’ve brought for her to play with.

‘Just wait, girl,’ I chastise her. ‘Be patient.’

Down on the sand, the sun emerges from behind a cloud just as I turn right towards what I’ve come to know as Melissa’s end of the beach. The sudden burst of sunshine is warm on my shoulders after the coolness of the rainforest canopy. Ball forgotten, Saskia gallops ahead of me, relishing the opportunity to explore the wide, open space. I smile as I watch her run a few hundred metres up the beach, then she turns abruptly towards the water’s edge to sniff a large pile of kelp and a log washed up in the shallows.

‘Sas, no!’

In the distance, I spot Melissa emerging from the rainforest. Even from this distance, I immediately sense something is wrong. She’s walking much more quickly than usual, her neck held stiff. Next, she begins to wave her arms up and down and then, impossible as it seems due to the size of her stomach, she breaks into a run.

‘Jen, call her, call her.’ The wind whips at Melissa’s words, but it’s obvious now she’s gesturing towards the water’s edge.

I turn my gaze to Saskia, who is playing some kind of game in the shallows, jumping high in the air above the log, then ducking and diving towards it, her bark high-pitched and anxious.

Then the log bends.

A sideways lurch.

One end lifts up out of the water.

The log isn’t a log at all.

‘Croc, croc!’ Melissa’s voice jolts with the rhythmic pounding of her feet.

I try to run, but my legs feel like concrete. I try to scream, but no sound comes. The clear ocean water surrounding Saskia turns a light shade of crimson, tainting the white foam where the water laps the sand.

My legs unfreeze and I sprint across the sand, screams burning my throat.

‘Get away from her, get away.’ My heart shudders as I realise Saskia and the crocodile are no longer separated, but locked together. As the reptile moves its head, Saskia moves with it, the end of her tail clamped between the animal’s jaw. A yellow eye stares at me, unblinking, from above the shallow surface. Then the animal rolls, dragging Saskia with it. I scream again as Saskia’s body flips over the top of the crocodile, her legs flailing. Her yelps pierce the morning air as the darkening water licks my ankles. Without thinking, I reach for Saskia, finding only her front leg.

I pull, but the animal lurches away from me, snatching her from my grip.

‘Get away from it, Jen! Get away,’ Melissa screams, closer now. I glance up in time to see Melissa’s legs buckle beneath her. She drops to her knees on the sand, her arms cradling her stomach.

‘Help!’ I scream as loudly as I can, my eyes darting back to the crocodile. Then I spot a large rock half buried in the sand less than a couple of metres away. Using all my strength I extract it from the sand, then turn back towards the animal, bringing the rock down as hard as I can on top of its head, its eyes my target.

‘Let go!’ I scream.

The crocodile shifts position and flicks its long, heavy tail in the direction of my legs, catching me and knocking me to my knees in the shallow water. As the crocodile turns its giant head towards me, I leap to my feet. Suddenly furious, I lift the rock again and smash it a second time against the animal’s head. This time, the crocodile opens its jaw and Saskia wastes no time making her escape, galloping through the shallows towards the safety of the sand.

When she reaches Melissa, she collapses on the sand beside her.

Meanwhile, the crocodile gives one final powerful lash of its tail before it disappears beneath the surface of the water.

‘Help!’ I continue to scream as I follow Saskia’s lead up the beach towards Melissa. The white sand between Melissa’s legs is stained red like the ocean and she’s now on all fours. Groaning loudly, she rocks back and forth.

‘Someone please help us,’ I scream again to the empty beach, my voice catching and burning my throat.

Melissa barely acknowledges the arm I place around her shoulders.

‘The baby’s coming,’ she gasps. ‘Please, get Stretch, I need to get to hospital.’

‘I don’t have my phone on me, there’s no reception down here.’ I try to keep my voice as calm as possible.

I look up the beach towards the trees. ‘Are you able to walk?’ Melissa shakes her head, her breathing becoming more laboured as she pushes through a long contraction. Beneath the hot morning sun, her dress is already damp with perspiration. ‘Melissa, I need to get you into the shade. It’s not that far, less than twenty metres. Then I’m going to run back to the house and phone an ambulance. Okay?’

But Melissa’s breathing has become laboured again and she doesn’t seem to hear me. Her contractions are coming fast and she’s rocking back and forth, oblivious to everything but getting through this next contraction.

I look around the empty beach, my heart thundering. Then I see a movement and a flash of colour through the bush near the path to our house. A large straw hat above a yellow T-shirt.

‘Bill!’ Overjoyed, I run towards him. ‘Help, please help. Do you have a phone? Melissa’s baby’s coming. It’s happening really fast. I don’t think we have long.’

He retrieves his phone from his shorts. ‘I’ll run back up the hill and call triple-O. Wait here.’

I run back to Melissa and squat in front of her on the sand. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘Bill has a phone. He’s off to call the ambulance now. They’ll be here soon. Everything’s going to be fine.’

Within minutes, Bill is back. ‘I got through. They’re on their way.’ Melissa slumps onto her side, and Bill drops to the ground alongside her to rub her back. He glances up at me. ‘We should get her up to the shade. It’s sweltering down here.’

I nod as he returns his attention to Melissa. ‘Melissa, Jen and I are going to help you walk up to the shade, okay?’

His voice is calm, his words encouraging. It seems to provide Melissa with the reassurance she needs because she opens her eyes for the first time and nods. Placing his hands under her arms, Bill lifts her slowly to her feet then gestures for me to help him hold her upright. We position her arms around our shoulders and half-carry, half-walk her up the beach to the shade. Throughout the short journey, Melissa is silent as she focuses on using every ounce of energy she has to make it to her destination.

But as we reach the shade and Bill helps her to lie down, she releases a primal wail as she brings herself up onto her hands and knees.

‘Melissa, I can dig out a bed in the sand if that’s more comfortable for you?’ Bill asks.

Melissa shakes her head vigorously.

Bill gestures towards the water bottle strapped to the side of my backpack. ‘Can I have that?’ My fingers fumble uselessly with the strap until Bill takes over, extracting it and removing the lid so Melissa can take a sip. ‘Her underpants,’ he says, looking to me. ‘I think you should probably take them off if you’re able to.’

I nod and drop onto the sand behind Melissa and reach beneath her dress, pulling her knickers down her legs. She lifts each knee obligingly and I pull them over her ankles. Her underwear is sodden with blood and amniotic fluid.

Somewhere close by, Saskia whines. Bill appears to notice her for the first time. The hair on her tail is matted with blood and the once-gentle arc in her tail now hangs at an unnaturally sharp angle.

‘What happened to her?’ Bill asks.

‘Croc.’

‘Jesus.’ He moves towards her and runs his hands along Saskia’s torso and tail. She whines again, more loudly this time. ‘It feels like her tail might be broken,’ Bill says. ‘Maybe also some ribs.’

Melissa releases another long wail.

Bill turns back to me. ‘Do you have any hand sanitiser?’

For the first time, I thank the universe for Covid as I unzip my backpack and hand him a small bottle.

‘Deep breaths, breathe, breathe,’ Bill urges Melissa after he douses his hands in the clear liquid. ‘Try not to push yet. The ambulance should be here any minute.’

But Melissa is lost to her own timetable. She begins to rock back and forth more urgently on her hands and knees, her wail growing louder.

‘Try rubbing her lower back,’ Bill suggests as he repositions himself, crouching behind Melissa. ‘Melissa, the baby’s head is crowning. The next time you need to push, I think you should probably go ahead and push.’

Melissa grows quiet and lowers her arms onto the sand, resting her head on her forearms. For what seems an eternity, the three of us wait in the quiet of the beach, the wind a whisper in the leaves above our heads. Then Melissa stirs, pulling herself back up onto all fours. Her fingers dig into the sand as the muscles in her arms and legs tighten and she lets out a long howl. As the sound grows louder, she rocks back, pushing the full weight of her body down into her widespread knees. Behind her, Bill whispers softly, encouraging her efforts. He pulls off his T-shirt and positions it beneath Melissa. I squeeze my eyes closed and pray.

‘Congratulations, Melissa,’ Bill eventually says. ‘You have a beautiful baby girl.’

Melissa, still panting on her hands and knees, turns towards the direction of his voice, her face rosy and streaked with tears. Bill lifts her baby, loosely swaddled inside his T-shirt, towards her now-waiting arms. ‘Careful, the umbilical cord is still attached. We should leave that for the paramedics.’ The material falls away, revealing a tiny pink face beneath thick black hair and a tiny plump arm held high, the hand balled in a fist. As I watch, the baby’s tiny mouth opens wide and she lets out a surprisingly loud cry.

Tears sting my eyes, but I’m distracted by another loud groan from Melissa.

‘Just the placenta,’ Bill says. ‘I think it’s nearly there.’

Melissa cradles her baby to her chest as she continues to rock back and forth. Seconds later we’re distracted by a distant shout. Two paramedics, a man and a woman, are approaching across the sand. One carries a large medical box, the other a stretcher.

‘The ambos are here,’ I whisper to Melissa. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

‘Everything’s already fine,’ she replies, her eyes locked on her baby’s face. ‘More than fine.’ Then she looks up. ‘How’s Saskia?’

I smile. ‘She’s okay, I think, apart from her tail and maybe a few cracked ribs.’

The male paramedic kneels in front of Melissa with a warm smile. ‘Great work, guys. Looks like you’ve already done our job for us.’ He gently removes the baby from Melissa’s arms. ‘I just need her for one tiny second, I promise.’ He wraps the baby in a blanket. Once she’s swaddled, he reaches for his stethoscope and checks her heartbeat, then examines her breathing before handing her back to Melissa’s waiting arms. ‘Let’s get her suckling now, Mel, is it?’ Melissa nods. ‘It’ll help with your oxytocin production.’

At the same time the male paramedic attends to the baby, the female paramedic introduces herself then turns her focus to Melissa, taking her wrist to check her pulse as she peppers me and Bill with questions. Satisfied, she pauses.

‘I’m just going to examine Melissa now, so if you’d like to give her a little privacy that would be fantastic.’

Bill and I oblige, strolling a short distance away towards where Saskia is lying stretched out on the sand, dutifully turning our backs to the medical activity.

Saskia greets us with a low whimper.

‘Hey, girl,’ I say. Saskia’s ears flicker in response. She lifts her head and gives me a quizzical look, then whimpers again and nudges me with her nose. It seems drier than usual.

‘You go with Melissa in the ambulance,’ Bill says from beneath his hat. ‘I’ll take Saskia to the vet.’

I feel a rush of gratitude to this calm, capable man. Tears pool in my eyes.

‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’ My voice trembles through the last couple of words.

‘I’m no expert. Let’s just get her to the vet. She’s certainly had one hell of a scare, that’s for sure.’ He looks to me now. ‘And so have you.’

Saskia whimpers her agreement as we both try to encourage her to stand, but no amount of coaxing can get her to her feet. Eventually, Bill scoops her up into his arms. Saskia fusses a little, then nuzzles against his bare chest.

‘She weighs almost thirty kilos,’ I protest, thinking of the long, winding path back up the hill to the house.

Bill glances in my direction. ‘Do you have any better ideas?’

I shake my head in resignation. ‘No.’

‘I’ll let you know what the vet says, okay?’

I nod and watch him make his way along the path until the rainforest swallows them both from sight.

An hour later, I’m sitting on a hard plastic chair alongside Melissa’s bed at Mossman Hospital.

‘So, have you decided on a name?’

Melissa is sitting up against her pillows, her baby girl lying against her chest wrapped in a soft pink hospital blanket. She frowns in response to my question.

‘No, I don’t think so. I did have a name in mind, but now that she’s arrived it doesn’t seem to suit her anymore.’ She lays the baby back on her thighs and examines her tiny face. ‘Don’t worry, baby girl,’ she croons. ‘Daddy and me and your big brothers will come up with a name for you soon.’

As if on cue, a light tap sounds on the door and we look up in time to see Stretch’s face break into a wide grin as his gaze drops to his newborn. He makes his way across the room in a couple of long strides and envelops Melissa and their baby daughter in a hug that lasts so long I begin to feel I’m intruding.

‘I’ll leave you two – er, three – to it,’ I finally say, edging towards the door.

Stretch releases his girls but continues beaming as he transfers the baby into his own arms and showers her face with kisses.

‘But you haven’t held her yet,’ Melissa protests. ‘Go on, give her a cuddle before you go.’

The stirring of an objection rises in my throat, but the temptation to hold the baby’s small body against mine, to smell her hair and feel the velvety touch of her skin, is overwhelming. Several kisses later, Stretch carefully places the baby girl in my arms. She’s so light, her features tiny and perfect. She wriggles and a small hand emerges from the blanket, fingers outstretched. Her eyes still closed, she touches my face.

‘Oh look, she likes you!’ Melissa coos, clapping her hands as I slip my little finger within the clasp of the baby’s surprisingly strong fingers. My eyes moisten.

‘She’s beautiful,’ I murmur before I reluctantly return her to Stretch’s waiting arms.

‘Do you need a lift home?’ he asks.

Without the baby, my arms feel lost.

‘No, the ambos dropped me off on the road so I could go home and pick up my car.’

‘Any word on Saskia yet?’ Melissa gestures for Stretch to hand the baby back to her. He takes his time making his way back to her bed, rocking the baby back and forth, his eyes never leaving her face.

‘Not yet.’

‘Oh Jen, I hope she’s going to be okay.’

‘What’s wrong with Saskia?’ Stretch asks, looking up.

‘I’ll fill you in after Jen’s gone,’ Melissa says quickly, taking the baby back. ‘We better let her get on with what’s left of her day.’ She gives me a warm smile. ‘Thanks, Jen. I mean it. You and Bill were absolutely amazing this morning. I’ll never forget it.’

I feel my eyes moisten again, but manage to mask the tears with a smile. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ I say, reaching for my bag. ‘Get some rest.’

‘Wait,’ Melissa calls as I reach the door. ‘We’ll see you next Saturday night.’

I rack my brain but come up blank. Right now I can’t even think what day it is. ‘Next Saturday night?’

‘The twenty-seventh. Your party,’ Melissa exclaims. She turns to Stretch and laughs. ‘Sounds like someone’s in denial about turning forty.’

We all laugh for a moment but then the baby gurgles and their attention returns to her.

They barely notice me slip out the door.

The party.

How had I managed to forget about the party?

Outside in the car, my phone rings. An unknown local number.

‘It’s Bill. I’m calling from the vet.’

Jon must have given Bill my number.

‘How’s Saskia?’

‘She’s all right, but the vet’s had to do surgery for some internal damage from her broken ribs. He wants to keep her in for a few days. She’s incredibly lucky to still be alive.’

‘I’ll come now.’

‘Not much point, she’s still out of it.’

‘Okay. I’ll call in later this afternoon. And Bill?’ Silence. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate … everything.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, I wake early to the smell of soap and the sound of the shower running in the ensuite. After I’d phoned Jon to tell him about the disasters on the beach yesterday, he’d surprised me by coming home early from work, making dinner and insisting I get an early night. I reach across to my bedside table and unplug my phone from its charger, noticing a text message from an unknown number. Curious, I open it.

Thank you for returning Courtney’s phone.

Instantly awake, I gasp and drop the phone back onto the bedside table then swing my legs to the floor, burying my face in my hands.

How the fuck did Rob find out it was me who returned Courtney’s phone?

How the fuck did he find out my phone number?

Has he reported me to the police? I fall back onto my pillow, my eyes squeezed shut behind my fingers.

I hear the bathroom door open.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Jon emerges from the ensuite, a towel wrapped around his waist.

‘Nothing.’ I rub my temples, unable to hold his gaze. ‘I think I have a headache coming on after everything that happened yesterday, that’s all.’

‘Well, hopefully it’s nothing serious. Want me to make you some breakfast? I’ll just get dressed and go wake up Jasper.’

I nod and manage a small smile at his chipper mood. Trying for a baby really has done wonders for our marriage. ‘Thanks. I should probably eat something.’

But even thinking about food right now makes my stomach churn.

The aroma of bacon and eggs wafts from the kitchen as I enter. Jasper is laughing and animated with his father, sharing the latest fun facts about crocodiles he’s learnt at school. I’m grateful Saskia, lying quiet and bandaged nearby in her bed after Jon insisted on bringing her home from the vet yesterday, isn’t able to decipher the topic of Jasper’s chatter.

‘Did you know, Dad, that a crocodile can swim at sixty kilometres an hour? That’s as fast as a car.’

I look across the room to Saskia’s forlorn expression and shiver as I realise just how close I’d come to losing her.

Jasper continues.

‘I bet you didn’t know, Dad, that a crocodile’s jaw is five hundred times stronger than a human jaw.’

Jon places our plates on the table and I smile in appreciation. ‘Okay, mate, that’s enough. Time to eat.’

Despite my vow to eat three full meals a day, I’m having difficulty swallowing. I can’t get Rob’s text out of my head. The message hadn’t sounded revengeful. Or threatening. But nor did it give any indication of the consequences that were sure to come. Do I reply? Ignore it? Or just wait for the police to knock on the door? Surely by now Rob’s looked through Courtney’s phone? Found everything on it?

I force myself to swallow. The tiny ball of food wedges in my throat and I take a quick sip of the scalding hot coffee Jon has made for me to help it down. I can’t bring myself to look at Jon.

‘The state has set a date for the referendum.’ Jon’s voice returns me to our family breakfast. ‘You won’t believe it. The same date as your party.’

I nod and continue to shuffle the food around my plate.

‘Bugger,’ I reply. ‘I guess that means we’ll have to cancel. That’s probably going to be a big day for you.’

Jon takes his time with a final mouthful of his breakfast. ‘I was thinking the opposite, actually.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everyone’s going to be glued to their televisions that night watching the results come in. We may as well do it all together here at our place. Make it a double celebration. We’ve got a big projector screen at work. I can bring that home and get Bill to set it up outside on the balcony for everyone to watch the live coverage.’

I shrug. ‘Sure, if you think all the people you’re planning on inviting will still be in the mood to celebrate.’

He smiles and winks. ‘That’ll depend on the result, and we probably won’t know that until pretty late. My little birdies tell me it mightn’t be the outcome the mayor and Stretch are hoping for.’ He sighs and pushes his chair out. ‘Still, I’m sure they’re going to mobilise as much political activity as they can between now and then to get the “No” vote up. I expect I’m going to have my work cut out for me.’

‘So you won’t cancel the party?’

‘Nah. We’ve got about forty RSVPs. I’m sure everyone will still be keen. And Bree said she’s happy to help with the catering. She loves cooking.’

‘I haven’t heard from Bree in a while. I tried to get her to do some babysitting while I was out on a shoot, but she never got back to me.’

‘That’s weird. She was in Council the other day seeing Eva and I bumped into her. She didn’t mention she’d heard from you, but she did say she might pop in to clean today instead of Thursday. Something about her uni work.’

‘Oh well, I’ll have a chat with her about the catering when she turns up. If she turns up.’

As I get up to clear the table, Jon reaches forward and touches my neck, frowning.

‘What the hell happened to your pendant?’

I silently curse myself for my stupidity. It would have been far easier to tell Jon the necklace was missing rather than try to explain why one of the three Js is gone. Why hadn’t I thought to take it off?

Jon rounds the table to study the pendant more closely. ‘It’s broken. Snapped almost in half.’ He’s standing so close I feel sure he can hear the rising beat of my heart.

‘The blender,’ I lie. ‘When I was cooking the other day, it slipped off my neck and fell into the blender.’

‘What? The chain broke?’

‘No, I mustn’t have clasped it back together properly after my shower.’

Jasper jumps up from his chair to join his father. ‘Wow, show me, Dad. I want to see it.’

Jon lets the pendant fall back against my skin, then moves aside to let Jasper examine it. I busy myself with showing Jasper, avoiding Jon’s gaze. When Jon speaks, his voice is cooler than it’s been in days and I know he doesn’t believe me.

‘Well, I’d better get another one made.’

I smile brightly. ‘That would be so lovely. That could be my birthday present. Thank you.’

As soon as I hear Jon’s car tyres crunch along the driveway, I send Jasper to the bathroom to brush his teeth and I reply to Rob’s text message.

I never meant to keep it. It was a silly mistake. Please don’t involve the police. My husband doesn’t know what I’ve done. I’m so sorry for everything. I can never, ever forgive myself for what happened.

When I return from dropping Jasper to school, Bree’s car is in the driveway. I find her in the kitchen preparing to wash the floors.

‘Hi, stranger.’

Her smile turns perplexed, her gaze distant. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I tried to contact you to see if you could babysit Jasper. Did you get my messages?’

She shakes her head, her eyes avoiding mine. ‘Sorry, no.’

I pull out my phone. ‘I’ll send you one now. Let’s see if you get it.’ Her handbag is sitting on the dining room table. I hear a ping from somewhere inside it. ‘Do you want to check?’

She opens her bag and nods. ‘Yeah, I got that one. Strange.’

I head towards the coffee machine. ‘Want a coffee?’

Bree shakes her head. ‘I might go and get the washing on until you’re finished in here.’

‘Jon said you’re keen to help out with the catering for the party. I love cooking but it would be great to have an extra set of hands. And some fresh ideas for salads.’

Bree shrugs, her demeanour less than enthusiastic. ‘I’m not a great cook but if you need help, I can be available.’ She fiddles with her hands distractedly.

I feel my brow furrow. Hadn’t Jon said Bree loved to cook?

‘Bree, do you mind me asking if you’re okay? You don’t quite seem yourself.’ As Bree’s face grows crimson I find myself wondering yet again if I’ve overstepped some kind of line? ‘You don’t need to answer that if you don’t want to. Tell me to sod off and mind my own business. I just want to make sure you’re okay.’ To my surprise, Bree bursts into tears. I take a couple of steps towards her, but the way she’s been acting lately holds me back from making physical contact. ‘Oh, sweetheart. What is it? Give me a minute and I’ll find some tissues. Are you sure you don’t want a cuppa?’

She shakes her head. ‘Just a bit stressed at uni, that’s all.’

I nod sympathetically.

She chews on her lip for a moment. ‘I’d better keep going so I have time to study this afternoon.’

‘Of course.’ As she heads in the direction of the laundry, I call after her. ‘Bree? Just give the housecleaning a miss if it’s adding to your stress. It’s absolutely no problem for me to do it this week.’ Seeing the indecision on her face, I decide to make her mind up for her. ‘That look said it all. Off you go. Dismissed.’

Relief sweeps her face. ‘Thanks, Jen, I appreciate it.’

‘If you’re happy to help with the catering, I’ll probably spend most of next Friday in the kitchen. But only come if you’re not too busy with uni.’

Bree now appears embarrassed, but she nods. ‘My workload should be clearer by then. I hope.’ She returns to the kitchen and places her handbag over her shoulder. ‘Jennifer?’

‘Yes?’

Her cheeks grow flushed again. ‘You seem like a really lovely person.’

Her comment takes me by surprise. I smile, feeling touched. ‘Thank you.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘So, what do you think?’

Blythe looks at me and I grimace as I close the laptop and push it across the desk towards her. Beyond her closed office door comes the muffled sounds of chatter and laughter. Unlike my last visit to her office, this time Blythe is all business. She looks at her watch. The paper goes to press tonight so she’s under the pump, but she asked me to come in and read through her article in person.

I shrug. ‘It’s fine, I guess.’

‘You guess?’

‘It’s just a bit weird reading about myself, but there’s nothing you’ve written that’s inaccurate and, well, you’re the journalist, not me.’

Blythe smiles. ‘So I’ll take that as a yes?’

I laugh. ‘I guess.’

Blythe flips the laptop back open. ‘And you’re good with the photo?’

The portrait was taken by one of Blythe’s journalists a few days ago on the old Sugar Wharf overlooking the Coral Sea. The journalist had managed to capture me in a relaxed moment, my camera slung around my neck.

I shrug again. ‘It’s okay. I’m not sure it’s hot news, but that’s your call.’

Blythe claps her hands together. ‘Great. I just need to let you know the story won’t be running in this week’s paper and … well, there’s another reason I was hoping you could pop in.’ Blythe pauses and frowns. ‘I wanted to give you a heads-up, as a friend.’

My body tenses. It isn’t often Blythe uses a serious tone, but right now there’s no trace of humour in her face. I grow more tense as I watch her walk across to her office door to check it’s fully closed.

She sits back down. ‘There’s an article running in tomorrow’s paper that might not paint Jon in such a good light.’

‘You mean my Jon?’

Blythe nods. ‘Ahead of next week’s referendum, we’ve interviewed a whole lot of industry and community leaders to ask them which way they intend to vote. Not surprisingly, almost all of them have said they’ll be voting ‘No’ to the merger, but Jon, well he’s said on the record that he’ll be voting ‘Yes’.’

I feel as if the air has been sucked out of my lungs. ‘He what?’

‘Look, he’s given a lot of good reasons why and it’s not entirely surprising since he’s responsible for the shire’s finances, but still …’ Blythe’s voice trails off. ‘It’s not going to win him any popularity contests, that’s for sure.’

‘Why? Why would he put that on the public record?’

Blythe arches her eyebrow. ‘Perhaps he underestimates the community’s anti-merger sentiment. Or maybe he thinks that by going on the record he can persuade others to vote in favour of it as well. Or maybe his mate in the State Government’s promised him a cushy new job in the new super-council if it gets up. Who knows? But it’s a little surprising, to say the least. I’m sure it’ll take Eva and Stretch by surprise.’ Blythe looks at her watch again and stands up. ‘Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know what to expect tomorrow. Things could turn a bit ugly for Jon. I should also mention there’s a community protest rally planned for the weekend. I suspect the state will be surprised at just how many people it’s going to attract.’

As Blythe makes her way towards the door, I place my hand on her arm.

‘Do you have to run it? The article about Jon?’

Blythe grimaces. ‘Don’t ask me that, Jen. You know I do.’

I nod as I give her a small wave goodbye, an ominous feeling growing inside me as I leave the building.

I deliberately stick close to home the following day, ducking into the local service station to pick up a copy of the Port Douglas Guardian after I drop Jasper at school rather than risk bumping into anyone I might know at the supermarket. The article is far, far worse than Blythe made out. Jon’s face looms large on the front page. Alongside him is a photo of the mayor. The headline has them pitted against one another. It may as well scream Good vs. Evil.

I try to call Jon, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. I leave a message.

‘Sweetheart, I’ve just seen the paper. I’m wondering if you’re okay. Give me a call when you can.’

Next, I call Blythe. She doesn’t pick up either.

‘Fucking hell, Blythe. I just saw your article. I know you think you’re doing your job, but far out. Did you really have to go that far? I’m really disappointed. Anyhow, I guess I’ll talk to you later.’

When I collect Jasper from school that afternoon, I take refuge behind an oversized hat and dark sunglasses. My nerves are on edge due largely to the fact that Jon still hasn’t called me back. Nor have I received a reply from Rob. After I find Jasper, he practically has to run to keep up with me as I walk briskly back to the car, my head down.

‘I wanted to say goodbye to Jye,’ he protests.

‘It’s so hot today, why don’t we head home for icy poles and a swim?’

‘Can we invite Jye over?’

I nod and dial Melissa’s number, but it seems nobody is picking up their phone today.

‘Sorry, mate, no answer. Looks like you’re stuck with me.’

My new-found sobriety deserts me at around eight o’clock that evening. Jasper finished off his uninspired Friday night dinner of chicken nuggets and fell asleep during his bedtime story. Jon finally texted me earlier in the night to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner and not to wait up for him. And I haven’t heard anything back from Blythe or Melissa.

Right now, the bottle of white wine in the fridge feels like the closest thing I have to a friend. I open it, pour myself a glass and call Marion. Surprisingly, she picks up. Her weekend calendar is almost always full. She sounds unusually bright and chirpy for the end of the working week.

‘I’ve been looking at airfares to Cairns. I thought I’d pop up for your birthday next weekend.’

I feel a jolt of happiness as I realise just how much I’ve missed seeing Marion.

‘That would be great, Maz. Let me know your flight details and I can drive down to Cairns to pick you up.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I won’t be able to book a flight until mid-week once the court schedule’s released but I don’t want to muck you around. I’ll hire a car and find my own way there. You don’t need to ferry me around.’

Then Maz wants to know all about Jasper and me, and we end up having a lovely long girly chat that almost makes me forget the ticking time bomb I’ve been living with all day. By the time we say goodbye, an hour has passed and the bottle of white wine is half empty. Exhausted, I head to bed and let the wine lull me to sleep before Jon gets home.

Jon sleeps late the next morning and it’s obvious as soon as he walks into the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxer shorts that he’s extremely hungover.

‘How was the lounge? Comfortable?’ I ask.

He looks vaguely apologetic. ‘It was late. I didn’t want to wake you up.’

I walk over and put my arms around him. His breath smells of stale scotch.

‘I’ve been worried about you. How was yesterday?’

Jon sighs and slumps onto a kitchen stool. His eyes are bloodshot but brighten a little when he spots the full pot of coffee. I remove a mug from the cupboard and fill it for him.

‘Thanks.’ He leans forward on the bench and runs his hands through his hair. It looks like it needs a good wash. ‘I got egged.’

I almost choke on the sip of coffee I’ve just taken. ‘You what?’

He groans. ‘I got fucking-well egged.’

‘By who? Where? How? Do people really do that?’

Jon looks around for his phone and eventually finds it on the coffee table. ‘Here. Someone was kind enough to film it and send it to me. You can watch it for yourself.’

He prods at the screen then hands the phone to me. The footage appears to have been taken by someone running or walking fast, so the framing jumps around, but it’s clear that the person filming is intent on following Jon as he walks from the council car park to the external office door. As Jon reaches for the door handle, a man’s voice calls his name. Jon turns around. A volley of eggs hits his head and chest. Most of them crack open upon impact, leaving oozing yellow trails down his face and the front of his suit. For a moment, he appears shocked, then angry, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns back towards the door and disappears inside the building. A chorus of laughter sounds from somewhere off screen.

I hand the phone back to Jon. ‘Jesus.’

He sighs. ‘And I guess it’s fair to say the day only got worse after that.’

I’m unable to keep the incredulous tone from my voice. ‘Why on earth did you tell Blythe you’re voting “Yes” in the referendum?’

Jon gives me a hard look. ‘Because it’s the truth. Because someone’s got to be a voice of reason among all this fucking greeny hysteria.’

‘But you didn’t have to actually say it on the record, did you? You could have just said no comment, or pretended you were going to vote against it.’

‘I’m not a fucking politician, Jen. It’s not my job to be popular. I don’t get elected. I’m just a boring finance guy, remember? It’s my job to look after the money and no matter which angle you look at the merger from, it puts the council in a much stronger financial position. I explained all that to Blythe in quite a lot of detail during my interview with her, but of course she chose to leave most of it out of her one-sided article.’

Now it’s my turn to sigh. ‘And what about the protest today?’

Jon attempts a nonchalant look he doesn’t quite pull off. ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys.’

Jon spends the rest of the day in and out of the pool playing with Jasper, who’s clearly thrilled to have his father to himself for a change. Mid-afternoon, Jon requests a Bloody Mary. Against my better judgement, I decide to join him.

At six o’clock, Jon strolls over to the TV and switches on the local news. I sit beside him on the lounge. Not surprisingly, the protest is the leading news item. A number of familiar faces are interviewed, including the mayor, Stretch and Blythe. All of them speak strongly against the merger, urging local residents to vote ‘No’ to save Greater Daintree’s pristine environment from development. During her wrap-up, the newsreader recaps the council’s GM Jonathon Ashby’s quotes in yesterday’s Port Douglas Guardian and makes a big deal of the fact that he wasn’t available for interview. Somehow, the network has also got hold of the egg-throwing footage and they re-run the moment the eggs splatter over Jon’s surprised face several times. The news segment’s final scenes show a large number of local residents lining the streets of both Mossman and Port Douglas. Most of them are wearing green T-shirts and carrying large ‘No’ placards and banners.

All of them are angry.

Very, very angry.

Jon flicks off the television and throws the remote against the wall. On this occasion, I can’t blame him for his outburst.

I manage to talk Jon into taking Jasper down to the beach for a walk before dark while I prepare dinner. While they’re gone, I decide to try calling Blythe again. This time she picks up. Her voice is hoarse from a day of talking and yelling at the rally, and the background is noisy, as if she’s in a pub.

‘Give me a sec,’ she says. ‘I’ll just find somewhere a bit quieter.’

A couple of minutes later she’s back.

‘I want to ask you a favour,’ I ask.

‘Okay.’

I take a long sip of wine. ‘Jon said you haven’t told his side of the story, the reasons he’s voting “Yes” to the merger.’

‘Jen, you know we only have so much space in the paper.’

‘Even so.’ I pause. ‘It hardly seems fair. I almost feel like Jon’s a prisoner in his own home since your article came out. How can he show his face anywhere unless you publish something a bit more balanced to even out the coverage? Put your own prejudices aside.’

I hear her sharp intake of breath and imagine the anger on her face as she pushes her fingers through her unruly hair.

‘Will Jon agree to speak to me again?’

‘I don’t know. He doesn’t know I’m speaking to you. You’ll have to pretend it’s your idea. Although I don’t really know why you need to. He’s already explained his rationale, not that you ran any of it.’

‘Okay, you’ve made your point. Leave it with me.’

Next, I call Melissa again, and this time she picks up.

‘Sorry, Jen, I’ve been meaning to call you back … Little Missy Moo takes up a lot of time. I’d forgotten what it’s like …’

‘You haven’t given her a name yet?’

‘We almost have. I’ll tell you at your party.’

I take another sip of wine. ‘I’m surprised you and Stretch are still planning on coming to the party, to be honest. This media coverage of Jon has been a nightmare.’

There is genuine surprise in Melissa’s voice when she replies. ‘Of course we’re still coming. It’s your birthday. Nothing to do with Jon, no offence.’

‘I’m a bit worried now that the party’s going to be a big fat fizzer.’

‘Really? Honestly, don’t worry, Jen. It’s you people are coming to see and to meet.’

I’m unable to shake my doubt. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘Listen, how about just to be safe I have a quiet word with Eva? If she’s still coming to the party, everyone else will fall into line, don’t worry about that.’

‘Oh, Melissa, that would be great.’

‘No problem.’

‘And Melissa, Jon doesn’t know I’m talking to you, okay?’

I hear the smile in her voice. ‘Got it.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

By the time mid-week rolls around, I’m feeling deeply sorry for Jon’s situation. He’s barely sleeping and it’s obvious from the dark shadows under his eyes that the constant negative media coverage is taking its toll. On Thursday morning, I decide it’s time to start getting organised for the party. I drop Jasper to school then head to the local supermarket to buy the ingredients I’ll need to make the salads for Saturday night. I haven’t yet heard anything from Bree about whether she’s able to help me out with some cooking tomorrow, so I plan to get a head start on some of it this afternoon. After I’m finished at the supermarket, I’ll pick up a couple of sandwiches for Jon and I. I have a sneaking suspicion he’ll welcome a friendly face at his office.

Part of the reason for my sudden bravery in heading into Council is the text message Melissa sent me yesterday, assuring me that Eva is still planning to come to Saturday night’s party – which means if I do happen to bump into her while I’m dropping in to see Jon, at least there’s less of a chance she’ll try to avoid me or make up some flimsy excuse as to why she can no longer make it. A large part of me wishes to hell Jon hadn’t made such a big deal of my fortieth birthday, especially inviting so many people I haven’t yet met. Not that the occasion is just about my birthday anymore. Everyone’s focus – including mine – will be on the results of the referendum. I haven’t told Jon – not that he’s asked, and I wouldn’t tell him the truth even if he did – but I intend to vote ‘No’. I’ve lived here long enough to know I don’t want this place to change too much. I suspect I’ll be in the majority, regardless of what Jon thinks.

A couple of hours later, the back of the car laden with cool bags full of groceries, I round the first corner into the council car park. My stomach flutters with nerves. I spot Jon’s car and manage to get an empty space near it, then check my hair and apply lip gloss.

Outside the car, I smooth down my skirt and take a deep breath. Clutching two white sandwich bags, I head through the external door to Jon’s reception area. When I reach it, Anne’s office chair is empty. I glance towards Jon’s door. It’s pulled almost closed, but not quite. As I edge closer, the muffled sound of voices becomes louder. I lean forward so I can peer through the crack.

‘Jennifer, can I help you?’ I spin around and smile at Anne. She gestures towards the white sandwich bags in my hand. ‘You’re dropping in lunch for Jon?’

‘Yes. Is now a good time?’

Anne frowns and checks her computer screen. ‘He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments at the moment. Just let yourself in.’

I pause, then knock softly as I push the door ajar.

Jon is seated on the far lounge. He blinks in surprise to see me. A dark-haired woman sits on the opposite lounge, her back to me. She, too, turns expectantly. I hold my smile, but it feels stiff and unnatural now.

‘Bree, hi.’

She looks different, somehow older and more sophisticated. She’s the first to jump to her feet and smacks her hand lightly against her forehead.

‘Oh, jeez, Jennifer, I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch yet about tomorrow.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Study.’

‘It’s fine. I’m going to make a start this afternoon and, really, now that I’ve done up my lists, there’s not as much to do as I thought there would be. Don’t worry about it. Focus on your study.’ I turn my attention to Jon and hold up the sandwich bags. ‘I was in town. I thought this would save you ducking out to buy something. I also wanted to have a quick chat to you about the party, but if you’re too busy now …’

I nod subtly in Bree’s direction. She’s looking at something on her phone, her conversation with me forgotten. I frown as I try to work out what’s different about her appearance.

Jon smiles. ‘I can chat quickly now.’

‘I’ve got the salads and nibbles under control, but remind me where you ordered the meat and seafood from? I may as well go and pick all that up while I’m out and about.’ My eyes stray back to Bree. And then it clicks. ‘I love your new hairstyle.’

Bree’s waist-long locks have been replaced by a short, sleek, glossy bob.

She smiles self-consciously and lifts her hands to cup her do.

‘I keep reaching for my hair, but it’s not there,’ she says, glancing in Jon’s direction. ‘It’s a strange feeling. I guess I’ll get used to it.’

I nod, a slow creep of realisation spreading across my skin. ‘I tried a bob once.’ I stare hard at Jon. ‘Didn’t I?’ Jon shifts his position on the lounge and nods in acknowledgement. ‘But it wasn’t for me. Too boyish.’ Bree’s smile fades and I hasten to correct myself. ‘But it looks wonderful on you. You’re young enough to carry it off.’

Jon clears his throat and gives me the details of where to pick up the rest of Saturday night’s food.

‘We’re still expecting around forty?’ I ask. Jon nods, and I gesture to the sandwich bags. ‘Shall I leave yours on your desk, then? I guess I can eat mine later when I get home.’

Jon and Bree exchange a look so fleeting I wonder if I imagined it.

Jon smiles an apology. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

Outside in the car park, the sun scorches the top of my head. I spot a bin and dump Jon’s lunch inside it. Back in the car, I notice a beetroot stain on my hand. I sit for a long moment, staring at the smear of crimson, trying to ignore the rapidly intensifying pulse of anger inside my head. To distract myself, I search the glove box for a packet of wet wipes and swipe at the stain until there’s no trace of it left.

But I can’t get the image of Bree’s freshly cut hair out of my head. My anger builds until a low buzz fills my head. I undo my seatbelt, slam shut the car door and head back to the bin, the beetroot-stained wet wipe squashed inside my clenched fist. When I reach the bin, I drop the purple wipe into it.

But I also do something else.

I lift the heavy white sandwich bag and its drippy contents back out and carry it towards my car, holding it a safe distance from my clothes. At the rear of the car, I lean down and place it on the ground behind the left tyre. I get in the car, push the gearstick into reverse and guide the car back half a metre, then forward again, then back and forward half a dozen or more times until my rage begins to subside and I’m certain the bag’s contents have been fully obliterated.

At the car park exit, I change my mind about picking up the meat today. Let Jon sort it out. There’s something else I need to do.

At home, I place my handbag on a sideboard and head straight for Jon’s office. I don’t yet know exactly what I’m searching for, but instinct tells me I’ll find it somewhere in here. As my fingers close around the cold metal door handle and push down, the movement feels somehow animated, as if I’m no longer a person, but a puppet, suspended from concealed sticks, dangling on strings, my actions manoeuvred by an invisible master.

The door swings open easily, and I’m greeted by the familiar scent of Jon’s aftershave combined with the musty odour of an overworked air-conditioner and the lingering, hoppy smell of beer. Afternoon light streams in through the window and falls across the surface of his timber desk, illuminating several dark sticky circles left by beer bottles. As I cross the room, the smell of beer intensifies in the vicinity of the round metal bin in the corner. Several empty bottles that haven’t quite made their way inside lie on the floor.

I resist the urge to pick them up.

My eyes rest on the half-filled bookshelf. The titles are predictably dry – theories of management, principles of accounting, good governance, managing teams, motivational techniques, a NSW Government style guide. Then I spot a magazine poking over the edge of the top shelf. I have to stand on tiptoes to reach it. As soon as I register the naked woman on the cover, I toss the magazine back up on the shelf feeling vaguely disgusted by the way she’s been objectified and Jon’s support of an industry so overtly exploitative of young women. Then I reach for the magazine again and toss it in the bin on top of the beer bottles. Let him make of that what he will.

At his desk, I sit down in the office chair and turn my attention to his computer. I tap the keyboard and the screen glows to life, along with a password request. I make a few half-hearted guesses at what his password might be.

Jennifer2016. The year we met.

Nothing.

Jennifer2024.

Nothing.

JJJ2024.

Jasper2024.

Saskia2024.

Nothing.

Beneath the desk are three drawers. I tug at the handle nearest me, but the draw refuses to open. The two drawers beneath it are locked as well. I hunt through the stacks of files and work magazines around the desk for a key but discover nothing. Next, I search the small office organiser that’s home to a loose collection of pens, paperclips, staples and corkboard pins. I empty each little container one by one, trying to not feel disappointed when my search fails to yield what I’m looking for.

I drop from the chair onto the floor on my knees so I can examine the underside of the desk, hoping I might find a key taped there, hidden. But the surface is bare. Disheartened but determined not to give up yet, I scramble to my feet and make my way towards the row of cupboards against the wall opposite the bookshelf. Inside, I discover shelves of neatly stacked files. I sigh loudly. Going through all of these is going to take some time. I roll up my sleeves and get cracking. Half an hour later, I’m about to close the last cupboard door when I notice the very bottom shelf appears empty. As I bend down to examine it more closely, my heart skips a beat as I spy a small black safe, similar to the kind you find in a hotel room.

I frown. Why does Jon need a safe? Not for my jewellery. I keep that hidden in a nondescript shopping bag in the back of a bathroom drawer. Despite its not-insignificant value, Jon’s never suggested we keep my jewellery in a safe. In fact, he’s never even mentioned the fact that we own a safe at all. I try the handle. Not surprisingly, it’s locked. I tug it again, harder, hot tears of frustration springing to my eyes. Of course, my efforts make no difference. With a deep sigh, I get comfortable on the floor and begin entering every conceivable combination of numbers that could be significant to Jon. His birth date. My birth date. Jasper’s birth date. The date we met. The date we got married. None of them work. I frown and think harder. What other numbers could be significant?

And then I remember.

Postcodes!

On our honeymoon in Thailand, then again on our holiday to Fiji, Jon had used our postcode as our safe code. My fingers shaking, I try our old postcode in Sydney, but the safe remains silent, the handle locked. Disappointed, I try our new postcode, not expecting it to work. Surely Jon wouldn’t use something so close to home?

But to my amazement the safe door makes a congratulatory whirring sound and clicks open. I find myself staring into a dark space, which at first also appears to be empty. Opposing emotions of disappointment and relief rush for my attention. I silently chastise myself for allowing my imagination to run wild. I should never have come snooping in Jon’s office. What did I imagine I was going to find? For all I know, the safe could have been left here by the house’s previous owners. Or it could be that Jon hasn’t yet got around to telling me he’d bought it. After all, it’s empty. Or is it? I peer more closely, my eyes now better adjusted to the dark cavity. It’s not empty at all. My heart quickens as I reach inside the safe and pull out a thin black leather document holder.

My breath catches in my throat as I begin to unzip it, then pause, my fingers trembling. Do I really want to know what’s inside? I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. What could Jon possibly be hiding from me? Of course, all husbands and wives keep small things from each other from time to time.

Chocolate addiction.

Shopping receipts.

A carefully engineered boys’ or girls’ weekend away.

But this? This is different. What kind of secrets does a husband need to keep locked away in a hidden safe?

As I stare at the folder, I remind myself I still have a choice. Whatever this is, I don’t need to know. I could simply return the folder to the safe without looking at its contents and persuade myself never to think about it again. Jon would never even know I’d been in his office. The folder probably has nothing to do with me or Jon or our marriage. It’s probably full of boring old finance papers he’s required by law to keep secure for seven years.

I finger the folder. If that’s the case, then surely it won’t do any harm to look inside it? A quick look to confirm it’s work stuff, then I’ll put it back, lock the safe and Jon will be none the wiser for my snooping.

Still, I hesitate. Jon and I have been getting on so much better since we decided to try for another baby. Having survived the events of the past six months, why would I now deliberately choose to jeopardise my marriage? My indecision makes me feel light-headed. Disoriented. Yet I find myself reaching for the document holder and zipping it open.

On top is a birth certificate. I recognise Jon’s name and relief floods through me. So what if Jon chooses to keep his personal documents in a safe? That’s his business, isn’t it? I lift the certificate and examine it more closely, then frown. The name on the certificate is almost Jonathon’s, but not quite.

Jonathon Jasper Brown. Not Ashby.

The date of birth is also slightly different. Jonathon’s birthday is 2 April, but here it’s listed as 1 April. April Fool’s Day. With a rush of sympathy, I kind of understand Jon lying about that. The Jon I know would hate being associated with a day marked for fools. But the name change … When had he changed his surname? And why?

I move the certificate aside and discover several school and university diplomas, all printed on heavy paper. The school certificates show his name as Brown, but by the time he was awarded his university degree, he’d changed his name to Ashby. So what? Lots of people change their names. I’m sure Jon had a good reason for doing so, and really, is it any of my business anyway? To me and to Jasper, he’s Jonathon Ashby. We’re all Ashbys now. Ashby is a much nicer name than Brown, so Jon chose well. I’ll probably never even mention it to him.

I take a deep breath to try to steady my racing thoughts but I’m already looking at another envelope. The seal is old and opens easily. As I extract the paperwork and examine it, my body grows cold. The envelope contains two marriage certificates, along with two divorce certificates. All of them carry Jon’s name. Correction. Jon’s new name. The name he gave himself rather than the name he was born with. I don’t recognise the two women’s names – Rebecca Hilary McGregor and Jocelyn May Kelly.

As I mumble the two names out loud, one after the other, my voice cracks with a sharp intake of breath. I jump up and kick the folder away from me, then pick it up and throw it against the wall. The papers flutter to the ground before my legs give way and I collapse back down onto the wooden floorboards. I begin to sob, my shock discovering its own voice in a wail I don’t recognise. After a long while, I sit up and wipe my eyes, then crawl towards the papers, gathering them back together feeling both reviled yet desperate to know more, to understand why. Why hadn’t Jon ever told me he’d been married before? Twice?

I shake my head. None of it makes any sense. Jon told me he’d never wanted to marry anyone until he met me. Our love was different, he said. It transcended anything else he’d ever experienced. I was his one in a billion. Feeling tears return to my cheeks, I swipe them away. He didn’t have to say any of those things. I would have loved him anyway. But he did say them. And I believed him.

I study the dates on the marriage and divorce certificates. Rebecca was Jon’s first wife. They married five years before I met Jon. Their marriage lasted just eighteen months. A year later, Jon married Jocelyn. Their marriage lasted a little longer – two years. Both marriages and divorces took place in Melbourne. I never knew Jon lived in Melbourne. He must have moved to Sydney afterwards. Where he met me. Just six months after the ink dried on his divorce from Jocelyn.

I run my fingers over the folder to check I haven’t missed anything. In a pocket I haven’t yet noticed, I feel something and extract two passports. The Australian one is brand new and unstamped. The photo of Jon appears to have been taken very recently. His UK passport is also brand new and yet to be stamped with any travel. Why would Jon have updated both his passports without telling me? My body grows cold with fresh realisation. Is Jon planning to leave me in the same way he left his last two marriages? Bury me in the past? In a safe? Surely he wouldn’t leave me and Jasper? Another thought comes then and, with it, an involuntary shudder.

Did Jon have any children with his first two wives?

Feeling queasy, I place all the papers back inside the folder and re-zip it. As I do so, I feel something else and groan out loud, unsure how much new information I’m able to take in right now. Taking a deep breath, I push my fingers inside another pocket and extract several folds of paper. Letters. Each written in the same old-fashioned cursive writing. The letters are dated. Signed off by the same people. They’re also short. It doesn’t take me long to read them. Feeling bilious, I refold the pages and push them back inside the pocket. The truth feels impossible to accept, yet it’s true.

Jon’s parents aren’t dead.

Jon disowned them, changing his name and breaking their hearts.

They begged him to explain his actions, but their pleas got them nowhere.

Each time they managed to track him down, they tried to visit. Then sent another letter.

Why did Jon lie?

How could he behave in such a vile way towards his own parents? Him, their only child?

Shame wells up at my own stupidity. I’d believed him. And Jon had taken full advantage of his lie, expertly mining my sympathy and using his orphan status to gain my trust and empathy so early in our relationship. My thoughts run to Jasper and the realisation that Jon’s robbed him of two loving grandparents. A hot sob fights its way loose and my shoulders shake. When I finally stop crying, only one clear thought remains.

Who is my husband?

Is the man I fell in love with the real Jonathon, or has our entire marriage been some kind of amusing act for him? Bile rises in my stomach and Jon’s office suddenly feels suffocating, his inky hold over me overwhelming within these four dark walls. I feel at once icy cold yet overheated, desperate for air. I push the folder back inside the safe and lock it, then hurry towards the door.

I’m about to pull Jon’s office door closed when I come face to face with Bill in the hallway. Despite the fact that Saskia is standing alongside him looking perfectly relaxed, I let out a blood-curdling scream. Bill jumps and backs away from me, his hands raised as if in surrender.

‘Whoa, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I knocked, but …’

I hold my hand to my chest as if this will somehow still the wild beat of my heart. ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What are you …?’

Bill gestures towards the front of the house. ‘I just picked up the screen Jon wants me to set up for the party.’ He studies my face. ‘Hey, are you okay?’

I wipe my cheek, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Of course, of course. Yes, Jon did mention something about a screen.’ I take the lead along the hallway, leaving Bill to follow. At some point, my manners kick in. ‘Can I get you something cold to drink? A tea or a coffee?’

‘Ah, no, I’m good thanks. Hey, I really am sorry if I scared you.’

But I’m barely listening to Bill. Half my head’s still buried in the secrets in the black folder in Jon’s safe. The other half is trapped in doubts over what was really going on earlier in Jon’s council office. Is Bree’s new hairstyle just a coincidence, or is something going on between the two of them?

As Bill gets to work setting up the large projector screen outside on the balcony, I head into the kitchen and fall onto a stool, my face buried in my hands. The heat of my anxiety spreads across my face. A single question burns in my mind – what am I going to do? I feel desperate to confront Jon with the truth of what I’ve discovered, but when? He’s already texted me to let me know he’ll be working late tonight. And then the party is just around the corner. The timing of my discovery couldn’t be any worse. I sigh and slump forward on the kitchen bench, spreading my arms wide and enjoying the cool granite under my cheek until Bill’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘Do you happen to have a power board and an extension lead?’

I snap into a sitting position and try to look normal, as if I’m not in the middle of a nervous breakdown. I must manage to pull this off to some extent, because Bill refrains from asking me again if I’m okay.

I nod. ‘Yes, I’ve seen something like that in the garage, I’m pretty sure. I’ll go and have a look for you.’

‘Thanks.’

The task provides a welcome distraction. Regardless of the catastrophe taking place in my little world, life goes on. Extension leads must be found. Power must be sourced. Bill needs to get the screen set up. For Jon. For the party he’s throwing for me.

I make a decision. Now is not the right time to talk to Jon. I just need to get through tonight and tomorrow, then the party, then I’ll talk to him on Sunday.

On Sunday morning, after the party and the referendum are over, I’ll confront Jon with what I’ve discovered.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I cast a satisfied eye around the house.

‘Well, I think that’s pretty much everything done now.’

My phone’s been pinging with happy birthday messages all morning, but after all the recent shock discoveries, I’m too anxious and distracted to reply, or call anyone back.

On the dining room table is a large bunch of birthday flowers Jon presented to me when I woke up. Around my neck is a new pendant – this one a diamond solitaire.

‘Your birthstone,’ Jon explained as he’d lifted my hair. ‘For clarity and strength, according to the very charming and persuasive young sales assistant at Mossman Jewellers.’ Jon’s smile contained all its usual charm as he kissed my cheek and fiddled with the clasp, but I no longer believed a word he said. It was all I could do not to cringe beneath his touch.

I throw the damp tea towel I’m holding over my shoulder and wait for Jon to respond. He’s determined to get his old speakers up and running in time for the party. He pulls at one of the stereo wires and swears loudly but manages to uncoil the red- and yellow-necked cords that connect the stereo to the amplifier. Next, he presses the silver prong from the red cord into the amp, then waits, his head cocked to one side, listening. Radio silence fills the house.

‘Fuck!’

‘Why don’t we just use the Bluetooth speaker? It’s fully charged.’

Jon rolls his eyes. ‘Sound quality is why.’ He yanks the prong back out, then tries the yellow one. Instead of music, a loud crackle of static sounds through the room.

I place my hands over my ears. ‘Jesus.’

‘It works.’

‘Well done.’

Technical task conquered, Jon begins to sift through his old record collection. Watching him now feels like I’m watching a stranger. An awful irony strikes me. The more I’ve discovered about my husband, the less I know him.

Apart from his car – a thundering V8 Monaro in a blinding shade of red – Jon’s stereo with turntable was his most prized possession when I met him. He’d crank up the volume until his apartment shook and the neighbours complained, then laugh off the notes of complaint they left for him under his door, or in his letterbox. Eventually, he’d been evicted, but that suited Jon just fine. He simply moved in with me.

‘How did you ever end up working for the government?’ I asked him after a particularly terrifying drive to the beach in his Monaro one Saturday afternoon. It was one of our earlier dates.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Road rules,’ I said. ‘All rules, actually. You don’t like them, do you? It seems funny for someone working in government, that’s all. Especially an accountant.’

But Jon’s unexpected bad-boy ways thrilled me. He had other vices too. Sex in public. Shoplifting for no good reason. Occasional cocaine benders. Of course, I hadn’t discovered all his thrill-seeking secrets at once. If I’d known the full extent of what I was getting myself into, I’d have run a mile. But Jon had been smart enough to know that. Instead, he introduced me slowly to the intoxicating world he inhabited, a world where none of the usual rules applied. It was only Jon’s rules – particularly his high standards of trust and loyalty – that counted. Another irony.

I fold the tea towel and yawn loudly. ‘I feel dirty. I’m going to take a shower.’

Standing beneath the cool spray of water, my memories return to that drive through Sydney’s Northern Beaches early in our relationship. After we’d arrived at Dee Why beach, we’d stripped down to our swimmers and run into the surf, far from the crowds and the safety flags. Away from the other swimmers, Jon dived after me through the waves, yanking my bikini top free, then pulling me against his chest.

The glint in his eyes had been as wild as the ocean. ‘I’ll tell you what rules I follow.’

‘What’s that?’ As I replied I gave up the fight to keep my bikini bottoms on.

‘Picasso’s rule.’

‘Picasso?’

‘C’mon,’ he’d teased. ‘You’re the artist.’

‘I’m a photographer. Just tell me.’

‘You need to learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist. That’s the rule I follow.’

Looking back, perhaps I should have taken his words more seriously.

As I turn off the shower and squeeze the water from my hair, Jon cranks up the stereo even louder. I finish drying myself off and head back into the main house in my bathrobe.

The kitchen is filled with the tantalising aromas of a marathon cooking effort – spinach and feta quiche, fennel and pork sausage rolls, fried haloumi cheese and chorizo scattered with mint. Inside the fridge, the two top shelves are filled with large platters of cheese, pâté, terrines, grapes, dried fruit and nuts. Below them is another large platter of local prawns and fresh lime wedges, as well as a baking tray filled with lamb cutlets marinating in oil, garlic and fresh rosemary. An assortment of salads is keeping cool in the spare fridge in the laundry, along with a large white cardboard box Jon picked up earlier, which I assume holds a birthday cake.

I close the fridge doors firmly, then double-check I haven’t overlooked anything in the dining room. Rows of wine glasses stand neatly at one end of the table. Alongside them are glass water tumblers and jugs. In the centre of the table stands a towering vase of tropical flowers. White plates and linen serviettes are stacked at the other end of the table, along with baskets filled with cutlery, crockery and condiments.

Satisfied there’s nothing more to do inside, I slide open the glass door to the balcony. The late-afternoon sun casts a cool shadow across the ice-filled eskies filled with bottles of champagne, wine, beer and soft drink. A new bottle of gas rests beside the gleaming steel barbecue. I flick on a switch and colourful strings of festoon lights immediately brighten the lounges inside the gazebo, creating a soft neon glow. Next, I begin the task of lighting the dozen or so strategically positioned citronella candles that will help keep the mosquitoes and midges at bay. I take my time, enjoying watching each flame flicker to life.

Before I met Jon, I’d have preferred going to see a movie than hosting a party. I’ve always attributed my preference for my own company to spending so much time on my own growing up while Marion was busy working long hours to build her law practice. Then along came my first Nikon camera on my twelfth birthday and I’d known I’d found a best friend for life. I never really needed anybody else.

Jon is the opposite. A show pony. I used to think his almost desperate need to be the centre of attention was the result of having spent years as an outsider to other people’s families. Now, I don’t know what to think.

‘Hey there.’ Bree totters across the balcony in towering high heels. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. Car trouble. It’s an absolute wreck.’ I can’t help noticing Bree’s red taffeta mini-dress isn’t exactly babysitting attire.

She smiles briefly in my direction. ‘Happy birthday.’

‘Thank you. You look very stylish.’

She looks around her. ‘The place looks great. Is there anything I can do to help?’

I force a smile as Jon joins us on the balcony. ‘Not a thing. Everything’s done. Jon and I are old hands when it comes to prepping for a party, aren’t we sweetheart?’

Jon takes his eyes off Bree long enough to notice my hair is still hanging in wet strings down the back of my bathrobe.

‘Why don’t you go finish getting ready, Jen?’ he suggests. ‘I’ll take Bree upstairs and she can say hi to Jasper and start to get him settled in for the night.’

‘Sure. By the way, Bree, what happened to your car?’

She gives me a quizzical look. ‘Oh, it’s just an old bomb. It’s always in at the mechanic. Why?’

‘You said it was a wreck. I thought you might have had an accident.’

Bree gives me a curious look. ‘No.’

‘I was involved in a car accident not too long ago.’

Jon shoots me a dark look. I don’t blame him. I have no idea why I’m sharing this with Bree, of all people. A warning?

‘That’s terrible,’ Bree says.

‘It was quite a serious accident.’

Bree’s concerned expression deepens. ‘Were you hurt?’

‘Not me, no. I was lucky. Still, something like that, it stays with you a while.’ I allow my voice to trail off and Bree shifts uncomfortably, her eyes flitting to Jon. I smile. ‘Anyhow, you’re okay. That’s the main thing. And your hair really does look fabulous, by the way.’

I shoot her a dazzling smile and give her shoulder a pat as I pass.

Perhaps I’ve lost my mind. I have no idea why I mentioned the accident to Bree. The words just came tumbling out. But as I cross the floor towards the bedroom, I realise I’m feeling lighter than I have in a long, long time.

Chapter Thirty

‘Now this is what I call a party!’

I turn towards the familiar sound of Blythe’s voice, instantly more relaxed now she’s arrived. This might be my birthday party, but I barely know a soul here, and even though Jon has introduced me, the balcony is an unfamiliar blur of new names and faces.

‘You’re late,’ I say. Blythe is stunning in a green off-the-shoulder top, her long red curls spilling luxuriously across her milky shoulders. ‘But you also look sensational, so you’re forgiven. Give me a hug.’

As we pull apart, Blythe scrutinises me, top to bottom. Feeling self-conscious, I strike a silly pose.

‘My god, look at you. Not bad for forty. There’s hope for me yet. Happy birthday.’

Spurred on by Bree’s red taffeta number, I deliberately took my time getting ready for tonight, applying make-up and blow-drying my hair, then slipping into a backless yellow satin dress I’d fallen in love with years ago but had never found the right occasion to bring it out of the wardrobe. The sunny colour makes my skin appear more deeply tanned than usual and I’m happy with the way the soft fabric falls elegantly to the floor, masking my too-thin frame. A single late-blooming yellow and pink frangipani from the garden is tucked behind my left ear.

‘I did text you, by the way.’ Blythe lowers her voice. ‘I wanted to make sure you weren’t still mad with me about the article.’

I laugh. ‘Let’s forget it. Besides, that follow-up article you ran on Friday balanced things out pretty well.’

‘What did Jon have to say about it?’

I shake my head and shrug. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve barely seen him the past couple of days, to be honest. But I’m sure you would have heard from him yourself if he didn’t like what he read.’

Blythe nods. ‘Yeah, it’s been a crazy time, but hopefully after tonight, life will get back to normal and this whole merger crap will be behind us once and for all.’ She eyes me closely. ‘You voted today?’

‘No.’

Her eyes widen. ‘What?’

‘Yes, I voted. I voted “No”. Don’t tell Jon.’

Blythe bursts out laughing. ‘Atta girl.’ She rubs her hands together as she scans the balcony. ‘So, you’ve got quite a crowd here?’

‘Mostly Council staff. I haven’t met most of them until tonight. They seem like a nice bunch.’ I point to where Melissa is holding court with a group of women passing her precious bundle between them. Stretch is standing by her protectively, one hand draped comfortably over her shoulder. ‘It’s nice to have Melissa and Stretch here. Familiar faces.’

‘And Bill?’ Blythe bats her eyelids.

‘Aha! I should have guessed why you’re looking so gorgeous tonight. Did he ever get in touch about your repairs?’

Blythe shakes her head. ‘No, but I’m going to ask him if he’ll let me interview him about his heroic antics on the beach the other day. You, Bill and the beach baby are the talk of the town.’

‘Well, he’s here somewhere,’ I reply. ‘He’s been helping Jon set up the screen.’

Blythe tugs my arm. ‘Come on, let’s find Eva. I saw her on my way in.’

‘How’s she been coping with all the negative publicity?’

Blythe smiles. ‘Her lawyer’s sent legal letters so that’s calmed things down. Besides, she realises after tonight it’ll all be over.’

Blythe and I pick our way past the revellers and find Eva deep in conversation with a couple of other councillors. She spots us straight away and abruptly breaks off her conversation to wish me a happy birthday and kiss both my cheeks. She smells of jasmine and summer and is wearing a loose-fitting white linen pantsuit and matching scarf wrapped elegantly around her head, accentuating her long neck and gold hoop earrings.

‘Blythe, do you mind if I talk to you alone for a moment?’ Eva shoots me an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, Jen, I won’t be long.’

I search the sea of new faces for an opportunity to socialise, but everyone is engrossed in their own conversations. I look around for Jon and spot him on his own by the barbecue. He turns a couple of sausages, then looks up and straight into my eyes, catching me by surprise. I automatically compose a smile and head inside to the dining room. The salads are already half-devoured but there’s still plenty left for anyone wanting seconds. I tidy up for a few minutes, then pick up a couple of empty plates and carry them into the kitchen. Eva and Blythe are standing in the far corner, their heads bowed. Their conversation falls to a lull at the sound of my footsteps.

‘No, no, no!’ Blythe exclaims. ‘The birthday girl does not clear dishes!’ She swoops in on me and deposits the plates in the sink. ‘Come on, we’re dancing.’ She turns to Eva. ‘Coming?’

Eva shakes her head and points in the direction of Melissa and Stretch. ‘I’m going to give that gorgeous baby a cuddle.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Can you believe they still haven’t come up with a name?’

Blythe steers me towards the section of the balcony that’s become the unofficial dance floor. We slip off our heels and join the crowd, losing ourselves in the rhythms of familiar dance tunes. Just as Jon promised, the sound quality is from a forgotten era. As the notes of the fifth or sixth song begin to fade, Blythe lifts her hair and fans her neck.

‘Let’s get a drink.’

We fill our glasses and stroll back towards the throng. The pitch of the party has begun to rise in direct proportion to the number of empty bottles discarded on various tables and sideboards. I see Jon moving through the crowd with a bottle of wine in each hand, refilling glasses and laughing. Ever the perfect host.

Melissa waves us over to her. She and Stretch have lost their bevy of admirers and are now standing alone with Bill. I nudge Blythe and she pinches my arm in response.

‘We’ve had a great time, thanks.’ Melissa smiles warmly.

‘What, you’re leaving already?’

Stretch gazes at his wife and the tiny bundle in her arms. ‘I’d better get my girls home.’

Melissa cuts in. ‘But there’s something we want to tell you first.’ She shifts the material wrap from around the baby’s face so we can see her more clearly. I touch her dewy soft cheek and her feather-soft hair. ‘Her name,’ Melissa says. ‘We were always going to name her after my mother, Lila Rose, but—’

Behind Melissa, a familiar face appears. ‘Pickles!’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’

Pickles takes the baby from Melissa’s arms and cuddles her against his chest.

‘You’ve met Dad?’ Melissa asks.

Pickles answers for me. ‘I told you it was her I picked up in Cairns.’ He turns to me. ‘She thinks I’m losing my marbles already but I’ve only just hit sixty-five.’

Melissa shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Dad, baby brain.’

‘Have you told her yet?’ Pickles asks.

‘We were just about to, but we were interrupted.’

‘Come on, get on with it then. Your mother would approve, I told you that already.’

‘Wait,’ Melissa says, looking around us. ‘Where are Eddy and Jye?’

Pickles points to the food table, where Melissa and Stretch’s boys stand, their arms elbow-deep in a large bowl of potato chips. ‘They wanted to say goodnight to their little sister so I thought I’d bring them over for a walk before bed.’

‘Dad babysat for us tonight,’ Melissa explains.

Stretch interrupts. ‘Name.’

Melissa takes the baby from Pickles and delivers her into my arms. ‘Meet Jennifer Billie, named after the two people who helped bring her into the world.’

Bill and I glance at each other. His eyes, I notice for the first time, are a deep green. I return my attention to Melissa.

‘I … I … don’t know what to say. It’s such a …’

Melissa reaches for my hand. ‘We love her name,’ she says. ‘It suits her. We hope she’ll grow up to be as brave as you both.’

‘You know, this would make a really, really beautiful story for the paper,’ Blythe begins.

‘No!’ Melissa laughs. ‘Maybe. Ask me in a couple of weeks when I’m getting a bit more sleep.’

As Melissa and Stretch say their goodbyes and disappear, Eva materialises.

‘Do you think we could get the screen fired up and see where the count’s up to?’

Bill nods as he moves off. ‘I’m on it.’

I look around for Jon, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The music from the stereo dies down just as the large screen flickers to life.

‘Oh look!’ Eva rushes towards the screen and the growing crowd joins her. ‘The “No” vote’s way in front and … wow … wow! Eighty per cent of the votes have already been counted.’

A man’s good-natured shout interrupts Eva’s commentary. ‘Tell us something we don’t know. We’ve romped home.’

A loud cheer goes up around the balcony. I still can’t see any sign of Jon, which is probably just as well given the way the voting’s gone.

The same man calls out again. ‘Let’s get the music back.’

‘Birthday cake first!’ This time it’s Blythe, in her best bossy voice.

Right on cue, Jon appears through the glass sliding doors carrying a birthday cake, his face glowing warm in the candlelight. A hush descends as Jon places the cake on a table. Blythe hands me a glass of champagne, then tops up her own glass and raises it in the air.

‘I’d like to make a toast.’ She casts her eyes across to Jon. ‘Is that okay?’

He laughs. ‘Go for it.’

‘To Jennifer, who, through some miracle of science, has reached the age of forty while still managing to look no older than she did when she and I went to university together in our twenties.’

The crowd laughs in appreciation and I feel my face begin to grow warm.

‘I want to say we are most fortunate to be able to welcome this beautiful, talented woman into our local community.’

Someone wolf-whistles and I can’t resist the chance to whistle back, twice as loud, earning myself a loud cheer.

‘Happy birthday, Jen,’ Blythe finishes.

I blow out the candles and Bree appears from nowhere, sidling up next to Jon. As Eva’s eyes follow her granddaughter, her smile slides away. She leans close to Bree and whispers in her ear.

Bree’s expression turns dark. ‘I don’t want to leave just yet.’ Bree’s voice is low but I clearly hear her protest.

‘We’re both leaving,’ Eva replies. ‘End of discussion.’

Bree looks as if she’s about to argue, but she doesn’t say anything.

Just then, a familiar face emerges through the sea of people.

‘Maz!’

She hugs me close. ‘Flight was late but I’m still here for your birthday.’

Blythe appears with a glass of champagne for Marion, Eva by her side. Blythe takes care of the introductions, then we all toast and Blythe begins to sing another round of ‘Happy Birthday’ for Marion’s benefit.

Behind us, the large screen flickers to life again.

Eva smiles approvingly. ‘Good, another update.’ Then, louder. ‘Pipe down, everyone.’

But the video footage on the screen doesn’t look like another news bulletin. The footage is dark. The crowd draws closer to the screen, a curious hush descending. A woman’s voice sounds loud through the speakers and the footage shows a poorly lit car interior.

‘Not long now, baby girl.’ The woman’s voice is soft and happy.

On the screen, the camera pans from the road ahead to the driver. He takes his eyes off the road for a brief moment to glance towards the camera.

Blythe’s voice sounds close to my ear. ‘Bill?’

I realise Blythe is right. The driver in the car on the screen bears an uncanny resemblance to Bill. He has short, dark blonde hair but it’s the same green eyes. My wine glass slips from my fingers and smashes on the floor.

Eva speaks first. ‘What is this?’

The woman’s voice from the speaker drowns her out. ‘Look, baby girl, here’s your daddy. He’s driving us to hospital.’

The camera pans down to the woman’s heavily pregnant stomach. A perfectly manicured hand caresses it. From somewhere off-camera, the man – Bill – speaks. He sounds nervous and excited.

‘Now, you’re sure you’ve packed everything?’

The woman laughs, a light, tinkling sound. On the screen, the camera wobbles a little and pans to the back seat of the car where a suitcase rests alongside an infant car seat.

‘I’ve been packed for weeks,’ the woman says. ‘I can’t wait to meet our beautiful girl.’

The camera finds Bill’s face. He’s smiling broadly, his face in profile, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘We’re all set, aren’t we baby girl?’

Then a deafening explosion bursts from the speakers and the screen fills with a blinding white light. The party crowd, stunned into silence, turn to one another in a collective murmur as they try to make sense of what they’ve just seen and heard.

‘Turn that fucking thing off!’ Jon’s voice, from the doorway, is an ugly shout. ‘What is that? Get it off.’ He marches towards the screen and throws his hands in the air, gesturing to the night sky. Then he spots Bill, standing off to one side of the screen. ‘You!’ he screams. ‘Turn it off. Now.’

‘No!’ I hear myself shout. Surprised faces turn in my direction.

‘She’s right,’ Bill says. ‘Be patient. There’s more to come.’

His face contorted in anger, Jon charges towards Bill, but Bill steps away at the last moment and Jon trips, landing heavily on the ground.

‘Stop him. Stop, Jon. Please someone,’ I shout again, louder this time. A couple of the younger men in the crowd sprint towards Jon. When they reach him, each takes one of Jon’s arms to restrain him. He struggles and for a moment it appears he may break free, but then a third man appears and Jon is no match against the three of them.

Above Jon’s protests, a new sound booms through the speaker. It’s the scuffing, scratching noise of footsteps, then a woman wails, quiet at first then so loudly that Blythe places her hands over her ears. Most of the guests do likewise. Then the wailing sound dies down and the woman speaks, her voice – my voice – thick with grief but her words clear.

‘Are you okay?’

In the long silence that follows, more scuffing sounds can be heard before the woman begins to cry again. A man’s voice cuts across the sound.

‘Come on, Jen, get it together.’

Jon’s English accent is immediately recognisable. The guests turn their attention to him. Marion and Blythe move in close to me, their arms slipping around my waist as if to help hold me up.

Marion whispers in my ear, ‘Jon was with you when the accident happened?’

I nod, unable to voice any words. Near the screen, Bill is crying openly. More snatches of conversation make their way from the speakers. The crowd falls silent again, listening.

My eyes meet Jon’s. He shakes his head in warning and begins to struggle violently again.

Jon’s voice booms through the speaker. ‘I’ll go to jail for this, Jen. You need to say you were driving.’

My voice, high-pitched with fear, replies. ‘No. I won’t do it. It’s illegal.’

Marion’s arm tightens around my waist and I hear her sharp intake of air. She whispers again, her voice drowning in a shudder. ‘Oh no, sweetheart. No. No.’

I cover my own ears now and squeeze my eyes closed, then break free of Marion’s embrace, my voice a shout. ‘Turn it off! Please, please, no more, turn it off.’

Bill answers. ‘Are you sure?’

I nod, my face wet with tears. Taking advantage of the distraction, Jon grunts loudly as he manages to break free of the men holding him. He runs towards the steps leading from the balcony down to the ground below, his head disappearing within seconds. The men waste no time chasing after him, knocking over several chairs and a couple of citronella candles in their haste.

Marion is beside me again. She steers me away from the crowd and through the glass sliding doors to the lounge room. Behind us, I hear Blythe take charge of the situation.

‘Okay everyone, party’s over. Time to go. Let’s give these guys some privacy.’

I sit on the lounge with my face in my hands for what feels like a long time, grateful for the warmth of Marion alongside me as my body begins to tremble. The sounds of people departing eventually begin to die down, and I open my eyes to see one of the young men who helped restrain Jon approaching us. His face is red and he’s still panting.

‘I’m sorry, but Jon’s gone. We found him down the other end of the house, but, well, he winded Matt and then he knocked out Brownie.’ He pauses to rub his chin. ‘And then he punched me. We couldn’t stop him. He made it to his car and then he took off. I’m sorry, we tried but we couldn’t stop him.’

Marion saves me from answering. ‘Thank you, we appreciate everything you’ve done to help us tonight and sorry things ended this way. And I’m so sorry you were hurt. Goodnight.’

As the young man says goodbye and makes his way towards the front door, Blythe appears and takes my hand.

‘I’ve checked on Jasper. He’s sound asleep. And I spoke to the police a little while ago. They’re on their way.’

My body tenses as I repeat her words. ‘The police.’

Bill’s voice sounds from the other end of the lounge. ‘Don’t worry, Jen. Everything is going to be okay now.’

I stare at him for a long time. Bill. Rob.

‘For god’s sake, where are they?’ Blythe has spent the past twenty minutes pacing back and forth across the lounge room, glaring at her phone and muttering her growing dissatisfaction. The house is mostly quiet now, the kitchen clean and the empty bottles cleared away thanks to Blythe’s nervous energy. ‘It’s been half an hour since I called them.’

A cold cup of tea sits undrunk on the coffee table in front of me. Beside me, Marion’s voice is reassuringly calm. ‘It’s Saturday night, I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough.’

A knock sounds at the front door and we all look towards it.

Marion jumps up and places a hand on Blythe’s arm. ‘I’ll get it,’ she says. ‘You stay here with Jen and Bill … er, Rob.’

The two male police officers enter through the doorway wearing serious expressions. They don’t come into the house immediately but stand near the front door engaged in a hushed conversation with Marion. None of them look in our direction. After a few minutes, Marion closes the front door and ushers them into the lounge room. I attempt to stand when they introduce themselves but my legs fail to cooperate. Blythe offers them tea, but they decline. Despite their calm exterior, a quiet tension radiates off them. Their hard leather boots and gun holsters look out of place in the cosy domestic surrounds. They exchange a brief glance before the older officer clears his throat and sits down opposite me. I’m grateful for the kindness in his eyes.

‘Mrs Ashby, I understand there has been a difficult situation here tonight and I’m afraid we have more bad news we need to share with you. There’s a reason we were late responding to Ms Drovandi’s call.’

I nod and avert my gaze. Ever since the night of the accident, I knew the truth would eventually come out. The police are just doing their job. I did the wrong thing protecting Jon. Lying for him. And now it’s time for Jon and me to take responsibility for our actions. Face up to whatever is to come. I steady my breath and nod to show the officer I understand, that I accept what’s happening.

‘I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Ashby,’ he says, ‘but your husband has been involved in a single-vehicle car accident tonight just a couple of kilometres from here on the main road.’ The officer pauses long enough to swallow. ‘Unfortunately, your husband, Mr Ashby, didn’t survive his injuries.’

I stare blankly at the officer. His words don’t make any sense.

Jon?

My Jon?

Dead?

Marion’s arm tightens around me as she replies. ‘This news is a terrible shock to us all. My daughter will need some time to process this information. Can we get back in touch with you in the next day or two?’

I pull away from her. ‘This can’t be right.’ I turn to Blythe, then to Rob. ‘It can’t be right. Jon was just here. He was just here.’ I turn next to the police officers. ‘Are you sure it’s him? Have you checked properly?’

Sympathy washes over the officers’ faces. ‘We’re so very sorry for your loss, Mrs Ashby. There is no doubt the deceased is your husband, Jonathon Jasper Ashby. His car struck a tree at high speed.’ He pauses. ‘We understand this news is deeply upsetting, devastating, for you and your family, but please know we’re here to do whatever we can to help. Answer your questions. Help you to understand what happened.’

The soft fabric of Marion’s shirt brushes my cheek as my head comes to rest against her shoulder. Although I’m fairly certain my eyes remain open, an inky blackness begins to blot the edges of the room, erasing the familiar lines and shapes and colours I know belong there. The darkness seeps across the floor, spreading as quickly as a rising tide towards me. A bitter taste sours my mouth and I imagine the vile blackness has somehow found its way inside me.

I hear myself scream. ‘Nooooooooo!!!!!’

Then Marion is cradling my head, pulling my fists away from my mouth, and the room is suddenly alive again, voices, lights, footsteps running. Someone is trying to lay me down but my body doesn’t want to cooperate. All it wants is to hold itself tight, protect itself from the darkness.

Expunge its taste.

Silence Jon’s screamed words that worm their way inside my head.

What the fuck have you done now, Jen?

What the fuck have you done?

Someone holds my hair while I vomit onto the floor then into a hastily produced salad bowl. My hands shake so badly I can’t hold it. I watch my knees jig up and down and wonder how they do this, all on their own. A glass of water is pressed to my lips, cool and wet. I sip, then vomit again. The glass disappears.

A whispered conversation is happening somewhere close by. Male voices, then Marion’s, warm and familiar. Do I understand what she’s saying? Yes. I do.

‘My daughter will cooperate fully with anything that’s required of her, but as you can see, this is not a good time … yes, yes … of course … thank you … goodnight.’

Exhausted, I stop fighting and let the darkness take me.

Chapter Thirty-One

My bedroom is dark, the blinds drawn against the outside world. Days after his death, Jon’s smell still lingers in the sheets. The day, the time, isn’t clear. Until now, I haven’t cared. A movement on the bed awakens me to the fact Saskia is asleep beside me. She lifts her head and yawns, then paws my arm. I stroke her head and she moves closer to nuzzle against me.

Dark, familiar shapes come into sharper focus. The lounge. The dresser. The bedroom door, I see, is ajar. Beyond it, I hear voices. Was it this sound that woke me? I shift my position on the pillow to better listen to the rise and fall of the conversation, recognising Marion’s voice, then Bill’s … Rob’s.

‘I assure you, Jennifer will cooperate as soon as she’s up to it. Right now, she’s sleeping. I’m reluctant to wake her. She needs rest. I’m sure you understand.’

Rob clears his throat. ‘And, like I told you earlier, I’m not going to be pushing for any further charges to be laid against Jennifer. That video tells us everything we need to know about what was going on in her marriage.’

The next voice belongs to the older police officer, the one who gave me the news about Jon’s accident. His death.

‘Coercive control is now legally recognised in New South Wales, which will weigh in her favour. We really just need to prepare a report for our colleagues down south around what happened the night of the accident, from Jennifer’s perspective. They’ll take it from there.’

The voices fade and I let go of the tension I’ve been holding tightly in my body. Soon, I’ll talk to the police. I’ll tell them everything that happened on the night of the accident. And since.

Cracking the code to Courtney’s phone had been an unbelievable stroke of good luck after I guessed it might be her mother’s birth date. With eight out of the ten attempts already used up, this new clue was pretty much my last hope for guessing the correct PIN. I had two guesses left. For my first attempt, I used the combination of her mother’s month and day of birth. It hadn’t worked. My final attempt was her year of birth. Bingo.

Just as the detective had explained to me so long ago in Sydney, Courtney’s phone contained hundreds of personal photos and videos. The first file I’d clicked open was the most recent. A video, its quality so dark and grainy I hadn’t noticed the resemblance between Courtney’s clean-shaven husband, Rob, and our gardener, Bill. It was Blythe who had immediately noticed the similarities as we all watched the video play on the high-quality projector screen at the party.

When I first watched the video on Courtney’s phone and realised what it was, my horror turned to shame. I hadn’t wanted to see anything more. For finally I understood my curiosity for what it was. A ghoulish obsession. My desperate need to pry into Courtney’s life – to find out who she really was – was never going to absolve me of my guilt. I had no right to keep her phone. It didn’t belong to me. It belonged to her husband, Rob. I needed to get to Mossman Post Office as soon as possible and return it to its rightful owner.

The young woman I’d seen in the video bore little resemblance to her very public, very glamorous social media persona. In what was destined to become Courtney’s last ever video, she was free of make-up and expensive accessories, her hair tied in a messy bun. Only her happiness was on display that night. Shown by her deep love for her baby. And her husband.

Courtney deserved her privacy. And my respect.

Courtney had given me a precious gift – proof of the truth of what really happened the night of the accident. Of course, the smartphone’s video recording had its limitations. It hadn’t captured everything. But it showed what was most important – that it hadn’t been me driving that night, but Jon. I hadn’t been on my own in the car. And I hadn’t been sitting in the driver’s seat when the accident happened.

I knew when I posted the phone back to Rob that he would find the video. That it would give him the evidence his memory couldn’t provide to prove what really happened. Rob would take the phone to the police, of that much I was certain. And there would be consequences. Very serious legal consequences, for Jon, but also for me. After all, I’d agreed to do what he begged me to do. I played a part in his lies. In court, I broke my oath to tell the truth.

What I didn’t know the day I posted back the phone was Rob had already infiltrated our lives by posing as our gardener, Bill. That, frustrated by his own unreliable memory of what happened the night of the accident, he had already begun his own quest to prove his suspicions and uncover the truth – by getting as close to our family as he dared; by watching us from the safety of the garden in the hope of overhearing a conversation, or seeing something that would provide him with the evidence he was so desperate to find. Because Rob was almost certain he’d heard a man’s voice at the accident scene.

What I also didn’t know was that Rob would expose Jon in such a public way at my birthday party. The temptation for revenge had been too strong, the opportunity the big screen presented too inviting. The irony was that Jon had inadvertently orchestrated this all himself. He’d wanted the big screen, the big crowd, the glory of a win for himself with the referendum. He’d not only misread the mood of his community, but also set himself a fatal trap. I could never have predicted that Jon’s rage would lead him to his death, yet I did know my actions would expose my husband’s lie, one way or another.

I throw back the covers from my bed, my arms feeling weak. At the bedroom window, I pull back the blinds and afternoon sunlight fills the room. Saskia stretches and jumps down from the bed before padding quietly outside. As I watch her, my attention strays to the suitcase resting near the bedroom door. The police returned it yesterday – or was it the day before? – along with the rest of Jon’s belongings from the wreckage of his car.

The suitcase, unpacked by Marion, contained his clothes and toiletries, along with the black document holder from his safe and a diary detailing the flight to London he’d planned on taking just a few days after my birthday party. He hadn’t intended on travelling alone. Tucked inside his diary was a passport for Bree. A small part of me can’t help but feel upset by Bree’s betrayal, but deep down I know she was as much a victim of Jon’s lies as I was. Soon, when I’m feeling strong enough, I’ll let her know I don’t blame her.

As I lie back down on the bed, the door pushes open.

‘Are you awake, Mummy?’

I smile as Jasper runs across the room and flings himself into my arms. I pull him up onto the bed beside me and he buries his face in my chest.

‘I miss Daddy.’ His husky little-boy voice cracks and I rock him back and forth as I listen to his sobs.

‘I know, sweetheart, I know. Let it out, mate. It’s good to cry. I miss Daddy too. We all do.’

Eventually his crying subsides, replaced by hiccups. I hand him my glass of water and he drinks in loud gulps. In the long silence that follows, his breathing grows quiet. My pyjama top is damp from his tears.

‘Is Daddy in heaven?’ Jasper finally asks.

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Where is heaven?’

I point outside to the sky then lay my palm against his chest. ‘It’s everywhere. All around us and here, inside your heart.’

‘But why can’t I see Daddy anymore if he’s here?’

‘Because Daddy is a spirit now and spirits are invisible.’

Jasper nods and bites his lip. ‘So he’s with me but I just can’t see him?’

I nod, remembering the phone call I made to Jon’s parents after I found their letters in Jon’s secret safe. It was one of several phone calls I made that night while Jon was working late. As it turned out, both Jon’s ex-wives had been easy to get in touch with and candid in describing the chaos and confusion of their brief marriages to my husband. Happily for both of them, they’d managed to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives after Jon left so abruptly without explanation. I hold this thought close.

‘You know, Daddy left you a present before he left.’

Jasper’s large blue eyes find mine, his grief briefly forgotten. ‘What present?’

‘He left you two grandparents who are going to love you just as much as Daddy did.’

Jasper sits up straighter. ‘Grandparents like Maz?’

I laugh a little. ‘Maybe not exactly like Maz.’

‘When can I meet them?’

‘Soon mate, very soon. They can’t wait to meet you.’

‘Today?’

I laugh again. ‘Not today, but soon. I promise.’

Jasper jumps down from the bed.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

‘I need to tell Maz.’

At that moment, Marion appears in my doorway. ‘Well, there you are, young man. I thought I might find you in here. Sorry, Jen, I didn’t mean for him to wake you.’ She lifts Jasper onto her hip and perches herself on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

I smile. ‘Better, good.’ I suddenly realise I’m famished. ‘Starving, actually.’

Marion smiles broadly. ‘Well, that’s a good sign. I’ll go fix you something to eat.’

A movement at the door reveals Rob’s concerned face. I notice his beard is gone, his long hair cut short. Jasper slides off Maz’s lap and runs towards him. Rob takes his hand.

‘Swim?’ he asks.

Jasper nods and skips away, pulling Rob with him.

After they’ve gone, I relax into the pillow and close my eyes. A soft scent reaches my nose. Roses. I open my eyes again and look around the room. There, on the coffee table alongside the basket of shells is a vase filled with yellow roses. As I sit up, Marion follows my gaze.

‘Thomas.’

She gets up and retrieves a card.

As I read it, my eyes grow moist. How do I have any tears left?

Dear Jen, I’m so sorry for your loss. If you need a friend, you’ve got my number.

Thomas had dropped around to the house to see me after he found out about the accident. Jon was at work. He never came right out to say he suspected something wasn’t right, but I think he was inviting me to share the truth with him. The truth of the accident and the true state of my marriage.

My hand falls back down onto the bed and Marion wipes the tears from my face.

‘I’m okay,’ I tell her.

‘You will be.’

We sit for a long time in silence before she speaks again. ‘It’s early days Jen, but you’ve got choices. You don’t need to stay here if you don’t want to. You’ve still got your house in Sydney, remember?’

I consider her words for a few minutes even though I already know my answer. ‘I’m happy here.’ I prop myself up higher on the pillow. ‘Maybe not in this house. But here.’

Marion nods, her voice soft as she replies. ‘That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.’ She pauses before she continues. ‘I’m here for as long as you need me. Whatever lies ahead legally, we’ll tackle it together. Speaking of which, the police have been very good checking in on you. In fact, they were here a little earlier …’

‘I overheard them and it’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘I’m ready to talk to them.’

‘They’ve taken statements from me, as well as from Blythe, Rob and a few of the young men from the Council about what happened the night of your party. But they still need to take a statement from you about what happened the night of the accident. Are you sure you’re ready to talk about that?’

‘Yes.’ I’ve never felt surer of anything in my life.

We both turn as a sharp knock sounds at the bedroom door. Blythe’s familiar voice whispers through the widening crack.

‘Jennifer? Can I come in?’

My face immediately creases into a smile. ‘Blythe. Hi. Of course, come in.’

Marion stands up from the bed. ‘I’ll leave you two to chat while I make some sandwiches.’

I squeeze Marion’s hand. ‘Thank you.’

As Blythe slips into Marion’s spot on the bed, I pull myself up higher on the pillows.

‘Your mother’s gold.’

I nod. ‘Yeah, she is.’

‘Her and Jasper have a tight bond. Poor kid. He shouldn’t have to go through all this. It’s just so, so sad for him. For both of you.’

Tears spring to Blythe’s eyes and she leans forward, taking my hand in hers. ‘But you’re strong, Jen. You always have been. You’ll get through this. And you won’t have to do it on your own. I’m here. So is Maz.’

‘She’ll be heading back to Sydney eventually, but thank you. Jasper and I, it feels so good to know we still have each other. And Jon’s parents are itching to meet him, so they’ll bring another beautiful dimension to his life.’

‘They’ve never met him?’

‘Jon told me they were dead. He also told me he’d never been married before, but he was. Twice.’

Blythe squeezes my hand, her expression hardening. ‘Jesus, Jen, you only just found out?’

I nod. ‘The day before the party. My plan was to just get through the party, the referendum, and then confront him about it all afterwards, but …’

‘Now you can’t.’

‘No.’ I pull my hand free and push it through my hair. ‘But I’ve been having this same dream, where Jon’s still alive, and I confront him. And it feels so real. He denies the truth, lies some more, twists the facts around so he can blame me, and it’s not a dream anymore, it’s a nightmare. It feels so good to wake up and still know the truth is real. That he can’t hurt or manipulate me anymore.’

Blythe’s eyes fill with fresh tears. ‘Oh, Jen,’ she whispers. ‘I’m so sorry you have to go through this.’

‘I’m okay,’ I tell her.

As I say the words, I know they’re true.

I’m okay.

Jasper and I will be okay.

Epilogue

The Night of the Accident

The headlights from the oversized vintage Hummer cast two low beams of light along Whale Beach Road on Sydney’s Northern Beaches peninsula. Apart from an occasional porch light or the dimly lit interior of a nearby house, the bushy headland lay in darkness. As the vehicle followed the rise of the road up towards the headland, the darkened hush of houses disappeared entirely from view, the slow creep of suburbia surrendering to the thick scrub. Although hours had passed since Jennifer’s last glass of champagne, her head was still spinning from the shock and humiliation of Jon’s furious outburst in front of Marion’s guests.

Regardless of Jon’s accusations, Jennifer knew she was guilty of nothing more than saying hello to Thomas Morgan. He’d given her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, no different from the one she’d watched him give Marion earlier in the evening. Whatever Jon thought he’d seen had been no more than a combination of bad timing and paranoia. Not that Jennifer or Thomas had been able to persuade Jon of this, nor had the other half a dozen or so guests unfortunate enough to be standing close by when the altercation took place.

Jennifer and Thomas had been talking for a few minutes when Jon appeared from nowhere and threw a glass of red wine over Thomas’s white shirt. With Thomas still in shock, Jon lifted him by the scruff of his collar and threw him onto the hard concrete surface of the rooftop terrace. Thomas landed heavily, winded and unable to breathe or talk.

‘Stay the fuck away from my wife,’ Jon shouted, a smear of wine-stained spittle escaping his mouth as he turned to Jennifer. ‘And you, you fucking two-timing bitch.’

‘Jon, it was nothing,’ Jen tried to explain. ‘We were just saying hello.’

Jon’s hand shook with rage as he raised it to Jennifer’s face, but then several male guests moved in between them and Jon composed himself, lowering his hand. Within seconds, Marion was beside Jennifer, her sharp eyes having quickly appraised the scene, her voice icy.

‘Jonathon. What’s going on here?’

In reply, Jon turned and kicked Thomas’s outstretched foot. ‘This leach, up to his old tricks again.’

‘Jonathon. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ Marion said.

Jon didn’t need to be asked twice. After delivering a final kick in Thomas’s direction, he disappeared into the crowd. Jennifer made to follow him, but Marion caught her arm.

‘Let him go, Jen,’ she pleaded. ‘Stay here tonight. Let it blow over. There’ll be no reasoning with him tonight.’

In the end, Jennifer’s guilt got the better of her. She had the car keys inside her clutch bag and had told Jon she was willing to be the designated driver tonight. As soon as Marion was distracted, she snuck away from the crowd and found Jon smoking a cigarette out on the street alongside their car. As she pulled the car keys from her handbag, he snatched them from her before pushing her into the passenger seat and slamming the door. If only she’d been able to find the courage in that moment to stand up to him. To get back out of the car and return to the party. Fatally, for Courtney and her baby, she hadn’t.

Inside the Hummer, the chug of the V8 engine sounded a steady thrum that rose and fell with each increasingly frequent gear change. Despite its forty-plus years, Jon kept the vehicle’s interior immaculate, an expensive sinkhole of upholstery, paint-work and the very latest surround-sound technology. In the back seat, a child’s booster seat sat empty. For this, at least, Jennifer could be grateful. Jasper was sound asleep in his room at Marion’s house.

Up ahead, the road curved sharply to the right in a hairpin bend. It reminded Jennifer of an angry snake, coiled and shiny, ready to strike. Her body tensed as she waited for the press of brakes, her grip tightening on the seat. ‘Jon, slow down. Please.’

Despite her plea, the vehicle rounded the corner too fast, the tyres straying from the hard lip of bitumen and onto the road reserve’s loose gravel surface. Jennifer inhaled sharply and squeezed her eyes shut as the car slid towards a post but, with what seemed like mere millimetres to spare, Jon managed to regain control and the vehicle mounted the safety of the bitumen. Her heart pounding, Jennifer turned to her husband. A shadow slid from his profile, revealing a slick of perspiration above his frown. The next section of road, less than a kilometre from their family home, was a notorious accident black spot.

This city snake could kill when it wanted to.

‘Pull over, Jon. Please. I’ll drive.’

Before Jon could reply, the abrupt glare of oncoming headlights illuminated their faces. Jennifer squinted against the bright light.

Jon swore, his voice thick. ‘High beam, arsehole.’

A chill traced its way down Jennifer’s back. Momentarily forgetting their fight from earlier, she reached for the comfort of Jon’s arm, but he flicked her hand away with a glare.

‘Don’t touch me.’

The Hummer swerved left.

Watch the road! Jennifer tried to scream, but the blinding lights from the oncoming car held her voice frozen. A second thump and crunch of gravel snapped Jennifer’s attention towards the rapidly advancing trees outside her car window. Their branches were so close she could make out their individual clusters of leaves. As the vehicle bounced then slid in slow-motion, Jon yanked down hard on the steering wheel.

Gravity flung Jennifer against her car door, catapulting her body-memory back to her first-ever ride on the dodgem cars at the Sydney Royal Easter Show. That same rubbery helplessness; the disorienting, ungainly whip of her neck. Jennifer found her voice and screamed, but the high-pitched sound was lost in the deafening crunch of metal from somewhere up in front of the Hummer’s bonnet.

Jennifer’s first thoughts weren’t of herself or of Jon, but of Jasper. Was he too young to remember his parents? Who would love him and care for him? Who would raise him? The answer came with immediate, comforting certainty. Marion would look after him. Marion took care of everything.

As the Hummer bounced backwards and shuddered to a halt, Jennifer slowly began to register the miraculous fact that neither she nor Jon were dead. For one thing, her ears were ringing. Plus, she was still breathing, her body flushed with adrenalin. She blinked to clear her vision, rubbed her neck, then her arms and legs. Alongside her, Jon was doing similar. They stared at one another for a long moment before Jon began to fumble with his door handle.

Jennifer copied his movement. As she tumbled from her seat, disoriented, the ground swayed beneath her feet. She reached for the Hummer’s bonnet, then its oversized bull bar –an accessory she’d always considered ridiculous for a car that never left the city. With a shudder, she realised the bull bar had probably saved their lives. As she steadied herself, she watched Jon stumble towards the power pole rising from a crumpled ball of wreckage close by. What was left of the small car’s white paintwork appeared jaundiced beneath the Hummer’s waxen headlights. Jon shook his head and then turned to Jennifer, his eyes wide as he gestured at the wreckage.

Jennifer winced. Visible through the open passenger window was a woman, her head flopped forward at an unnatural angle, her long blonde hair tumbling around her. She reminded Jennifer of a doll, found upside down in the bottom of a toybox. Jennifer broke into a run, an animal-like cry rising up inside her. Up close, the woman looked more real. The strands of blonde hair were darker at the roots, a gold earring showing through.

Jennifer leaned close to her ear. ‘Are you okay?’

But the woman didn’t answer. Next to her was a man in the driver’s seat. His face, like the woman’s, was covered in blood, his eyes closed, his face flopped away from her. Shaking, Jennifer pressed her fingers into a spot on the woman’s throat, feeling for a pulse – up high, on the side, beneath the jawline. Nothing. Next, she tried to find the woman’s wrist, but the shards of metal seemed to have swallowed her entire body beneath her shoulders.

Jennifer edged away from the car, unable to breathe. A dark fog closed in around the edges of her vision. Her legs gave way as she collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground. She dry-retched then Jon was lifting her to her feet, holding her up.

‘Come on, Jen, get it together.’ His boozy breath, so close to her face, made her stomach churn. ‘Jen, listen to me.’ Jon shook her shoulders, but she escaped his grip and stumbled backwards. He reached for her, catching her hands and squeezing so tightly she cried out.

She dared to look over her shoulder at the wreckage, her voice breaking. ‘Jon, I think they’re dead.’

He pulled her into his chest until her trembling began to subside. ‘Shhh.’ He cupped her face between his hands, his eyes flittering around as he tried to focus. As he began to speak, his face crumpled in on itself, fat tears streaking his cheeks. ‘I’ll go to jail for this, Jen. You need to say you were driving.’

Jennifer recoiled in disgust. ‘No.’ She swatted his hands away. ‘I won’t do it. It’s illegal.’

Jon fell to his knees, his large hands finding her wrists. ‘You’ve got to, Jen. You won’t go DUI. All you’ll cop is a slap on the wrist. Maybe lose your licence for a while. If that.’

Jennifer tried to pull free, but she was no match for Jon’s strength. ‘No,’ she repeated, her voice stronger. ‘Let me go. I need my phone. We need to—’

Jon cut her off, his voice low and pleading. ‘I’ll do anything, Jen, anything.’ Jennifer watched her husband wrap his arms around her legs. He looked up at her, his face glistening with tears and snot, his eyes wide and bloodshot. His pincer grip tightened, but he overbalanced with the effort of it and toppled sideways, taking Jennifer with him. As their bodies connected with the hard surface, his arms loosened. But just as quickly, he manoeuvred himself so Jennifer was pinned beneath him. He kissed her softly, then hard, his face wet, his words desperate pleas in between. ‘You have to do it. I’ll go to jail. Our family will be split apart. Jasper won’t have a dad. Is that what you want?’

Jon’s body was a dead weight on top of her, crushing the air from her lungs. He seemed to be pushing down on her, crushing her objections so she could no longer breathe. Jen pulled at his hair. ‘Stop, Jon, stop. Get off me. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.’ He rolled away and Jen scrambled to her feet, the shock of her consent making her unsteady. She eyed her husband warily. ‘Okay, what now then?’

Jon’s attention switched to the Hummer. ‘Quick. We need to hurry.’ Tugging her hand, he led her towards the driver’s seat. ‘Get in, quick. Adjust the seat.’ As Jennifer fiddled with the lever, her fingers shaking, Jon rounded the front of the car and slid into the passenger seat, pushing it back to accommodate his long legs. Next, he grabbed her left hand and placed it on the rear-vision mirror. ‘Here, adjust this too. Where’s your phone?’ Jennifer pointed to her handbag and Jon placed it on the seat as he got out of the car. ‘As soon as I’m gone, call triple-O.’

Panic rippled through Jennifer’s body as she followed Jon to the front of the car and watched, bewildered, as he began to unbuckle the belt from his trousers. ‘Gone? Where are you going?’

Jon’s speech might have been slurred, but his logic seemed to be racing a million miles ahead of Jennifer’s. ‘The police will be less suspicious if they think you were alone in the car when the accident happened.’

Jennifer frowned. ‘But I left Marion’s place not long after you did. Everyone will assume we left together. Besides, she’s got security cameras everywhere.’

‘Not out on the road. Only outside her front door. And that shows us leaving separately.’ Jon paused to rub his forehead. ‘As for the police, tell them we had a fight. There are witnesses, if they ask. Tell them you assumed I walked home alone, along the headland, that you drove home on your own.’

‘What about dash cam?’

Jon shook his head. ‘The Hummer doesn’t have one.’

Jennifer pointed at the wreckage of the other car. ‘What about them?’

Jon shook his head. ‘Their car’s an older model too, unless they had a dash cam fitted. But I’d be surprised if it survived that kind of impact.’

Jennifer’s teeth began to chatter. ‘And how do I explain the accident? How did it happen?’ She felt light-headed. How was she going to remember everything? All she could think of were the two people covered in blood. Overwhelmed, she dropped her face into her hands and shook her head. ‘Jon, this is illegal … I don’t think I—’

His voice sounded loud in her ear as he grabbed hold of her shoulder. ‘You can do it, Jen, you have to. You swerved to hit a kangaroo, it’s easy. There are loads of roos around here.’

Jennifer nodded and eyed the belt hanging loosely in Jon’s hands. ‘What’s that for?’

Jon exhaled deeply. ‘Sorry, Jen, I need to make it look as if the seatbelt pulled across your right side, just in case they examine you.’

Jennifer’s eyed widened.

The sting of the strap against her skin hurt far less than the humiliation of allowing Jon to whip her. Afterwards, he wiped away her tears and helped her pull her jacket back on.

‘I’m so sorry, babe.’ He briefly kissed her salty lips. ‘Time for me to go. Give me a minute to get out of here and then call triple-O.’ As he pulled away from her, the distinct wail of sirens rose in the distance. Jennifer gulped. Jon rubbed her arm to reassure her. ‘It’s okay. A neighbour must have heard something. Just say you were too panicked to call. I gotta go. I’ll see you at home later, okay?’ He eyed her closely ‘You’ve got this Jen, okay? You can do this.’

Jennifer nodded as she watched Jon disappear into the bush. As the sirens grew louder, Jennifer’s heartbeat quickened and her eyes darted around the accident scene, wondering what she should do, where she should be when the police and paramedics arrived.

Her intuition directed her to retrace her steps back to the wreckage of the other car.

Neither the woman nor her companion had moved. Vomit, violent and abrupt, rose from Jennifer’s stomach. She coughed the contents into a sickly mess on the ground. The sirens were almost upon her now and she was relieved she no longer had to worry about what to do. Her body had decided that for her. Still bent over, she spat the vile taste from her mouth and wiped the tears from her eyes.

It was at that moment she spotted a brilliant flash of pink on the ground beside the wreckage. She squinted as she tried to bring the object into focus. A mobile phone. In a pink diamanté case. She picked it up and unconsciously slipped it safely inside her jacket pocket. The deafening strain of sirens now seemed to be coming from inside her own head. Beyond the Hummer’s warm headlights, flashing lights – orange, red and blue – proved too disorienting. She slumped to the ground, a remote part of her brain registering pain to the side of her head before her world turned black.

Jennifer squinted against the bright light shining onto her face. She opened her eyes a crack and heard herself groan. A warm hand touched her shoulder, followed by a voice, male.

‘You’re safe, Jennifer, you’re going to be okay now. We’re looking after you. You’ve had a rough night, hey?’

She felt as though she could listen to the comforting voice forever, here beneath her warm soft blanket.

But something in what the man was saying didn’t feel right. Her eyelids felt so heavy. So too, now she thought about it, did the rest of her body. And hot. Could she move? Just thinking about trying to move felt like too great an effort. But something was wrong. She shouldn’t be here. Where was Jasper? Where was Jon? She groaned again, louder this time, although exactly what was causing her to groan she wasn’t entirely sure. The hand patted her. The voice spoke again, louder. ‘Can you tell me your full name, Jennifer?’

A rough night, he’d said. Jennifer forced her eyes open a little more. She was in a small, bright room filled with shelves of complicated-looking medical equipment. A door swung open and a uniformed woman with a round, pleasant face peered in at her. Behind her, a lot of activity seemed to be going on – trucks, lights, people, noise. Then the woman stepped into the room, crouching as she pulled the door closed behind her. She smiled as her eyes met Jennifer’s. ‘Oh good, you’re awake.’

The woman glanced briefly at the man by Jennifer’s side, then returned her attention to Jennifer. ‘We’ve given you something for shock, Jennifer, so you might feel woozy.’ Jennifer closed her eyes and frowned. What was she doing in an ambulance? The woman spoke again, her voice softer. ‘Do you remember what happened tonight, Jennifer? Do you remember the accident?’

Jennifer forced herself to open her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I remember everything.’

Inside her head, the last words Jon had said to her tonight returned.

‘You’ve got this Jen, okay? You can do this.’

Now, it was time to try to believe him.

Yet from this moment on, she also knew, Jon had left her truly on her own.

Acknowledgements

This book has only found its way into the world because of the love, support and encouragement I’ve received from my family, friends and so many kind, warm and welcoming writing professionals in the Australian writing community. Without your belief in me and the support services on offer, this book would still be a childhood dream.

In particular, thank you to Stuart, Franchesca, Harley and every member of my family for your confidence in my ability, even on those dark days when I doubted myself. Your words of encouragement over the past few years have carried me all the way to the finish line. We did it! For this and so much more, I am deeply appreciative. I love each and every one of you so very much.

My deep thanks also go to Pantera Press, in particular LinLi Wan, for plucking my manuscript from the slush pile and putting it in the hands of my oh-so-talented publisher, Katherine Hassett. Katherine, your guidance through my first publishing experience has been invaluable. We have jumped through many hoops together and at each and every stage I have been grateful for your calm, considered guidance, your deep knowledge and good humour. Your clear insights into the elements of good story-telling have been invaluable. Lucy Bell, your superior editing skills have taught me so much about my own writing and resulted in an exceptionally polished and pacey read. I am humbled by your talent and so grateful to have had your input to my book. To everyone in the Pantera team, thank you so very much for believing in my book and welcoming me into the Pantera family. I feel so fortunate to have landed in such safe, capable and experienced hands.

I would also like to acknowledge several writing organisations and individuals. In particular, the incredible Roland Fishman and Kathleen Allen at The Writers’ Studio in Sydney, whose online courses make it possible for regionally based authors to learn, create and be part of a warm and welcoming virtual community of fellow writers. Your Unlocking Creativity course was a game-changer for me, providing me with the confidence to not only begin writing, but to keep going. Thank you.

I would have also felt quite lost and ill-prepared to keep going in my writing without the huge range of courses on offer through the Australian Writers’ Centre. CEO Valerie Khoo, you and your team do so much for the Australian writing community. Thank you for everything I have learnt from you and your experienced team of tutors.

The Australian Society of Authors (ASA) has provided me with a treasure trove of writing resources and professional advice. I value my membership and the ASA community so very much.

Dr Virginia Moran, my writing mentor and creativity coach. I was so fortunate to discover you by chance. Despite the global miles that separate us, your voice is always on play inside my head, holding me to account, pushing me to take creative risks, urging me to rough my characters up just a little more. And making me laugh! Above all, your deep understanding of what makes us human beings so fragile and beautiful is always a revelation. I love and value our regular Zoom conversations.

AJ Collins, in Victoria, thank you for providing me with exceptional manuscript editing and beta reading services. Author extraordinaire Emily Bitto, thank you for the insightful deep dive workshop I attended at Springfield in the Southern Highlands in 2023. Prolific author Fiona ‘Gloria’ McIntosh, being a member of your Masterclass alumni has provided me with so many lovely new friendships. Your generosity to fellow writers and your exceptional professionalism is legendary. As is your mantra, No One Cares! We all know you do. Author and mentor, Kathryn Heyman, your Immersion program is so rich, generous, nurturing and helpful. A very deep-felt thanks to you.

To my fellow debut author Lisa Kenway and every member of the #debutcrew2024, thank you all so very much for your friendship and your willingness to share your experiences as we all tread the path to publication together during 2024. Our online interactions and real-life meetings have provided me with a rich, vibrant community and I will treasure these connections and friendships forever.

A special thank you to the beautiful, strong, wise, resilient, deeply caring and hilarious women friends in my life. From Dondingalong to Adelaide, you know who you are. Your friendship means the world to me. At its core, Between Husbands and Wives is a woman’s story. You all inspire me every day and I am so blessed to be able to enjoy the company and friendship of so many truly great women.

The writing of this book has required some technical expertise. Any mistakes are fully my own. To my cousin, Gavin, your input on policing matters has been invaluable. Lucy, my ambulance scenes have benefited greatly from your expert oversight (thank you for explaining why paramedics never run!). Special thanks must also go to the communities of Port Douglas, Mossman and Daintree in Far North Queensland. I was fortunate to call this amazing part of the world home for several years. Many real-life places, people and events from this time and place have inspired the fictional world of my book.

Finally, I would like to acknowledge the many talented writers in my life who are yet to be published. Never give up. Keep going. Believe, believe, believe. Your books are important and they will find their readers. If it can happen for me, it can happen for you too.

About the Author

Susannah Glenn is a former newspaper journalist, editor and corporate communications consultant whose writing career has taken her to the South Pacific as well as many far-flung regions of Australia. Her debut novel, Between Husbands and Wives, has been inspired, in part, by her experience living in the Daintree region of Far North Queensland.

Several years ago, Susannah decided to swap news for fiction, inspired by the places and characters of her travels. She is now a full-time author. She lives between her cattle farm on the Mid North Coast of New South Wales and city digs in Adelaide.

Susannah and her husband, Stuart, share a big, beautiful blended family which includes Susannah’s two adult children.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, organisations, events or locales is coincidental.

First published in 2024 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
www.PanteraPress.com

Text copyright © Susannah Glenn, 2024
Susannah Glenn has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

Design and typography copyright © Pantera Press Pty Limited, 2024
® Pantera Press, three-slashes colophon device, and sparking imagination, conversation & change are registered trademarks of Pantera Press Pty Limited. Lost the Plot is a trademark of Pantera Press Pty Limited.

Pantera Press acknowledges the Aboriginal Traditional Custodians of the Countries on which we work, and we pay our respect to Elders both past and present.

This work is copyright, and all rights are reserved. Apart from any use permitted under copyright legislation, no part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the publisher’s prior permission in writing. We welcome your support of the author’s rights, so please only buy authorised editions.

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A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry for this work is available from the National Library of Australia.

ISBN 9780645869071 (Paperback)
ISBN 9780648619062 (eBook)

Cover design: Elysia Clapin
Cover images: © Paul Bill (@hoffman11)/unsplash.com
Publisher: Katherine Hassett
Project editor: LinLi Wan
Editor: Lucy Bell
Proofreader: Pam Dunne
Typesetting: Kirby Jones
Author photo: Deb Saunders

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