Dancing With Bees
Author: Anna Maynard
Date: 2025-04-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance
Description: Beekeeping and a handsome scientist make a directionless dance teacher come alive in this Tasmanian-set rom-com debut—"A romance as sweet as honey. . . . A page-turning, tender and funny story" (Steph Vizard, author of The Love Contract ). "A book that weaves together everything from love and lust through to family and friendship into a story that's familiar and entertaining, light yet deep. I couldn't put it down. " —Hannah Moloney, author of Good Life Growing Thirty-three and single, Sunny Moritz is drifting like a tumbleweed. That's what her frustrated parents say, and after a series of ran
Publisher: Echo Publishing

Praise for Dancing with Bees

‘Dancing with Bees is a romance as sweet as honey, with observations as sharp as a bee sting. A page-turning, tender and funny story about finding (and returning to) the people and passions that make you come alive.’

—Steph Vizard, author of The Love Contract

‘A book that weaves together everything from love and lust through to family and friendship into a story that’s familiar and entertaining, light yet deep. I couldn’t put it down.’

—Hannah Moloney, presenter on ABC-TV Gardening Australia and author of Good Life Growing

‘Fun, funny and tender. This bittersweet rom-com pulses with music, friendship and love.’

—Katie McMahon, author of The Mistake

‘A laugh-out-loud funny debut that’s both sexy and heartfelt. A real winner!’

—Maya Linnell, author of Wallaby Lane

DANCING WITH BEES

Anna Maynard

For my mum. You will dance forever in my heart.

Prologue

My fingers were nearly wrapped around the jar of honey when a hand snuck beneath mine and I found myself grasping the enormous paw of a stranger.

I stared at our interlocked fingers and felt a flicker of irritation. It was the last of the big jars on the market table; I’d had a long morning working with the Dutch doughnuts at the oliebollen stall and I wanted to go home. With my honey.

‘Sorry, I was just getting this one—’ I began in my most people-pleasing tone.

‘I’ve promised this to the lady over here,’ a deep voice said simultaneously.

Our hands were still touching when I looked up and made eye contact with the owner of the giant claw. My stomach did an involuntary whoosh. The honey stealer was a knockout. Of course he was.

I should let go of the jar.

I couldn’t be sure if I was too befuddled to move my hand or just determined to be the purchaser of the honey, but on reflection, it a regrettable moment on my part—particularly as I was the customer and, I now realised, he was on the selling side of the market bench.

The honey stealer’s eyebrow quirked and the corner of his lip twitched. I coloured with indignation. Knock-out honey stealer was now silently laughing at me. Excellent.

‘I’ve promised this to the lady over here,’ he repeated. He was far too handsome. Someone life probably worked out perfectly for. And he was now the target of all my resentment for perfectly worked-out lives.

A flash of annoyance had me imagining wrenching the jar out of his manly hand before darting through the crowd and all the way home with my loot, laughing gleefully.

The Adonis gave what sounded like a surprised chuckle and I realised I’d begun dragging the jar in my direction, so we were literally in a tug of war. A tug of jar, if you like.

I came to my senses and let my hand return to my side. My stomach did a secondary whoosh when he flashed me a truly heart-stopping smile before whisking the honey away and moving out of my view to the other end of the crowded stall.

Feeling foolish, discombobulated and defeated, I turned and let myself be swallowed by the flow of bodies moving through the busy market. Sans honey.

I was at least twenty stalls on, wondering why on earth someone needed to have such piercing blue eyes and perfectly crafted features and feeling quite put out by the whole episode, when I felt a warm, familiar hand on my shoulder.

‘You forgot your honey.’

He was smiling again. There should be rules against brandishing those sorts of attributes so freely.

‘We had plenty more in the van. I was about to get you some but you disappeared. Here. My gift to you.’

My hand rose to meet his and when my fingers encircled the jar, he didn’t let go. My heart began to hammer.

‘Th-thank you,’ I stammered.

‘I’ll be at the stall next week if you need some more.’ He was still grinning as he moved backwards through the crowd.

I was fixed to the spot with my jar of honey.

‘It was lovely to meet you,’ he called, now at least fifteen bodies between us.

‘It was—’ He’d already disappeared before I could work out what to say.

I was too mortified by the whole episode to consider going back to pay for the honey, let alone ever visiting his stall again.

Back then, I was way too cynical to recognise good things when they were right in front of me.

Besides, he was far too handsome.

Far too handsome.

I decided never to think about him again.

Chapter One

Obviously, the only reason I’d agreed to go to the school reunion was on account of Millie’s insistence. Millie was my one remaining high school friend (and really, my only ever high school friend). She was my co-goth back then, now turned shacked-up primary school teacher with three kids under six who—I kid you not—used a basket instead of a handbag and carried a wooden-silicone dummy on her keyring like she invented the suburb of South Hobart (greenest electorate in Australia, in case the number of wholefood shops and sourdough options hadn’t been a giveaway).

But basket and dummy aside, she was the loveliest person in my world so I could forgive her syrupy wholesomeness.

As for the rest of the reunion attendees, they were essentially a bunch of tossers and bimbos. Which was the inevitable end product of taking the elite snobbery of Hobart and putting all their children in the most expensive school available. I’d managed to miss the ten-year reunion—Millie had come back with gleeful reports of several ex-members of The Beautiful People harbouring early middle-aged chin rolls. Fortunately, so tight was the bond of the privileged that they’d created a fifteen-year reunion.

And so, there we were, standing on the edge of the throng of Hobart’s most pampered young professionals, observing the staggeringly boring over-representation of doctors and lawyers.

‘Oh, look,’ Millie hissed with excitement. ‘There’s Audrey Patterson. She’s looking as wrinkled as an old apple. And chubbier for sure. I’m going to go say hi.’

In all fairness, motherhood had left Millie slightly softer around the edges too. A fact that she was forever whingeing about but which didn’t detract from her loveliness in the slightest. Just being in her presence was like a warm hug—a vast aesthetic improvement from the angular, broody teen she’d been.

I wandered over to the nibbles area in search of a beverage. It was regrettable I hadn’t had another gin and tonic pre-arrival; it would have been helpful at this point. Self-satisfied chortles emanated from the clusters of old friends, presumably sharing stories about who was the biggest knob or which private playgroup their unborn baby was booked into. I watched the couplets and grouplets with mild boredom, concluding that perhaps it was unlikely I’d have any romantic successes here after all.

You see, in addition to my kindness in offering companionship to my dear friend while at the reunion, I was also admittedly On The Prowl. Yes, I know, curious pool to choose from, but, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, I had well and truly explored the genre of ‘arty man’ as a potential partner and had come to the conclusion that a relationship of that kind was a doomed enterprise. I was ready for a new playing field.

I stood there sipping my cheap bubbles and nibbling on a cucumber stick for a good ten minutes, wondering how best to tackle the situation at hand.

I marvelled at the way The Beautiful People interacted almost like family. And a part of me wondered what that might feel like—that sense of belonging they had in the presence of one another. I’d never really found my place in the whole social scene at school. I was different. Perhaps I would have liked to fit in more, somewhere deep down. Who knows? But regardless, I didn’t fit in. So, I believed I never wanted to, and like all areas of conformity and perceived sense of institutions, I rejected the whole thing fiercely.

‘I swear to God, Sunny,’ Millie said, grabbing the glass out of my hand and tipping its contents down her throat. ‘You’re the only one here who’s not an absolute saggy-baggy mess now.’

She told me all about Audrey Harvey (ex-Beautiful Person, and historical megabitch), who had fallen pregnant with triplets last year, puked her guts out for four months, then entered a life of such extreme sleep deprivation that ‘the bags under her eyes are nearly reaching her nipples’. Millie was a kind-hearted person, really, but we all had our weaknesses—hers was for other peoples’ collagen degradation. Let’s not get judgy on her—schadenfreude is real, boys and girls. But sadly, I struggled to match Millie’s enthusiasm with Audrey’s unpleasant story—even if I did have crystal-clear memories of her calling us ‘ugly, depressed lesbos’ on a fairly regular basis.

‘Right. Who’s next?’ Millie scanned the crowd cunningly. ‘Erika Black. Remember how she stuck that used sanitary pad on your back?’

I nodded. Not my best high school memory.

‘And,’ Millie continued, ‘how she took topless photos of herself and sent them to our PE teacher, Mr Colly? I heard she got pregnant the year after finishing school and was divorced twice by the ten year reunion. I bet she’s got chronic gonorrhoea now.’

I watched Millie disappear back into the crowd in search of more juicy stories and couldn’t help but smile in appreciation of Erika’s change of circumstances. Yes, I did feel ever so slightly guilty about the flicker of satisfaction I was experiencing at other people’s misfortune, but look, high school throwbacks didn’t bring out the best in any of us.

I was ready to give up on the evening, struggling to bring myself to break into the conversations of ‘The anaesthetic fellowship exams were just a nightmare!’ or ‘Ronald is so cute now he’s walking, but the nanny has no sense of age-appropriate screen time!’ It wasn’t so much that I envied these people’s glamorous careers or bustling young families, but it did take a little shine off the clumsily put-together arrangement of my adult life. It seemed I was to continue as an observer of normal, with the understanding that I was destined for a life of singledom and a motley patchwork of occupations. I could almost hear the bittersweetly poignant classical soundtrack starting to play when my daydreaming was rudely interrupted.

‘Fuck, Moritz, I hardly recognise you.’

I turned to find myself elbow to elbow with none other than Adam Harrison. He was no challenge to recognise whatsoever. He looked almost exactly the same as his eighteen-year-old self, if perhaps slightly more arrogant and—fuck it—slightly more handsome. My stomach did a little involuntary swerve in response to my old crush. That I, Sunny Moritz—teenage loner and goth—would fancy Adam Harrison—utmost jock of the jocks—was unthinkable. Not to be admitted to anyone. Ever.

‘Hello, Adam.’

‘Looks like you’re the only one ageing’s been kind on,’ he said, looking me up and down brazenly. I raised my eyebrows in an attempt at indifference. Damned if he was going to render me anything but cool, calm and collected.

‘Oh,’ I pouted. (Shite. I really did pout.)

‘That your real colour? Red is hot on you.’

He was startlingly refreshing. I’d been so long in the habit of dating arty self-reflective types that I was completely taken aback. Did people actually talk like that?

‘So, what is it, Harrison? Doctor or lawyer?’

A smug smile grew across his lips, the exact one he used to give me when he’d sit next to me at the back of the dark drama theatre. ‘Orthopaedics. You?’

I held his gaze and considered how to respond. Sunny Moritz, 33-year-old single lady in possession of an extensive lingerie collection, sick of candle-lit lovemaking with over-complicated men, standing there and looking into the face of a handsome idiot with blatantly clear intentions.

I smiled. ‘Nude modelling.’

Chapter Two

People always talked about their wild twenties, full of debauchery and one-night stands. My experience wasn’t like that. I did an arts degree majoring in philosophy with a diploma in performing arts—a stepping stone to many and varied vocational pathways (said no one ever)—the result being a weighty string of long relationships. I’d been through all the overworked efforts of second and fifth chances, delivered far too many cups of herbal tea to moody, malnourished vegans, sat through more hand-holding, French, suicidal thought–inducing films at the State Cinema than was frankly fair, and ended way too many evenings in bed with a man who’d enjoyed ‘making love’ so much he cried. It all made me want to cry.

Perhaps one might say I was using Adam to make up for lost time. For his part, he didn’t seem particularly put out by the experience.

In an unprecedented change of pattern, there was no drawn-out courting process or thought-provoking conversation about the meaning of life with Adam Harrison. We spent about five minutes at the reunion nibbles table discussing our views on the questionable appropriateness of gherkin on a tasting board, then he hooked a finger through the belt loop on my high-waisted culottes and said, ‘I’m bored of careers and new babies. You?’

I managed a casual shrug instead of a full blown fist pump, and followed him out of the room. High school reunion—thanks for having me.

For old times’ sake, we ended up at Mobius—the grungy below-ground nightclub of my underage years. I was seventeen the last time I’d been there, and the expiration date on my age appropriateness at the venue was clear the moment we entered.

My hand was in Adam’s as he dragged me to the bar and ordered two tall glasses of pink fizzy liquid.

‘To you, Moritz. Prost!’

The first time I kissed Adam Harrison, I was at a party on the Eastern Shore. Johnny Farmer’s folks were out of town and the whole year group was invited to an impromptu pool party. I was sixteen and watching the Beautiful People dancing to Crazy Town’s ‘Butterfly’ from where I sat, my legs hanging in the chlorinated water. I was wearing my black one-piece, contrasting with the brightly coloured bikinis all around, and had already attracted a handful of passing mutters of ‘Frigid weirdo’.

Adam had sat down beside me and rested a hand on my bare thigh. ‘You’re not frigid, are you?’

I could have tried some self-respecting, witty comeback, but the truth was, no, I wasn’t frigid, and yes, I did want to be kissed by Adam Harrison. It lasted about one glorious minute. The whole world stopped … Then he dived beneath the water, splashing cold droplets on my burning skin.

When I left that night, I saw Adam pressing Jenny Taylor up against the wall and I promised myself I’d never be played by him again.

The difference now was that I recognised Adam Harrison for the arrogant dick that he was and saw the potential for shiny, no-strings-attached pleasure.

It was hard to say if Mobius was seedier than it used to be or if I had developed a slice more class than I used to possess. Either way, the hooded youths and shameless browsing of Tinder profiles didn’t dampen my mood, and, to his credit, Adam’s eyes were only on me.

I let him take the empty glass out of my hand and lead me to the almost empty dance floor. And, to the doof-doof baseline of Billie Eilish’s ‘Bad Guy’, Adam Harrison kissed me for the second time.

This time the world didn’t stop with juvenile romantic dreams of a fantasy life together. No. All that consumed me was the satisfying knowledge that I was wearing lacy red underwear and the pressing understanding that he was as equally enthusiastic as I was about taking said underwear off.

Later, in the shuddering wake of synchronised orgasms, no one cried and my soul genuinely sang as he summarised our encounter with, ‘Best fuck all month, Moritz.’

And in that highly sated state with his ridiculously gym-toned body around me, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

He came around the next night. And the one after. And on the following Saturday morning after his on-call ward round.

The things I liked about Adam Harrison were threefold: first and foremost, we had truly, rip-roaringly great sex. Two, he appreciated tiny underwear as much as I did. And three, I didn’t have to use my brain nor exercise any self-reflection regarding moral conflicts in his presence.

It would seem I had hit the jackpot.

The first serious conversation I had with Adam Harrison happened that first Saturday a week after the reunion. He still had his work pants on. I did not.

He was on his phone, looking at an X-ray that his registrar had sent through while we were otherwise engaged a few minutes earlier, and I was seeing if I could still balance a teaspoon on my nose. So far, so good.

‘Adam.’

‘Mmm.’ He tilted his head at the screen and I looked over at what appeared to be two bones at a jagged 45-degree angle to one another. I grunted in distaste. Doctors—a weird species.

‘We’re just mucking about, aren’t we?’ The teaspoon balanced precariously.

He looked up with a smile. ‘Chill, Moritz. You’re a fox and I’m a horny bastard. Simple as that.’ He ran a knuckle down my cheek. ‘I’m not gonna make you grow up, beautiful.’

A little part of me fell in love with Adam Harrison at that moment.

We were going to get along just fine.

It was Adam who got me thinking about bees. He wanted a coffee, as he was heading to the hospital for an emergency surgical list. He drank his coffee black. I argued that black coffee tasted like death itself and that the road to heaven was through the addition of cream and honey.

‘What even is honey? It’s just hippie sugar, for fuck’s sake,’ he said, tipping his cup of vile black liquid down his throat and pulling on his shirt.

I was offended. I was not a hippie. But I loved honey. Among all the weird wholefood products left over from my previous boyfriends, honey was the only thing in my pantry that gave me joy. The knowledge that thousands of little bees had made something so heavenly from the nectar of flowers was nothing short of miraculous.

After Adam left, I googled honey and its nutritional value comparative to sugar. I was disappointed to discover that honey wasn’t entirely guilt-free. But it did contain all sorts of hidden gems. I also discovered things about the importance of bees and how at risk they were. There were even diseases spreading all over the world that threatened their species and Tasmania might be one of the last places on earth to have a healthy bee population.

There was something about those bees that gave me a flicker of excitement—a feeling I’d not had about anything for a long time.

I ended up going right down a rabbit hole and stumbling across the Hobart Beekeepers Association website. There was a whole world of honey-making fanatics out there. And pictures of kind-looking older folk, their white hair blowing wistfully in the wind. Everyone seemed like they were having a grand old time. It was all so very quaint! And they all looked so purposeful.

At the bottom of the page was a contact: Al De Jong—for beekeeping consults and advice. I assumed Al was the rotund and red-faced older gentleman in many of the website’s shots, and Al was short for some old-fashioned name like Alan.

I chewed my lip thoughtfully before coming to the conclusion that I wanted to help the bees too. I wanted to learn all about them and be as jolly and purposeful as all those old people.

Before I knew what had come over me, I was typing Al De Jong’s phone number into a new message and texting with unhinged enthusiasm. It’s possible the bottle of wine I’d polished off with Adam had left me slightly gushier than was my usual style.

Me: Hi Alan! I just came across your bee website. I think I’d really like to learn about bees! I’m wondering if you could give me a few pointers? Looking forward to hearing from you! Kindest regards, Sunny Moritz

Hitting ‘send’ was strangely thrilling. I had a feeling good things would come from this bee adventure.

Chapter Three

I managed to avoid Millie for a total of eleven days. We usually rendezvoused on a fairly regular basis, if not in the flesh then at least with a distracted phone call between interruptions of ‘Blossom! You need to wash your hands after touching your bum!’

I thought I was being super sneaky, having flicked off a text after the reunion saying I was poorly (such a great line—really covered all sorts). Millie kept trying to call and I kept responding with delayed messages, saying things along the lines of: Just woke up! Dashing to work!

It was a Wednesday morning—my one morning off at the art gallery. I’d avoided groceries for as long as I could but finally just needed some cow’s milk in my coffee instead of the non-dairy piss my last boyfriend had left in my pantry, so I’d decided on a quick stop at the Salad Bowl. South Hobart was full of people, after all. What were the chances I’d bump into Millie?

I was nearing the checkout, moments from departure, when the slightly harried voice of my dear old friend pierced the air of the bustling grocer’s.

‘Where the hell have you been, Sunny Moritz?’

A couple of heads turned and I hunched over. I so hated to make a scene. I paid for my items, wondering if I still might just slink through those sliding doors. Surely Blossom would do a runner to the lolly aisle or threaten to poo on the tomatoes or something? My fingers were crossed.

Unfortunately, Millie’s hand gripped my wrist. I was indeed a captured rat.

She looked at her phone. ‘Twenty minutes till Rock and Rhyme. I’ll shop later.’ She dragged me across the street, Blossom in one hand and Wattle on her back. (Don’t ask—I tried to sway her towards normal names.) I was like a hostage, led straight into the corner table at Bear With Me. And to the grind and hiss of the coffee machine, I sat like a possum in headlights under the glare of three sets of eyes.

‘So. Where did you end up, you hussy?’

I studied a mole on the back of my arm to buy time then shrugged casually. ‘Oh, just got tired. Went home.’ I flapped a hand around, aiming for breezy. ‘Love your headband, is it new?’

The headband was hideous. She glared at me. She knew, dammit.

‘You walked out with Adam Harrison. I’m surprised you made it to the door with your clothes still on.’

‘Oh.’ I chortled. I couldn’t help myself. The sound was rich with the self-satisfied smugness of someone who’d had ten years’ worth of great sex condensed into the last week. I quickly composed myself when I saw the distaste on her face.

‘You made quite the rumble. Topic of conversation for the rest of the night.’

‘Given the lack of interesting material to cover, I’m not surprised.’

She stared blankly, clearly missing my jab, then said, ‘Oh, well. Got it out of your system. High school crush sufficiently crushed, I hope.’

‘Oh, look it’s Ben from the wholefoods shop!’ I waved enthusiastically. He stared back at me in confusion. It was disappointing how bad I was at keeping any secrets from Millie.

She drew a slow breath. I shared a fearful look with Blossom—we’d both been subject to this treatment a couple of weeks ago when we’d been caught literally with our hands in the cookie jar. Millie’s presence was like a warm hug, but it could also be absolutely terrifying.

‘Sara Marie Moritz,’ Millie intoned, really pulling out the big cards now.

No one called me Sara anymore (except my grumpy parents). If I hadn’t been so scared of Millie in that moment, I would have corrected her like I did in high school when she’d said something she shouldn’t: ‘Das ist verboten!’

‘What the … the fluff are you thinking?’

The most annoying thing about Millie having kids was she no longer swore as much as she used to. She’d really had an epic vocabulary when it came to profanities, which I now only experienced on the odd girls’ night out. But I could hear the omissions in my head and how she would have expressed herself at that moment if it had just been the two of us: You shitting shitty slut face, what the fuck is wrong with your fuckity knob of a head?

I laughed. And regretted it immediately.

‘He’s just an absolute, silly old … you know … pain in the … bottom!’ She was red and fuming and really struggling to express her emotions with toddler-appropriate language. ‘Why can’t you find a normal boyfriend, Sunny?’

‘He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just mucking about,’ I said with a shrug. I felt so sophisticated at that moment. Like a real grown-up just playing the field.

She shook her head with parental disappointment and I was taken back to my family dinner table. I could actually hear my mum’s pained voice: ‘Ach, Sara.’

‘Oh, Sunny.’

There it was. I plastered a smile on my face, glazing over. My age-old, winning response.

‘Adam Harrison is a … penis. These men are like dogs, pissing about and claiming anything they like as their own. You’ll be cast aside like a slice of slimy old ham soon, all the while distracting you from finding someone worthwhile to spend your life with.’ She turned her angry eyes to her phone. ‘Sh—Scheizen! We’ve got to go. Forest left his library book at home. I’ve got to bloody well drop it off to the kindergarten.’ She seemed suddenly weary. ‘Can you get the coffees, hon?’

I poked Wattle’s nose and blew a raspberry, making him giggle satisfyingly. ‘Of course.’

Blossom twisted her hand in my skirt. ‘Who’s Adam Harrison?’

‘No one, sweetie.’

The trio of chaos departed the coffee shop with a chorus of bye-byes and Blossom’s sweet voice piercing through the hubbub asking, ‘Why’s he a penis, Mum?’ followed by little Wattle parroting, ‘Pemis. Pemis.’

Regardless of whether Adam was a good idea or not, Millie was probably justified in being underwhelmed by my general life achievements thus far. In the time she had squeezed out a science degree, a masters in teaching and three young children, transforming from Wildly Irresponsible Young Person to Basket-Carrying Mother Figure, my life’s progress had included taking a job selling oliebollen at a friend’s Salamanca Market stall on a Saturday morning.

I hated oliebollen.

I was still sitting there after Millie and her tribe’s departure, contemplating my life’s curious path, when my phone pinged in my pocket. My mood immediately perked up when I saw it was a message from my elderly bee friend, Alan. Texting no less! Old people these days—so tech savvy!

Alan: Hi Sunny. Happy to give you a hand with the bees. Al

I stared at the screen. Brief. Vague. Curt? I was suddenly stumped as to how to respond. Maybe I needed to show more enthusiasm? The double shot cappuccino was just hitting my blood stream and lubricating my typing fingers, and the idea of becoming a bee lady was giving me a little fluttery feeling of excitement inside. Needless to say, I had no trouble in conveying enthusiasm.

Me: Oh, hi, Alan! Thanks for your message! So speedy! It’s fabulous you can give me a hand with the bees! Please let me know how best we embark on the next phase of this collaboration! Sincerely, Sunny.

I was satisfied with the general tone and hit send before slipping my phone back in my pocket, paying the nice man at the counter and sauntering on my jolly way.

Maybe I didn’t have everything in my life all worked out. But I was having excellent sex and I was going to help save the bees.

I’d never met anyone who questioned me as little as Adam did. I mean, he always checked I was enjoying myself adequately (which I would have thought was quite obvious), and he enquired about my basic bodily requirements, such as if I was warm enough or wanted a glass of wine. But aside from that, I felt entirely free to be myself. Maybe he just had no deeper interest in the people he slept with. But whatever it was, I appreciated it immensely.

The weekend after the Millie Inquisition, he was circling his thumb around my belly button when he seemed struck by a thought.

‘Do you do anything else besides nude modelling?’

I burst out laughing, genuinely astonished by how very little he knew about me.

‘I model in a life-drawing class once a fortnight. Which is not the major contributor to my livelihood I’m afraid, Adam.’

‘Huh,’ he responded thoughtfully. ‘I always imagined you would be one of the chicks in those tasteful porn magazines. You know, Lush or something.’ His eyes were closed and it was hard to tell if he was joking or serious. ‘What do you do, then?’

I told him about my varying occupations over the years, including ushering at the theatre, managing the artist rotation for the music program at MONA, and how I now taught the odd dance class and worked at the art gallery. I omitted my weekly attendance at the oliebollen stall at the Salamanca Market. Some things, like deep-fried dough balls, menstruation and weird belly button accumulations, don’t need to be discussed with the person you were sleeping with.

‘Do you have a cute uniform?’

‘Yeah, they make us wear vintage nurses’ outfits with suspenders and knee-high boots.’

He opened his eyes at that point and nodded appreciatively. ‘Nice.’

Beautiful, stupid man.

Gullible and clueless as Adam was, it was refreshing to feel absolutely no trace of judgement from him about my occupations.

Though in the absence of any external sense of criticism, and the corresponding defensiveness that usually ignited in me, I found my own thoughts reflecting on my life with a clarity that was quite startling. My various jobs, my home and my general sense of fulfilment were unquestionably lacking, and it occurred to me that maybe I wanted it to be different.

‘Do you dance?’ Adam asked, interrupting my thoughts. He did that sometimes. Usually, it happened just as I’d grown tired of him being around and decided my next step was to yawn an unapologetic, ‘Time to go home now I think, Adam.’ His ego was impenetrable, after all.

‘I used to.’

‘Men’s gallery?’

I pinched his arm at that point. Hard enough for him to genuinely cry out in alarm. He deserved it.

‘Hip-hop.’

He stretched, his smooth chest arching like a lazy dog. ‘That’s awesome,’ he said without particular interest.

It was awesome. The sad part of that sentence being the past tense.

My post-sex euphoria evaporated entirely.

‘Time to go home now I think, Adam.’

I sat in my quiet living room after he left, watching the last of the daylight fading outside, seeing how my whole environment was just a semi-functional collection of things. Stuff. Rather than pieces with meaning or that brought joy.

And in the way that the first stars started to shimmer in the clear evening air, the realisation dawned on me that I needed to do something to change all of it. Because, apart from my attention to fine lingerie and the removal of body hair, I was putting little effort into making my world inspiring. And while I maintained that the possession of fine lingerie was nothing short of delightful, it could be argued that hair removal did not fit into the realm of ‘life-enhancing pursuits’.

I’d lived in my tiny little house for eighteen months, and while my jobs kept me relatively busy, there was plenty of time left over for a mostly single woman to make home improvements. And yet the sales description of ‘rustic gem in need of care and someone with a green thumb’ was not being realised. My home environment just didn’t make me tingle with cosy vibes, which I suspected it probably could with a little effort.

Over the next four days, I was bogged down in a string of long work hours at the gallery, and it wasn’t until Saturday afternoon, following a morning of oliebollen at the market, that I could give any further thought to what was required.

After stuffing my jeans and T-shirt into the washing machine, I felt a sudden surge of unexpected motivation and I sent off a text to Flick—my old university friend (philosophy hadn’t really led her anywhere either).

Me: Dearest Flick. I don’t think I’m your oliebollen girl anymore. Wondering if you might find a replacement? I’ll tide you over till you’re sorted but would appreciate that being AS SOON AS POSSIBLE as it seems I have developed a severe adverse reaction to flour and oil. Yours, Sunny x

I exhaled, feeling my shoulders lighten already. What had I been thinking? It had been six years. Flick was a great girl, but that was devotion above and beyond any standard requirements of friendship. The promise of freeing up my Saturday mornings got me excited about all the things I could do with that time—like learning about bees and helping to keep their population thriving!

With a new sense of vigour, I wandered around my small home, assessing all that needed doing. I opened the pantry and the remains of all my past boyfriends glared at me in bags of lentils, chia seeds and herbal teas that smelt like potpourri and tasted like diluted urine. This was where I needed to start.

By seven pm, the house was chaos. I was still in my underwear but for a tea-towel headscarf, and was enjoying a nineties-themed soundtrack, singing along enthusiastically to ‘I’m Too Sexy’ while gleefully tipping a mysterious mung bean mix into the compost bin.

‘Not as rotten tasting as I would have thought,’ a voice said. ‘Are you busy?’

Adam had gotten into the habit of just letting himself right in and I’d forgotten he was coming over. A fleeting feeling of self-consciousness passed over me, before remembering that he was someone whose opinion was of little concern. He cocked his head chewing thoughtfully, a brown, organic apricot with a bite out of it held in his hand.

We greeted one another in the only way we knew how, then lay on the floor. Adam cleared his throat a few bars into the unmistakable chorus of Hanson’s ‘MMMBop’.

‘Curious choice of music there, Moritz. But whatever gets you in the mood.’

I really did appreciate how little emotional energy Adam required. No cuddling or reflections on our ‘growing connection’ were expected after sex. So while he hummed along to ‘MMMBop’ I carried on thinking about what pretentious organic rubbish I could get rid of next.

Adam was not going to distract me from sorting out my life. Perhaps that was the very best part about him.

Chapter Four

‘Hello, Tommy Bear.’

My brother Tommy always called me on a Tuesday afternoon on his drive home from his paediatric clinic. I always answered on my walk to Gina’s Dance Studio to teach my jazz class. We talked about ordinary things like La Niña and how it would be the pits living in the rainy spots, how house prices had gone up so much and weren’t we glad we’d bought when we did, how the kids were getting on at school, and holidays we thought about having. I relished these regular chats with my little brother. They were light and easy, the sort of way I imagined people might converse with their parents, keeping in touch, showing their interest and love for one another by asking pertinent questions about one another’s lives. My interactions with my parents were nothing like that, so I soaked up Tommy’s gentleness and dedication, and even though we led such completely different lives, I took great comfort from the feeling of home his calls gave me.

‘Hey, have you seen Mama and Papa recently?’ he asked in a way that caught me off guard.

‘Not for a while. Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

I could hear something troubling in his voice and waited.

‘Mama just seems … tired. Not herself. I’m not sure. I can’t really put my finger on it.’

‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say.

‘Why don’t you come for dinner there on Saturday? They’d love to see you.’

‘Uh …’

‘Come on, Sunny.’

‘Okay.’

I was bothered when we got off the phone. The idea of worrying about our parents was foreign. So foreign, in fact, that it was easier just to dismiss the idea completely. I was sure they were fine, if a little bitter.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t shake the weird feeling that hovered around me like a rain cloud for the rest of the evening. Maybe it was just the jazz class. I loved the dancing, but I couldn’t stand the prissy teenage girls and their neurotic parents: ‘Prudence wants to wear the blue costume instead of the green costume in the ensemble number. Green clashes with her eyebrows. And we really feel that her solo should have a little more pizzaz to really show off the breadth of her talent.’ Blah. Blah. Blah. Prudence was about as talented as an elephant trying to do hopscotch. On a roll of transformation, I was tempted to quit, but I needed to plan a little bit before completely eliminating my income. I had a mortgage to pay.

When I walked home at the end of class, I passed one of those community library boxes that were popping up everywhere. A way for people to dispense with their worst books; a recycling bin with a window. I regarded the collection with baffled intrigue. Men’s Health 2004, How to Breed Mice, a frankly terrifying kids’ book about monsters. Who wanted those? My eyes landed on a floppy eighties paperback: A Beginner’s Guide to Bees.

I couldn’t believe it. The world was speaking to me, no doubt about it. I took the paperback and stuffed it in my bag. I was momentarily uplifted by my new acquisition but still felt glum. I sent Adam a message in the hope he might be free to come and distract me.

He was. And distract he did, for at least a few minutes, and then my grumpiness descended again.

‘What’s up with you?’ he asked.

I really never would have picked him for the perceptive type, but life continued to surprise me. I thought about Adam’s question and considered filling him in on the contents of my brain, wondering if his response would be as bemused as I anticipated. It was too tempting not to try.

‘I have to go to dinner with my parents on the weekend, who regard me as a lifelong monumental disappointment, and I’m sick of dealing with Sandy Bay mums who are trying to live vicariously through their spoilt teenage dance girls, and I am in the process of ridding myself of all the leftovers from my disastrous string of past boyfriends, who insisted on pressing heavy literature and weird food products on me and contributed to my endless poor life choices.’

His brow wrinkled for a teeny-tiny second before evening out again. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Fuck me,’ he said.

‘I did.’

He gave me one of his lazy half-smiles and yawned. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Moritz. Look what’s happening to Britney Spears. Everyone’s going through a crisis these days.’

Yep. That was about as profound a response from him as I was expecting. It was worth hearing it for amusement’s sake.

‘So …’ I said, regarding him wearily and hoping he might take his leave shortly.

I watched his eyes take in the bee book on the coffee table. He picked it up.

‘Looks shit. One for the Salvos box?’

I wrenched it out of his hands. ‘No! I’m going to read that one.’

He shrugged. ‘What would I know? Last book I had to read was Cloudstreet in high school and the lesson I learnt from that was never choose books as a means of entertainment.’

I glared at him, feigning something like superiority. But a little part of me smiled inside at his unashamed lack of sophistication. After the men I’d been with over the years, he really was a breath of stupidly simplistic fresh air.

‘Look at those eighties mullets. A truly awful decade of fashion,’ he said with mild distaste, studying the cover.

‘Mullets are on the comeback, don’t you know?’

‘Mmm. There really is no hope for humankind, is there? Anyway, I can tell I’m about to be kicked out, so might save my ego and see to it myself.’

I walked him to the door—an uncharacteristically friendly move on my part—and let him kiss me goodbye. When I sat back on the couch, I couldn’t work out if I felt better or worse. It was weird, this thing with Adam. Satisfying in some ways—light, nice. But I could see how it could soon feel hollow. While it was nice not to be bogged down by endless deep-and-meaningful conversations with a partner, I did also feel the lack of connection and the emptiness of not being able to talk about anything of substance. Was there a happy medium somewhere that people found?

I picked up the bee book. Adam was right, mullets were the epitome of terrible trends, and the eighties in general really didn’t inspire much nostalgia. I leafed through the yellowed pages, reading snippets of text, gleaning pertinent bee facts. The book was—how should I say?—dry. I remembered I hadn’t heard back from Alan. I wanted to get this bee thing happening.

I opened up the message train, making sure I had in fact sent my last message. And in an almost divine moment of Beekeeping Connection, my phone vibrated with a new message from Alan!

Alan: Sunny, busy week but haven’t forgotten you. Where are you positioned with your readiness for bees? Al

My mind reeled. The timing—would you believe it?! And ‘busy week’? Retirees these days, I tell you. He must be a real goer. Good for him.

Me: Hello again Alan! Lovely to hear from you and thanks so much for remembering me! Yes, I am absolutely ready for bees. Let me know when is most suitable for you to assist. Sincerely, Sunny

I picked up the bee book and turned to the introduction section, hoping I would find out what it meant to be ‘ready for bees’, but soon got lost in the fine print. Google came to the rescue. A hive, it would seem, was in order. As though reading my very thoughts (truly, this Alan had some kind of Dalai Lama telepathy thing going), my phone tingled with a new message.

Alan: Is your hive fitted with the frames?

I had no idea what he meant, but I was committed to finding out.

Me: Yes of course, Alan!

His response was almost immediate. Really impressive for an elderly man.

Alan: And just checking you have done one of the beekeeping courses?

Honestly. Did he think I created time? I was getting mildly bored of the back and forth. I hadn’t been excited about anything for a long while and I was ready to get on with the adventure! I could look into a beekeeping course at a later date, surely.

Me: Thanks, Alan. Absolutely yes to everything!! I am ready and raring! Shall we make a time to meet on site to discuss further?

Alan: Righto then, Sunny. Sounds like you are ready to go. How is 9 am Saturday?

It was fair to say I had a bit of work to do.

On my way home from the gallery the following day I popped into my local agricultural shop. (Me! In an agricultural shop!) I announced my foray into beekeeping to the shopkeeper, and before I knew what had happened to me, I was sent home with a hive, a weird netted headpiece contraption, a suit, something to light a fire in and various other paraphernalia I really couldn’t tell you much about. But I was excited. I was doing something practical. I had found a hobby. And Alan was coming over in just three days to teach me all I would ever need to know.

Chapter Five

When I woke up on Saturday morning I felt a great sense of promise. Obviously, there was the dreaded dinner with my parents to come that evening, but I wasn’t going to let that spoil the beginnings of my new life as a bee lady. All of my new purchases were proudly in a pile outside my front door, and I was quite chuffed by my level of organisation. I’d been reading about bees in my spare time and I had everything I needed to get going. Alan was the final piece of the puzzle.

I always took great care in how I presented myself and in finding an outfit that satisfied the occasion as well as my own needs. Feeling a general sense of joie de vivre as I was that morning, I went with an ensemble that would really tickle an elderly gentleman. And tickly my outfit was!

Last year, the gallery did one of those tedious Christmas in July dos and the requirement was to wear your ugliest Christmas jumper. Winner got a free Christmas hat. I borrowed a jumper from Millie—a hand-knitted piece given to her at age twelve by her grandmother to celebrate the festive season. It was lairy pink, extremely furry and—as previously mentioned—tickly, and had a yellow, wide-eyed reindeer skilfully crafted on the chest, antlers fanning across my breasts as though to declare: Surprise! It fitted me perfectly, in a slightly cropped, vintage way, and I felt it would be both fun and impart to Alan my brightness of spirit and eager attitude, as well as being a nod to old people in general. Just to complete the jolly picture, I popped on my flower-print pants.

Nine am on the dot, there came a rap on the door. Not too loud, not too soft. Well measured, confident yet patient. I liked Alan already!

I trotted down the hall, unlocked the door and wrenched it open with my widest smile.

And froze.

Standing before me was evidently not Alan.

Standing before me was someone who was clearly lost.

And oddly familiar. But I quickly disregarded that thought.

Standing before me was an absolute giant of a man. He towered out of humungous Blundstone boots into long, Workcraft-clad legs and narrowed at the waist below a threadbare T-shirt that did little to mask the frankly outrageously ripped torso beneath. Finally, at the top of it was a short-haired, stubbly-jawed, blueeyed Matt Damon-eat-your-heart-out god of a man. He was at least fifty years younger than I was expecting him to be.

So I slammed the door in his face.

Okay, okay. There were better ways I could have handled the moment. But bear in mind I was wearing the ugliest jumper ever made (it won the competition—I had the Christmas hat to prove it). Nope. This was not my moment to help a man in need.

‘I don’t know where anything is!’ I yelled, my back pressed against the door, hoping he would understand that I was not in a position to help and would totter along on his knockout-handsome way, leaving me to my important morning date with Alan.

‘Uh, Sunny?’ he said, in the deepest voice in the history of the earth.

He knew my name! Oh God above. Make this moment go away.

Maybe he was a delivery man? I bit my lip, mind racing. What to do? The jumper! The pants! I couldn’t very well take them off now, could I? That would be way too obvious. Plus, then I’d be in my underwear. Oh, golly. Now I was thinking about being in my underwear in front of this man. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the chaos of the human being I was, when that deep, deep voice came again.

‘It’s Al. Is it a bad time?’

My mind reeled. Where was the white-haired roly-poly man from the photographs?

I did a quick calculation. To lose the jumper or not? I had but a few seconds before it was imperative I opened the door again or I really would lose all possible respect—self-respect included.

I slowly prised my back from the door and turned around. What was I thinking? It was bloody frosted glass! I was completely caught.

I resolved in an instant the way forward: Pleasant smile, ignore the jumper, don’t apologise for the door slamming. Give the man no chance to reflect.

I opened the door. ‘Helloooo.’

He cocked his head slightly and his eyes briefly landed on the antlers.

Oh, fuck me. Apparently, my life was going to end before it began as I felt myself die a slow and tortured death.

‘Sunny?’ he said, a slightly quizzical eyebrow working.

‘Alan,’ I said robotically. ‘So nice to meet you.’

‘It’s, ah … never mind.’ He gestured vaguely to the bee pile. ‘I figured I was in the right place.’

I gave a nervous, slightly neurotic-sounding laugh I instantly wished I could take back along with the jumper, the door, myself, the world.

He was staring at me with a strange expression, like there was something he couldn’t quite work out. Then it hit me. The market last year. The knockout who gave me honey after I tried to manhandle it out of his grasp. Oh, the shame. There was no way I could ever remind him of that disaster of a day.

‘Do you want to … come in?’ I didn’t really want him to, but it felt the thing to say. Besides, I doubted the man could possibly fit inside my tiny home. And perhaps he sensed my reluctant invitation.

‘All good. Why don’t you show me the yard and where you thought the bees might go?’

I was grateful for the sense of direction and put on my garden clogs (alas—bright blue, flower print, entirely impractical).

‘So, uh. All the stuff is there as you can see.’ I waved to the bee things and was overcome with embarrassment at my obvious lack of preparation. He would surely think I was a complete clown of a person. I decided it was too late to worry about that now and walked along the side of the house to where the path turned up into the back garden. He followed and all I could think about as I walked up the stairs was the fact I was wearing tight, butt-hugging, seventies-style flower pants which were now approximately arse-to-eye level as he followed me. What had I been thinking, old man or not? All this personal reflection was making a joke of me.

I pushed the stray branches aside to get through to the back garden, where the path opened into a small patch of knee-high grass. I cursed myself for my lack of weed management. The property inspection date was possibly the last time I’d been back here.

‘Sorry about the bushes. It needs a little … upkeep?’

Al didn’t reply and I could only imagine the unimpressed thoughts that were going through his mind. He was probably coming up with an excuse to get out of here.

‘So … anywhere here really!’ I clasped my hands together and tried to sound upbeat about the situation.

He cleared his throat and nodded slowly. ‘All right then.’

As my fake smile started to unravel into an apologetic grimace, I looked up at him and, for the first time, let my gaze meet those pale blue eyes. The pink fluff of my jumper was tickling my neck and suddenly I felt claustrophobic as the blush seemed to spread all the way to my hairline. I looked away. I really hadn’t thought past getting Al here. And I really had not expected him to be the person who stood before me. Damn him. Damn the jumper.

‘Anyway! This is the yard. The stuff is by the door. I’ll leave you to it and go make a cup of tea!’

There was really no point pretending I had done anything to prepare at this point. I hung my head and marched to my door as my armpits began to sweat and I begged all menopausal women forgiveness for laughing at their hot flushes.

I took my good old time making tea. A strong brew of T2’s Crème Brûlée was in order. Make no mistake, this was nothing like the diluted urine of the herbal collection I had freed myself from. Crème Brûlée was a caffeine-rich black tea infused with the flavours of heaven. On account of my overheating in the pink fluff, I removed the jumper. I put on an olive-green tank top, which I felt was a welcome dampener to the general ensemble.

I teetered back out with my little tray complete with spotty tea pot, cups, milk and honey (seemed appropriate).

Alan was hunched over on the narrow porch, apparently dismantling my bee stuff. There were bits of wood and cardboard and screws everywhere. He seemed to be making a real mess of it.

‘Isn’t that my hive you’re pulling apart?’

He looked up at me from where he was squatting, all wide knees and bare forearms—Jesus—with a slightly amused smile. ‘It’s a flat pack, Sunny. Not entirely “ready to go”, shall we say.’

‘Oops. Sorry. Tea?’

I parked my tray on the concrete path beside him and poured two cups. He glanced my way momentarily and I noticed a quirked eyebrow, which could well have been interpreted as mocking.

‘What happened to the jumper?’

I glared at him. ‘Can we just ignore that, please? I … never mind. Let’s just say you weren’t exactly who I was expecting.’

I could see him trying not to smile. ‘And who were you expecting?’

I waved a hand about. ‘Oh, I don’t know! Someone else? Little more elderly perhaps. Tea?’

‘Sure.’

‘How do you like it, Alan? Or should I call you Al, since you’re not a hundred years old?’

He did smile then before shrugging and continuing with his work. ‘Call me whatever you like, Sunny. But no one calls me Alan, given it’s not my name.’

‘Oh, Christ, don’t tell me your parents gave you one of those shortened names instead of a real name? Like Eddie or Freddy or Neddie. No sense of formality whatsoever. Milk?’

‘Thanks.’

I handed him his tea and watched him sip. His brow furrowed. ‘Tastes like a rainbow.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ I exclaimed.

He carried on working. I carried on drinking tea and studying him. ‘So, do you have a proper name then or just Al?’

He laughed and met my gaze, all lazy and dead sexy. Oh, wow. Here we go.

‘Alfonso.’

I snorted and cast my eyes to the sky. ‘Oh, yeah. Sure. And my real name is Sunny Surprise.’

His expression was impossible to read as he continued fiddling around with a crazy number of wood pieces. Eventually, he looked up again with a shrug. ‘It’s true. But don’t tell anyone, Sunny Surprise. I’ll get teased.’

I made a pfft sort of noise. ‘I totally don’t believe you. You’re making it up because you’re embarrassed about having an old man’s name like Alan. Too bad. I’m going to keep on calling you Alan.’ I actually had no clue what to believe. He seemed a very strange man. Far too good-looking to be taken seriously.

And if he really was called Alfonso, the degree of sexiness would be bordering on criminal. Save my randy soul—I was sticking with Alan.

I sat watching him, unsure what to do next. I supposed we’d be there for some time, what with all the screws and wood and honeycomb-like stuff. He didn’t say much, which might have been awkward but it wasn’t, distracted as I was by giving him the glad eye. I was sure he was used to it. Sexy men like him always knew the effect they had on women.

‘So … how long does all this usually take?’ I asked. I could see the potential for it to become awkward.

‘Little while,’ he said out the side of his mouth while holding a screw between his lips.

I had to look away. ‘And what happens then, the bees just sort of, come hither?’

He glanced up and his face cracked into a knockout smile, such that I forgot completely what I’d just asked, as well as who I was and how to swallow the saliva in my mouth. Honestly, there was an unfairness—an audacity even—in the level of his sex appeal.

‘That beekeeping course … little while back was it, Sunny Surprise?’

l blushed deeply. Shite.

‘Oh, you know!’ I flapped—literally, my hands were going all over the place. ‘Lots of details to remember. I’m sorry. I had the best intentions … Sorry.’

He chuckled, then said, ‘We’ll find you some bees, don’t you worry.’

I watched his hands. Like giant animal paws. Tanned and strong. I could still remember how they felt around mine when we held that jar of honey. Mighty. Godlike—

Right. I couldn’t very well sit there all day ogling the man, could I?

‘Well then, Alan. Al. Whoever you are. If you’re okay here I might go, dunno. Potter.’

That amused half-smile again. ‘Sure.’

I carried my little tea tray back inside and faffed about for the next forty-five minutes or so. I really couldn’t work out what to do with myself with the presence of the man just wafting in through the windows and under the door like the unignorable fragrance of jasmine. There was a patch there where I actually just walked from room to room, seeking inspiration like I had lost all of my brain.

The Bee Man was a player, I decided. Undoubtedly. Dishing out those mischievous little smiles and twinkling eyes like he was a bloody pheromone factory. I already had a player, though; I didn’t need another one distracting me from all the personal growth I had ahead me. He could teach me about bees and that was that.

After what felt like an eternity, Bee Man knocked on the door. Measured, confident, patient. I mustered up my most normal version of Sunny Moritz (who had apparently completely vacated the premises) and opened the door.

‘How’s it going?’ I managed.

‘Good. I got the box together, so that’s a good start. We’ll need to sort out some kind of platform in the garden, which I don’t have the gear for today.’ He regarded me for a moment, an expression on his face as though he was making some kind of point.

‘Oh. I see.’ I wasn’t sure what any of this meant, but I sensed again my communication of preparedness had perhaps been a little misleading. ‘Sorry the hive was slightly … in need of assembly. Bit lazy of them sending me home with a flat pack, wasn’t it?’ I gave a look of outlandish surprise in an attempt to shift the focus away from myself. ‘So, what do we do here? Do I give you cash or a golden ticket, a life-long subscription for marshmallows? How do I pay you, Al-man?’

He just kept on giving me the mocking eye treatment and I could tell he was trying not to laugh again. I was evidently providing him with significant comic value quite without intent. Oh, my life.

‘I just do the bee setups for fun. Another pot of rainbow tea next time will be fine.’

‘Really? But you did all the … things!’ I gestured to the assembled hive. ‘I’ve no idea what I’m doing. Obviously.’

‘It’s fine. Happy to help out. I’m just relieved you don’t use as many exclamation marks in real life as you do in a text message.’ He grinned and—Jesus Christ—dropped some dimples just to really finish me off. He picked up his toolbox then threw a wave over his shoulder. ‘Have a good day, Sunny Surprise.’

It would be a significant understatement to say that dinner with my parents was an anticlimactic way to end my first day of beekeeping.

I hadn’t seen Mama and Papa in a good month and I was all jittery, losing my sense of self as usual. Defiance, dread and hurt welled up in me in equal measure. As far as I could remember, my relationship with my parents had always been difficult. They grew up in Germany, children of the war-traumatised generation and grown from the wounds of parents and grandparents with PTSD, ripe with patriotic guilt and the need to reject an entire country and culture to move forward.

Mama and Papa met at psychiatry school and moved out to Tasmania after they graduated, set up a clinic in partnership and then had me and Tommy. I was made first and was a real disappointment from the start. Tommy came eighteen months later and worked out much better. He did what he was supposed to do, wore his school uniform without inappropriate personalisation and went on to study medicine. He was a paediatrician now, married to a sweet girl called Emma and they had two well-mannered children. They visited Mama and Papa weekly and the few occasions I’d seen my parents smile had been on account of Tommy. Thank God for my brother.

There had been a little patch where I resented his goodness, but eventually I saw there was nothing much to dislike. He was well intentioned, straightforward and kind, and the only one of the four of us who wasn’t as jumbled up as a Picasso.

A part of me felt guilty for contributing to my parents’ difficult lives, even back then. A more mature version of myself might have appreciated what they had suffered and what they were running from. But as a young person growing up in a household of solemnity, tension and pressure to conform, my innate response was to push for the opposite.

Moving in the left-wing, socialist circles of young families as I now did, every second child was a product of some cross-cultural relationship and these tiny little people spoke two languages fluently before they could wipe their own bottoms. That wasn’t our family. Mama and Papa spoke in hushed German to one another in the evenings, but their intention had been to raise Australian children. And other than a few profanities shared with Millie, my entire German vocabulary consisted of ‘Ach, Sara’ and ‘Die verdamte katze!’ (I’d had a really badly behaved cat who pissed on Mama and Papa’s bed at least weekly. Oops.)

One of the lower points in my teenage behaviour was at fifteen, when I learnt I could make my mother almost shake with rage by not eating. With that in mind, and no particular body-image objective, I developed what others would call an eating disorder. I personally thought it probably sat more in the realm of ‘oppositional defiant disorder’. One evening, I watched the vein on Mama’s neck strain almost to bursting point as she hissed at me, ‘Eat one of the carrots!’

I subsequently went on a carrot bender and took great satisfaction in chewing loudly and constantly as Mama’s jaw clenched in frustrated overdrive. There was an approximately three-week long period where I ate not a single thing besides carrots. The worst part of that ordeal was that I would gag when I ate anything containing that vegetable from then on. It served me right. Even I looked back on that time with a significant feeling of disgrace.

When I announced on the morning of my sixteenth birthday that I was sick of being called Sara and my name was now Sunny, my parents’ exasperation was complete. Tommy (bless his pressed cotton shirt) nodded diligently and said, ‘That’s a nice name.’ At only fourteen, he was familiar with the name-recall approach of using it three times in the first hour to ensure it was deeply ingrained moving forward. He’d never missed a beat since. My parents, on the other hand, insisted on calling me Sara as an ever-present reminder that life was complicated, lacking fun and devoid of spontaneity.

I wanted fun. I wanted simple. I wanted spontaneity.

So, when life didn’t work out, I blamed them.

I couldn’t see that avoiding any responsibility for myself would ever get me so stuck.

Chapter Six

I arrived at my parents’ house late to ensure Tommy would already be there with his family to help defuse the inevitable tension of the evening. If I had been arriving at a similar family gathering involving Millie’s lot I would have opened the door to cheerful, bubbling squeals from the children and a rumble of easy banter and laughter from the adults. But as usual, the sound I was met with when I opened the door was hushed, strained, measured.

I didn’t knock. After all, it had been my home for the first eighteen years of my life, though it didn’t feel in any way like I belonged there. I stood in the quiet entry hall. The smell was a familiar combination of mild perfume and clean carpets and coats and hats hung in perfect order on the hooks. I could hear the tendrils of polite conversation and well-mannered children filtering through from the kitchen. I let my feelings sit, noticing those opposing experiences of being both in the familiar place I once called home, as well as a total intruder. I had always felt too much for the space—too forthright, too animated, too unplanned.

Finally, I took a breath and walked into the kitchen. The conversation stalled before a mixture of slightly awkward greetings ensued.

I kissed Mama and Papa in turn—both cheeks—bodies stiff as usual. Emma gave me a tentative hug, reserved as she always was, then quickly ushered the children to ‘Say hi, Aunty Sunny!’ And Tommy, bless him, pulled me into a firm bear hug.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he whispered into my hair.

My goal for the evening had been ‘easy’: avoid known conversation topics of conflict, voice own opinions as little as possible, nod and smile profusely.

That lasted about three glorious minutes.

‘So, Sara,’ Papa said from his chair. ‘What is happening with your career?’

The bloody career conversation. Just because I was having my own doubts on my current occupations didn’t make it any easier to hear their critical opinions.

‘Yeah, it’s all going pretty well thanks, Papa.’ I tried to keep the defensive tone out of my voice. I could still achieve my goal. ‘Plans for the school holidays, Emma?’

‘We’re thinking of the Whitsundays—’ she began.

‘You could still retrain. Get another degree. Lots of people study as mature-aged students,’ Papa continued and Emma’s voice faded away like the last breath of autumn.

‘Centrelink study allowance would probably pay you more than what you’re currently earning,’ Mama said from the kitchen.

‘You understand the state of the world, don’t you, Sara?’ Papa regarded me with raised eyebrows. I could have been twelve, the patronising way in which he was talking to me.

I swallowed, trying to keep the anger from boiling up.

‘We’re on the edge of environmental catastrophe, healthcare crisis, food shortages, political unrest …’

I tried to disappear into the happy place inside my brain, the one where DJ Sammy’s ‘Boys of Summer’ played on repeat. But I was struggling to drown out my dad’s well-rehearsed monologue.

‘You need to do something that is going to be valuable in that world, Sara. You’re just drifting about like a tumbleweed—’

‘Papa!’ I finally interrupted. ‘I don’t think this is a conversation everyone needs to hear right now.’

He stopped and I watched the look exchanged between him and Mama. That exasperation. That disappointment.

I excused myself to use the bathroom. As I wandered down the hallway, I peered into the room that used to be mine. I’d visited Millie’s family home in my adult life more than I’d visited my own and we’d often end up sitting in her old bedroom at the end of family birthdays while everyone got drunk around the barbecue. We’d lie on her single bed and look at the posters of Heath Ledger and Matt Damon, discussing the fact that they were still the hottest men who’d ever lived. There was something so comforting about the fact that her parents had kept her room set up for her. The desk still covered with the scraps of late teenage life. The makeup and cheap perfume collection sitting on the dresser like she had literally just walked out and would always be welcome home.

Admittedly, I’d never wanted to stay home after I turned eighteen and was earning enough money to pay for a room in a share house. But I couldn’t say the unceremonious way in which I was instructed to clear out everything from my room so Papa could use it as an office didn’t feel rushed. The curtains were the same, but everything else was different, unfamiliar. Even the small spots of plaster that had come off with the blu-tac from my Kurt Cobain poster had been patched up and repainted. I was momentarily struck by the realisation I didn’t know where my Kurt Cobain poster was and resentment bubbled its way to the surface. I felt as though everything I’d ever liked was always taken away from me. Disregarded as unimportant. And I was so tired of it.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I was quite good like that—could dissociate when I needed to. But finally the meal was over and I identified the earliest possible moment to go home.

As I drove my little green Fiat through the dark city, I experienced such a suffocating oppression. I was so sick of being told I wasn’t doing something worthwhile with my life. I felt such a victim. I wasn’t sure exactly where the annoying little thought came from, somewhere highly pain-in-the-arse. (Probably the same place where the people on sugar-free diets came from—I suspected they were on to something, but … ugh!) I was just working up to a fully-fledged, internal, woe-is-me rant directed primarily at my miserable parents, when I faltered.

But haven’t we established you’re not doing anything worthwhile with your life?

I scoffed and tried to get back on track, grasping at my longheld belief that my family of origin were responsible for all my confusion and bad choices. Unfortunately, the annoying little thought was also holding onto something and kept on pestering me.

You agree with them. You’ve been noticing it all the time lately.

That got me. Had I? Okay, so maybe I had noticed that things weren’t entirely dripping with fulfilment these days. But that’s because I’d been conditioned that way. I couldn’t help it. Wasn’t that right?

I stopped at a traffic light and watched the flow of bodies heading towards the wharf strip of increasingly funky venues that formed the heart of Hobart. Everyone was laughing and having a silly old time. I appraised the girls in their tiny outfits and bleached hair, drunk arms flailing around their slimy-looking boyfriends and felt a sort of smug detachment wash over me.

That was when the clouds opened up and a true piece of insight hit me like a fucking lightning bolt: You’re protecting yourself from experiencing anything real by being cynical.

In the time it took for the young people to cross the road in front of me, realisations hit me like rapid fire, jostling for front seat in my mind.

You think being cynical gives you power.

You are more oppressed by your own cynicism than you are by anyone else.

You won’t find happiness until you let your cynicism go.

The car behind me honked. The lights had turned green and it was time to go.

I grunted and accelerated, the parting of clouds above me closing up again.

But there was something there. I’d seen it, at least for a moment.

Chapter Seven

I woke to the sound of tremendous banging. It was coming from my front door. And it wasn’t going away.

I grunted and dragged my body out of bed, pulled on my tiny Oriental-style dressing gown and a pair of fluffy red house shoes and padded towards the door. I could see four shapes behind the frosted glass and then the slightly warped image of a young girl’s face pressed up close. The Millie tribe.

I opened the door with great trepidation.

‘Oh, Christ!’ Millie said as she pushed past me, followed by a spritely Blossom, a bored Forest and a weary Wattle. ‘It’s like I’ve already lived three bloody days since the sun came up.’

I narrowed my eyes at the sunlight peering through the clouds tentatively. It did appear not to have been up for long. ‘What time is it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Seven? Six thirty maybe?’ She went through to the kitchen and scrunched her nose up in distaste as she took in the state of affairs. The pantry contents were regrettably still strewn about my kitchen bench-tops post the wholefoods exorcism. ‘Make me a coffee, would you,’ she said, retreating to the couch. The kids were already opening the big old suitcase filled with second-hand toys I had in the corner of the living room. It was there less because I was a kind person, and more because the constant whingeing of bored children was as horrible as the sound of fingernails on blackboard.

‘So. Um. Early start in your household, shall I surmise?’

‘Ugh. Blossom had me in a headlock all night, Forest wet the bed and Wattle is deadset on three am wake-ups these days.’

I made a vague involuntary noise of displeasure. The impact of children on one’s life really did beggar belief.

‘And, um, Pete—’

‘Oh, Pete,’ she spat in a tone I rarely heard her use. She had to be feeling truly ratshit. ‘Pete is having a nice little weekend away in Derby, isn’t he? Bloody bastard,’ she muttered in an uncharacteristic loosening of her censored ‘Mum’ language.

‘God help us.’

Derby was Tasmania’s latest little fad. A mountain bike hub in the northeast of the state. Ageing men with fat bellies and skinny legs flocked in staggering numbers from interstate to show their cycling ineptitude. The entire suburb of South Hobart migrated there like seasonal birds in the school holidays to wear knee pads, arms pads, bum pads, palm pads and helmets like they were about to face a war zone, then throw themselves down hills to literally break their bones.

‘They were already pissed when they left at three yesterday afternoon, I swear. Hoovering down Boags Draught and Doritos like they’re back in high school,’ Millie ranted. ‘Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m married to a thirty-eight-year-old man or grade eight boy.’

I brought her over a coffee and perched on the other end of the couch. Millie was in a real mood today—best keep some distance.

‘Meanwhile,’ she continued, ‘Wattle is in the habit of taking off his nappy and shitting on the carpet. Of course he waited until Pete was five minutes out the door before doing it. And by the time I found it, he’d already smeared it all over—’

‘Righto, Millie. I think I get the idea,’ I said before I could get any more vivid visuals. ‘Let’s put on some nice tunes, shall we?’ I dialled up Enya, sensing my friend needed some calming music. ‘So, what’s going on here, Sunny?’ Millie gestured to the state of the house. ‘Living standards on the way out, huh?’

‘No! This is good. Sometimes things have to look worse before they look better. But I am on the path.’

‘Right.’

‘I quit oliebollen,’ I announced proudly.

‘No!’

‘Yep. Flick let me off the hook the moment I asked. Apparently, I wasn’t as indispensable as I’d thought.’

‘Wow. What finally tipped you into consciousness?’ she asked, wandering over to the kitchen and pouring some unknown graintype substance from the bench into a saucepan.

‘What the hell is that stuff?’ I asked.

‘Triticale. I’m surprised you’re into it.’

I watched her add various obscure ingredients to the pot like she was making a poisonous potion. ‘I’m not into it! That was destined for the compost bin,’ I said with feeling. ‘That’s what’s tipped me into consciousness. I’m not into any of this crap that’s filling my life. It’s fucking depressing!’

‘Steady there, Sunny. Children.’

I looked at the three wide-eyed kids listening to us intently.

I shrugged. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I’m cleansing my life. Step by step. Oliebollen by triticale. Mung bean by mould. And what’s more, I’m getting bees.’

For the first time that morning, Millie regarded me with clear eyes, like she’d finally woken up. I felt myself unfurl like a flower under her gaze.

‘Well. Good for you, Sunny.’

She was perhaps the one person in my life whose opinion truly mattered to me.

I was on the path.

Gina ducked her head into my studio at the end of jazz class on Tuesday afternoon. ‘Sunny, come see me before you leave.’

I found myself grunting reluctantly. I’d had a long day at the art gallery, followed by a long afternoon with the dance tarts and I just wanted to go home and read about bees.

Gina’s office was at the end of the studio, a tiny, cluttered disarray of enrolment forms, overlapping ribbons, bulging clothes horses of costumes and endless bags of dancing shoes. Somewhere in the centre of this nest-like space sat Gina—dance tights, shapeless, silky pink tunic, clicky heels, thick arty green glasses and swishy high ponytail. I glanced at the screen in front of her where she was madly typing away, evidently pumping socials in preparation for the Christmas concert.

‘Sit.’ She dragged out a stool with her foot.

Gina was a good boss. She’d been in the dancing game forever and had a level-headed approach to high-maintenance clientele. I’d worked for her since I was twenty-one after being a student of hers for the previous seven years, and she gave me a reasonable amount of autonomy in how I ran my class. Still, I had a great sense of foreboding. Last Christmas concert, she suggested all the dance teachers put on a ‘special treat’ and do a surprise ‘Santa Baby’ performance to conclude the evening. The tiny Santa’s helpers dresses and fishnet tights had felt mildly pornographic and the memory of parading around in front of the middleaged fathers of my teenage dance students made me feel slightly nauseous. I had my answer prepared this time and it was: ‘NO.’

‘So.’ Gina swivelled in her squeaky office chair to give me the full force of her concentration. Commanding.

I straightened my back. No, I repeated to myself as my resolve seemed to already be weakening. She was amazing, Gina.

‘Sunny. There’s been a complaint.’ She kicked the door closed, making an emphatic bang on the last word.

‘Oh?’

‘Bonnie’s mum, Lauren, is unhappy that you keep putting her at the back. Apparently, for the Eisteddfods and the Dance Concert, Bonnie was back row and the Christmas arrangement is the same.’ Gina stared at me like I had just been accused of major criminal deceptive behaviour. ‘Tell me. What’s the situation?’

I sighed. ‘Have you seen Bonnie dance? Her handle on the choreography is okay, but she keeps dishing out these mega slutty looks that are completely inappropriate and then she ends up getting out of time with the group. Have you seen her Suzie Q? It’s outrageous. I don’t want to support that kind of behaviour in a high school concert.’

Gina regarded me wearily. ‘Lauren said there were comments about pole dancing or some such?’

‘Oh, they’re such drama queens!’

‘What did you say, Sunny?’ Her voice was loaded with condemnation.

This was reminiscent of my high school misbehaving. I watched the folded hands in my lap as my voice came out in a rush.

‘I might have told her to save the porno moves for pole dancing school. Can’t quite remember?’

I looked up when I heard Gina take a deep breath and exhale. Her eyes bored into mine. Eventually she spoke, slow and measured, exactly the tone she’d use on me back when I was in high school and had made some personalising adjustments to the costumes (honestly, the prissy shit they made us wear, you wouldn’t believe).

‘You’re a great dance teacher, Sunny.’

Ooh, this sounded serious. Maybe I was going to be relieved of my dance teaching without having to do anything. Exciting! I waited.

‘Thanks, Gina,’ I said encouragingly. Invitingly.

‘But I’m sensing you’re perhaps not entirely invested in your current position. Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? You’ve had it up to your tits with rich girls and their mums. Yes?’

I couldn’t help smiling. I loved Gina.

‘That would be a fair comment. Yes.’

‘I have someone who could step in for you. She’s an ex-student, recently moved back from Melbourne and eager to teach. She could take over your group for the Christmas concert in a few weeks.’

My eyes widened. A gift! A Christmas nymph arriving to save me from exhausting Sandy Bay families. ‘Wow, Gina. That sounds really—’

‘But—’ Gina lifted a hand to silence me, ‘—don’t think I’m just going to lay you off now. You’re too valuable for that.’

‘Oh.’ I was lost. Me? Valuable?

‘You remember that money we got from Tas Arts for the youth dance initiative?’

‘Yes. I have a vague recollection of something uncharacteristically wholesome-sounding.’

‘Very uncharacteristic. I wanted the money to buy Mean Girls outfits for “Jingle Bell Rock” and new mirrors in Studio Two. I thought we’d offer one or two free classes to the wayward delinquents. Turns out the’re expecting almost a whole term of classes. Getting them into the arts and off the drugs, that kind of thing.’

‘Okay.’ She was losing me on the relevance here.

‘Anyway.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’m having major regrets. There’s been a number of comments from parents that maybe it might not reflect so well on the dance school, you know, having those kids around could be a bad influence, bring down the sense of quality, prestige, might rub off—’

‘Those pompous bastards!’ I hissed.

Gina kicked my shin and shushed me. ‘I know, Sunny,’ she sighed. ‘But this is the school we’ve created and it’s thriving, earning great money, and I don’t give a rats about the delinquents anyway, really, I was just hoping to get some extra publicity, some hot costumes and shiny mirrors. I didn’t realise it would go down so poorly with the current lot.’

I shook my head disapprovingly. ‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘Oh, well. Best laid plans and all.’ She shrugged carelessly. I did admire Gina’s audacity, even if her values were as screwed up as the shiny Audi-driving mums who kept her purse full. ‘So anyway, Sunny love. This brings me to you. I propose freeing you of your teenage princesses and letting you live out any altruistic dreams you might have by helping the druggies. I give you free rein, teach them jazz, bob-scotch, African dancing, whatever the hell you like, really. They’re a lost cause anyway, I expect. The studio in New Town has an unused storage space on the ground floor you can have. You’ll get paid the grant money. I’ll get the Mean Girls costumes. Never mind about the mirrors. Gina’s Dance Studio’s squeaky reputation will stay untarnished. You win. I win. Everybody wins.’

I stared at her open-mouthed, unsure how to respond.

‘Excellent.’ Gina turned back to her computer. It was clearly settled. ‘I’ll email you the details. You can track down the Darrens and Sh’kylias, et cetera, et cetera. Tas Arts wants it off the ground by the end of the month, so get your bum into it.’

I was still staring.

She looked up from her screen as if surprised I was still there, then jerked her head towards the door and barked, ‘Be gone, Sunny!’

I jumped and stumbled out in a daze.

Life was getting odd.

Chapter Eight

The following weekend kicked off to a slightly wearying start with my obligatory attendance at Blossom’s fourth birthday party. I love Millie’s kids. Truly, I do. But it takes a special kind of person to muster any significant enthusiasm for the birthday parties of small children. For some reason quite beyond my understanding, Millie had chosen to host the celebrations at their home. And so, there we were, sitting in her not large kitchen with thirteen hyperactive three-year-olds (apparently, sugar-free quinoa muffins that tasted like wombat shit still made children crazy), various tag-along siblings and corresponding sleep-deprived parents nibbling on sourdough fairy bread and trying not to break our teeth on homemade crackers while discussing the pros and cons of the Cable Car. I was convinced the only reason this whole European-influenced Mount Wellington development was ever proposed was as a means of creating years’ worth of tense conversation for people whose sole other concern was whether to buy smooth or crunchy overpriced peanut butter from their local wholefood shop. At one point, I actually snored out loud without realising and Millie trod on my foot.

As the conversation took a turn, I thought we might be heading in a brighter direction, but it soon transformed into an impassioned discussion about the best options for kid-carrying e-bikes. This was my limit. I wished not for the first time at these sorts of events that I was a smoker and could excuse myself for a fag. Their clean-aired noses would be so turned up in disgust I’d be certain to find myself in solitude.

I muttered something about checking out the garden and let myself outside. I was eating a sprig of coriander when Pete joined me—presumably wishing he was a smoker too.

‘Hello, Peter.’

He grunted. He hated being called Peter. Some people were just such fun to wind up. He started talking about tomatoes and how it was a bad season or some other rubbish that made me vague out.

‘So, what do you reckon, Sunny?’ he said after an immeasurable time of me thinking about when I might get my next haircut.

I chewed my lip thoughtfully. Definitely missed something there. ‘Come again, Peter? Pray tell, what be your question?’

‘Mills said you’re sorting your shit out. You going to let me rebuild that balcony for you?’

This made my ears perk up. ‘Hmm?’

‘I’ll do you a good deal, cashy with a couple of cartons of pale ale. Ready for Christmas drinks.’

‘I hate Christmas.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. Return of Satan drinks, then? Whatever’s your jam.’

I regarded him thoughtfully. This was perfect timing, actually.

‘That’s a fabulous idea, Peter, I would love you to rebuild my balcony. In fact, you could help me with a whole list of home improvements, if you like.’

My imagination was rapidly fleshing out all the ways in which my little house might meet its potential when a harried-looking Millie joined us.

‘Oh my God, I never want to do another child’s birthday party,’ she huffed.

‘Sunny’s agreed to the balcony job.’

‘Oh, excellent. I’ll come. We can drink wine on the couch while the children fight in the garden.’

I laughed a little neurotically. ‘Fantastic.’

‘Pete, you need to start the treasure hunt,’ Millie said and a classic Millie–Pete dialogue ensued.

There seemed to be something odd going on with my brain, because I found myself observing their familiar banter in a way that landed somewhere deeper inside me than usual. Their mutters of ‘What happened to birthdays at the pub?’ and ‘Whose idea were kids anyway?’ and ‘I blame you for the weird kid breaking my Olympics 2000 mug,’ and ‘I hate that fucking mug, you loser. I broke it myself.’

For all Millie’s whingeing about parenting distribution and who got headlocked by Wattle last night or who had to change the wet bed, they were so obviously a team in a way I couldn’t imagine. The anecdotes, the unique language they communicated with, developed over years and years of sleepy mornings and joint exasperation, was oddly beautiful from an outside perspective.

And while I was well rehearsed in my nonchalant piss-taking about their ho-hum family life, in that moment I was struck by the connection they had and wondered if I would ever feel anything like that.

It was one of those lovely Tasmanian spring afternoons when I got home and I tried to get a little colour onto my winter-white skin by lying in the patch of sunshine on my somewhat unstable balcony, wearing last year’s polka-dot bikini. I was also doing homework for the Wayward Youth project, going through the list of students provided by Tas Arts (it was amazing how many teenagers had been expelled from Calvert High School in the period of interest) and using social media for its only value—stalking.

I was feeling slightly nervous about the job I appeared to have on my hands. Just as I was reading a post by sixteen-year-old Nikisha about how she’d set off the fire alarm at school last month by trying to smoke a bong in the photography dark room, I heard a knock on the door.

I rolled my eyes. It was hard to say what was more annoying—Adam just barging straight in or expecting some grand, dooropening, welcome party to celebrate his arrival.

‘Come in!’ I yelled, eyes on Nikisha’s page. She was quite a hottie, really, underneath all the piercings and teenage angst. I sensed we’d get along well.

I heard footsteps in the lounge room. From where I lay basking in the bright sun with my purple fly-girl sunnies on, it was hard to see into the dark interior.

‘Bunch of messed-up kiddos I’ll be working with here, I tell you,’ I said to the tall figure standing in the doorway. Then I heard the slightly unfamiliar sound of throat clearing and jumped up, ripping my sunglasses off to find none other than Bee Man looking down at me.

‘Alan! Hi!’ I exclaimed with a poor effort to use my hands to cover large amounts of exposed white flesh. ‘How nice to see you! Hi!’

‘Hello, Sunny Surprise.’ Cool as a cuttlefish. Bastard.

‘Wow! Do come in! Make yourself at home!’ I got up, scrambling around in my bikini, all sense of the whereabouts of my clothes gone. ‘Mind the balcony! Don’t lean on the rail! Christ.’ I spotted my tiny Oriental dressing gown on the couch and pulled it on hurriedly.

‘Did you get my message?’ he asked mildly, seemingly unfazed by my faffing about.

‘No!’ I grabbed my phone from the kitchen bench and glared at the screen.

Alan: Coming by to finish hive.

‘You sent this two minutes ago. You were already inside my house!’

‘Mmm, yeah, I was at the door.’ He nodded. ‘Nice dressing gown. I used to have one of those. So, I’ll just pop out the back and get started then. You feel free to carry on with your … “kiddos”.’ He gestured towards the laptop and then sauntered outside. I watched his retreating figure, all broad-shouldered and cute-bottomed and unflustered and dignified.

Damn the man!

I was clearly not going to spend the rest of the afternoon in bikini and risqué robe, so quickly went to my room and pulled on an appropriately modest tank top and hot pants. (Okay, not ‘Meet Your Grandma’ modest, but in fairness, there was an exceedingly sexy man in my garden, and all boring self-deprecating bodyimage crap aside, I had a pretty decent set of pegs.)

I carried out my tray, Crème Brûlée tea steeping satisfyingly. The hive was no longer by the door, so I teetered my way along the path and up to the back garden. Al was throwing some sort of digging tool about. Mattock? Sledgehammer? Impossible to say. I stood with my tray, transfixed, unable to tear my eyes away from the muscles in his back that kept bulging in a captivatingly animal sort of way under his thin T-shirt, which was damp with sweat. He smelt all man, no trace of perfumed deodorant or the likes, and I felt slightly dizzy with the heady scent.

‘Sunny Surprise!’

I startled. I didn’t realise I had closed my eyes and in hindsight might have looked slightly odd, standing there behind him, bearing tray, at one with my senses.

‘Partaking in a little mindfulness there?’ He was leaning on the end of a digging tool, chest heaving in the aftermath of the effort, a lazy smile on his lips. I was once again the focus of his amusement.

He proceeded to rustle around with bits of wood and soon a flat, table-like area had been erected. He invited me to lay my tray on it. We sat down on the sloping grass either side.

‘I would have done something suitably hostess-like and baked banana muffins or some such if I’d had more notice,’ I said with mild passive-aggression, ripping open a packet of Tim Tams.

‘I’m a pretty simple kind of guy, Sunny.’ He smiled, flashing his dimples, and picked out a Tim Tam. We both chewed and sipped, chewed and sipped, eyeing each other occasionally.

I took the time to calm down a little, reminding myself he was undoubtedly just another hot tosser I had no reason to get my knickers all twisted about. One hot tosser in my life was enough, thank you very much.

‘So where’s the accent from, Al-man?’

‘Many places,’ he said vaguely.

‘Oh, Al-ways this mysterious, are you?’

‘Al-ways.’

‘Dutch?’

‘No.’

‘German?’

‘No.’

‘Al-ready getting bored of this,’ I said and snored.

He laughed and helped himself to another Tim Tam. ‘I grew up in South Africa mostly.’

‘Were you born there?’

‘No. I was born in international waters.’

‘Oh, stop it.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And where are your parents?’

‘Eaten by lions.’

‘Was that before or after they christened you Alfonso?’

‘After, naturally.’

I narrowed my eyes at him. He was a very odd man. Handsome, trouble and decidedly odd.

We continued a vague conversation over the course of emptying the tea pot, which covered his parentless move to Australia aged sixteen to attend a private Sydney high school, where he was soon expelled from for breeding reptiles under his bunk, consequently ending up moving to live with his purplehaired Aunty Babs in rural northwest Tasmania. Then, following a string of university degrees with weird names, and a PhD, he went on to spend most of the summers of the last decade digging about in Antarctica.

I lay on the grass watching the clouds go past while he pottered away with drills and timber and occasional digging motions while rattling on with the Peter Pan–style story of his travels. Every now and again there were ex-girlfriends and wives who featured in the story who apparently also ‘got eaten by lions’, which began to seem unusual. I had no clue what parts of it were true but enjoyed the tale nonetheless, and it was easier than pretending to be occupied inside while the whole thing of him was out here in my garden.

After what might have been five minutes or five hours, his story wrapped up.

‘So, anyway, Sunny. Now my son is sixteen and my ex-wife got eaten by a lion. And your bee platform is done so I’ll be on my way.’

‘Why so many lions?’ I asked, pulling my sunnies down and looking at him, drawn back to the present from the rollicking adventure tale.

He shrugged. ‘That is how it is. Some stories are true, and some stories aren’t.’

‘You’re the weirdest man I’ve ever met.’

He gave a dimple-brandishing grin. ‘Well. I’m not going to keep a girl like you hanging out in the garden with me by talking about cable cars and house prices now, am I?’

Trouble. Alan De Jong. No doubt about it. He was trouble.

Now. Let me make a few things clear here. Despite appreciating him for aesthetic value, I really didn’t consider Bee Man as having any romantic potential. His combination of obvious intellect, disturbing sexiness and unprecedented oddity was almost certainly consistent with a general gigolo type. And there was something slightly unquantifiable about him, alluding to an exotic species that was best regarded with extreme caution. Besides, if I were to go for a player, I’d much rather go for a very simple one—which was why Adam was really everything I could have hoped for.

We’d established an easy groove, Adam and I. I saw him approximately twice weekly and communication was targeted primarily around where and when we would get naked together. Heart-to-hearts with Adam invariably involved him telling me about septic joints and arthroscopic washouts, and if we were getting really lively, advances in dynamic hip screws (trust me, not as sexually adventurous as they sound). The arrangement was transactional in the simplest of ways and I felt both parties were satisfied.

Anyway, life was busy. I couldn’t fathom how anyone actually found the time for boyfriends and relationships with everything else going on.

Chapter Nine

A week or so after Bee Man’s last visit, I was well into my efforts with my Wayward Youth Project (which, by the way, wasn’t its official name). I’d contacted eighteen out of the twenty identified participants and had received sixteen positive responses; two had been completely uncontactable, one had quite obviously, but nonetheless creatively, pretended to be a demented old lady when I called, so I let him off the hook for ingenuity, and one told me to, ‘Fuck the fuck off, you stuck-up white bitch, you wouldn’t have a fucking clue what I need,’ and, well, touché, I agreed not to have a fucking clue what she needed.

In addition to all this, it was getting towards the busy time of year in the art gallery. There was always a quick succession of exhibitions towards the end of the year, when artists preferred to showcase, and when the gallery really liked to pack them in to appeal to the hungry, cashed-up Christmas shoppers. Hand on my heart, the best thing about working at Jacque Gallery was my colleague Delia Delaney.

Delia had been there longer than the walls themselves. We’d met one night while standing in the queue for drinks at a fancy new Hobart wine bar. There was a collection of highly abstract Impressionist pieces hanging beside where we were standing. I squinted at one of the titles: Voluminous Reflections. I made a comment about how the colours really made me smell coconut muffins.

‘You’re so right,’ Delia had agreed. ‘I’m almost high on the sound of crashing waterfalls and distant church bells.’

‘Yes. And the way the red smudge next to the yellow smudge is working there I can almost feel my first UTI. Voluminous reflections indeed.’

We ended up taking our long-awaited drinks to a leather couch and spending the next three hours having a whale of a time, laughing about art wankers and various other pet-peeve groups.

By the end of the evening, she’d offered me a job at Jacque’s as the gallery assistant. The director of the gallery was an eccentric man in his eighties called Frederick, who, she assured me, would have no problem with my new appointment. I was exceedingly unattached to the hospitality job I had at the time, and was all too happy to make the transition pronto.

So, there we were, five years on and still working side by side, enjoying the endless opportunities to snigger at neurotic artists and demanding clients.

There were two highlights of the job at this time of year. One was the Christmas party, over which Delia and I had full artistic reign. And the second was the collaborative show, where all the artists we represented submitted a couple of small works, which were auctioned and the revenue donated to a charity of our choosing.

Because there were so many different artistic styles on display, Delia and I had discovered that we could surreptitiously make our own little contribution to really tickle our teasing hearts and wrap up the year of ‘fine art’. A week or two before the show, we would drink wine and throw some acrylic paint on a canvas then do some touch-ups with our toes. After about three minutes of dedicated work on the piece, we’d proclaim it finished, name it something like Lustful Nostalgia, sign it ‘Selia Dunny’ and put it on display in the group show. Watching the bids come through on the auction year after year gave us no end of pleasure. Once, our piece auctioned for $7200. The endangered caterpillars on Maria Island did really well that year.

That was all to come, but for now, our planning needed to go into the Christmas party. Frederick gave us a generous budget on the one condition that we come up with something original that wouldn’t make him fall asleep. We’d covered all sorts of things over the years, from pop-up hula-hoop dancers, to Zone 3 Laser Games at the Village Cinema (that didn’t go down so well, in hindsight).

Delia and I were using the first couple of hundred dollars of the Christmas party budget on manicures and foot massages, which were necessary for important pre-planning brainstorming sessions. We agreed that the sensory broadening of the mind that came with the application of pressure points combined with the aesthetic improvement of our feet was highly valuable in coming up with the most ingenious of plans. Of course there was always some initial loosening of the mind required, so we were twenty minutes into a discussion about the architecture of Bee Man’s torso. Delia liked detail on these sorts of subjects.

‘And do you feel there is any overrepresentation of shoulder bulk relative to pectorals or is it all in perfect proportion to what one would expect of a man, based on the Greek ideal of male characteristics?’ Delia asked from where she lay, cucumbers on her eyelids.

‘Look,’ I mused, ‘I always use these archetypal figures as a reference and when I compare him to the likes of Zeus and Eros, I definitely feel that he maintains a firm alignment. So firm.’

There was really no end to how long Delia and I could rattle on like this. Eventually, Delia sat up, cucumbers falling unceremoniously to the ground.

‘Let him bring his torso to the Christmas party! He can do topless guess-the-honey tasting competitions. Winner gets to cup a pec!’

And so it was decided: Bee Man would be recruited this year.

I had no concerns about whether or not Bee Man would agree to partake in our little festive plans; gigolo sorts loved to flaunt themselves about. All I had to do was wait for him to pop over so I could make my proposal and it would be underway. I was unsure when that might be, as the details of the whole bee thing still eluded me a little. I was doing a lot of background reading but the local bees were such a fascinating species I often found myself going down paths that weren’t entirely relevant to the initial setup stage. Now I had a platform in the backyard and a beehive, I figured all was in order and ready for the imminent arrival of bees.

On Tuesday afternoon, a rogue hot spring day in Hobart, I was driving my little green car out to New Town for the first Wayward Youth Rehearsal. I was nervous. And—strangely—excited.

Just as I parked my car, my phone rang.

‘Hey, Tommy Bear.’

‘Sunny. How are you?’

We exchanged a few pleasantries, but I needed to get my head into gear for the rehearsal, so I cut him off earlier than I usually would.

‘Tommy, I gotta run. Can I call you tomorrow?’

‘Actually Sunny, uh … do you have a moment? It’s about Mama.’

My heart plummeted. Oh, no. Not another invitation.

‘Okay,’ I said reluctantly.

‘She’s asked me to come over tomorrow night. Without the kids. And she suggested maybe you should come too.’

‘Right,’ I said slowly.

He hesitated and I felt myself frowning.

‘What’s going on, Tommy?’

‘I don’t know … but … uh …’ It was unlike him to struggle with his words like this. ‘I talked to her a few weeks back. She still seemed tired and out of sorts and I suggested she see her GP. She’s been very evasive about what the outcome was, but I’m sensing it might not be great news.’

My belly started to feel weird.

‘Okay. Sure. I’ll come with you after work.’

I was totally off balance when I hung up. Just what I didn’t need when facing a bunch of angsty teenagers for the first time. I got out and locked my car door, letting myself into the space, which was mercifully cool, and familiarised myself with the room—lights, mirrors, sound system, emergency exit (I sensed that could be of importance). I was less prepared than was ideal and tried to get some choreography ideas running through my head by turning on Hilltop Hoods. I hadn’t danced hip-hop in forever.

I looked at the time—6:15 pm. It occurred to me that maybe no one would turn up. I was surprised to note the thought filled me with a sense of disappointment. At 6:25 pm, just as I was preparing to pack up for the evening, a surly hooded male sauntered in, all baggy-panted and weedy looking.

‘Hi,’ I tried to sound friendly, approachable.

He replied with a grunt.

Okay.

Thereafter came a slow procession of similarly psyched-looking teen folk. I was becoming increasingly nervous.

‘’Sup, bitch,’ a shaved-headed adolescent greeted me.

It was hard to know what exact response this called for. ‘Um. Not much?’

I was starting to feel slightly nostalgic about the private school girls from Gina’s Dance Studio but quickly shook the thought. Within about five minutes, there was a whole throng of young people standing in small groups, flirtatious shit-talking, greasy hair touching, hips jutted, chests puffed, male voices pitched lower than was authentic, female voices the inverse. It felt enough just to sit there watching them. Teenagers—such an intimidating, fascinating species. Like observing animals in the jungle—that raw, lustful searching and wanting and sense of entitlement were simultaneously frightening and breathtaking.

I reflected on how the people in the age range of fourteen to seventeen instilled a timeless fear, all the more so en masse. I remembered when teenagers were older than me, watching them in petrified awe, then becoming a teenager myself and feeling the brief few years of hormonally charged, self-important super power and then, after passing through it, becoming once again terrified of them.

After a time, the girl with the heaviest makeup, who I recognised as Nikisha from my socials stalking, raised her voice above the hubbub.

‘So, what’s the dealio here, miss?’

Oh my God. It was like we were in a Hollywood movie.

‘Let’s just call me Sunny, please, or the cliché might make me want to vomit.’

There was the odd snigger then everyone fell silent. Expectant.

‘So, I understand you’ve all been kicked out of school and done this or that to offend. Yeah? And the conscientious folk are proposing that instead of community service like picking up rubbish in the mall, you get to come dance with me. Sound about right?’

Weary sets of eyes regarded me.

I sighed. ‘Look. I’m sure I seem about a hundred years old and I kind of am, but once upon a time I was your age. I really don’t know anything about you guys and am in no position to judge why you’re here, but I’m gonna tick off attendance, put some music on and show you a few hip-hop moves. Okey doke?’

When I got to the bit where I had to stand in front of these kids and start dancing, I thought I might perish with discomfort. But after a few minutes, I started to remember how it felt to dance hip-hop and how as a teenager it had helped me not to care. As my body found the old grooves, it was a comfort to realise it still helped me not to care.

All in all, the whole thing could have been worse. The kids were kind of sweet in the way they tried to do the moves, finding that balance of cool indifference while clearly enjoying the opportunity to flaunt their bodies in front of one another. And surely no one could argue it was worse than community service. If nothing else, I’d enjoyed dancing hip-hop again. For two hours, it had pushed my conversation with Tommy to the back of my mind.

By the time I arrived home and parked my car, I was all frowny and frazzled. I felt a mild sense of foreboding, which was attributable to some combination of not wanting to go to my parents’ house again and not wanting to know what was the matter with Mama. I had ten thousand balls in the air at the moment and it was getting a bit much for little old me.

It was still hot, which was making me über cranky, and daylight just seemed to go on and on, which I really wasn’t in the mood for. Sometimes the long days of our southern latitude were just too much. I wanted the cold, peace and quiet of darkness, of winter. But alas. The birds were singing and the distant sound of a lawn mower was piercing through the evening air in a celebration of a domesticity I would never know.

I pulled out my bag and locked the car, carrying my sweaty dance shoes in my hands as I walked barefoot across the warm concrete. My tight dance shorts were sticky on my bum and I felt condensation between my crop top–hugged boobs that was quite disgusting. The lawn mower was becoming louder. Sometimes my neighbour, Bob, got enthusiastic at this time of year. But the sound didn’t appear to be coming from Bob. In fact, the closer I got to my back door, the louder the sound became, the whining and smell of two-stroke an increasingly rude assault to my senses. I found myself walking towards the noise like a blind game of hit the pot, and indeed, as I padded my way up the broken concrete steps towards the backyard it seemed I was getting hotter and hotter and—fuck my life—hotter.

There, sporting a pair of work pants and a bicep-brandishing, king-of-the-jungle navy Bonds singlet, was Bee Man, swinging something around that I’d guess was some sort of brush-cutter, but whose sole apparent purpose was for rendering a young lass slightly delirious.

He spotted me, turned off the noisy thingy and pulled the earmuffs to hang down his neck. I was momentarily too bedazzled to say anything—too busy with my fish impersonation.

‘Sunny Surprise!’

‘Hello, uh, Uh-man. Al-man.’ Some more fish-reminiscent mouth work and the distinct feeling of my face burning. ‘You’re in my yard. With your thingy. And your arms out.’ I was staring. Shite. It had been a weird evening.

He nodded in acknowledgement before gesturing to me vaguely. ‘And yourself, I note, also in your yard. With your arms out.’

I remembered my dance shorts and crop top. I was regrettably ill-dressed on frequent occasions around this man. One should wear more clothes around gigolos, I concluded, making a mental note for future.

‘What are you doing?’ I finally managed.

‘I’m making us a path for our lovely bees.’ He gestured to the hive and what was an almost perfectly cleared path through the long grass. His smile was so lovely and satisfied that I found I was smiling back despite myself.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘That’s lovely then, isn’t it? Shall we drink beer to christen it?’

He agreed that was a sterling plan and carried on making loud machinery noises while I went inside to fetch said beverages. Adam had a habit of buying overpriced craft beer made out of things like goat’s whey (presumably just to show off how ridiculously overpaid he was) so my fridge was thoroughly stocked with the likes of these animal-based products. But nary a trouble, it all tasted like beer to me. I made myself somewhat decent by throwing a loose tee on (it was too hot for much else) and took the drinks outside. The finishing touches were apparently complete, because Al was pulling the brush-cutter strap over his (outrageously buff) shoulder.

‘A nicely mown patch for you, Miss Surprise.’

‘Very nice work, Alan.’

We sat side by side, necking our respective fizzy whey. It really wasn’t too bad. I kept my eyes forward, lest they strayed towards dangerous territory.

‘Nice day?’ I didn’t know what else to say, but felt conversation was expected.

‘Fantastic day. And yourself?’

I grunted. ‘It was all right. Some rich indecisive man at the gallery couldn’t work out which painting he wanted to buy. Kept changing his mind, trying to decide what the more sophisticated choice was, then at one point he actually remarked, with profound, arty feeling, how they reminded him of the Caesar salad he’d had for lunch. After which I tried to get a bunch of pot smokers to dance hip-hop with variable success. So, you know. Mixed bag.’

He chuckled. ‘That a true story or a little bit like the lions?’

‘True. God. Yes, my life really is that ridiculous. What did you do?’

‘Plucked a chicken I pilfered from Government House last night. Ever read Fantastic Mr Fox? I take great life inspiration from the book.’

I snorted. I was familiar with the book. It was the only kids’ book I could tolerate reading to Millie’s lot. ‘Do you ever say anything true?’

‘I thought you liked my stories.’

‘Sure.’ I shrugged. ‘So do you identify as Boggis or Bean? You’re too tall for Bunce.’

‘Mr Fox, obviously,’ he deadpanned. ‘Very cunning. Stealthy.

Fox-like.’ The pale blue of his eyes sparkled with mischief.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Tell me something true,’ I said, turning away to swig my beer.

‘You first,’ he insisted. ‘Do you always drink wanker beer?’

‘Ungrateful.’ I shoved him in the shoulder. ‘But no. Fancy friend of mine’s.’

‘No complaints here,’ he said. ‘I’m lucky if the home brew I make turns out fizzy and not explosive. Tricky business. Tastes like shit but a beer’s a beer, right?’

I sniggered. He was easy company actually. So long as I didn’t look at the man. Jesus.

‘So this red carpet you’ve made here.’ I patted the freshly cut grass beside us. ‘All ready for the bees to come wandering up, you reckon?’

‘Yup. Be a swarm soon. This hot weather will get them moving again. Was looking like a bleak season for bees with all the rain, but I reckon they’ll come good.’

I nodded like I understood what he was talking about. I really needed to learn more about these bees. He rattled on a little more about queens and worker bees, which got me thinking about work and queens and all the lovely gay folk who came to the art gallery.

‘I have a question for you,’ I said, when there seemed an appropriate lull in the conversation.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Wondering if you do honey-tasting sessions?’ I explained to him about the Christmas party business, omitting Delia’s topless request—I didn’t feel that was necessary for anyone, least of all me, to witness.

‘Sounds like a whale of a time. Sure, I’ll do it.’

Simple as that. I knew he’d agree to it.

Chapter Ten

Wednesday evening came around far too quickly.

Tommy picked me up from the gallery after work and we chatted about our Christmas plans. But the conversation was more tense than usual, on my part because of the impending parental visit, and on his part—not sure, but presumably the Mama stuff.

It was rare for just the four of us to be together. Usually Emma and the kids would be an excellent tension diffuser, but there would be no respite on this occasion.

We sat in awkwardly stilted conversation for a while around the kitchen-dining area of my upbringing. Papa knew he’d pissed me off last time and was both angry with me as well as pointedly treading lightly. So. Bloody. Relaxing.

I left appropriate gaps, hoping that the point of the evening would present itself but not game enough to ask outright.

Tommy came through with the goods. He always had been an excellent communicator. ‘Mama. How did you go at the doctor?’

I saw the look shared between my parents and something shifted inside me. If I were good at articulating my feelings, I might have understood it as something like frustration moving towards worry.

‘Do you want me to say it, Stephanie?’ Papa asked with a gentleness that made alarm bells ring.

‘Ach, no.’ Mama waved her hand dismissively. Tommy was right now that I thought about it. She looked different.

There was a pause that seemed to stretch a weighty, weighty eternity before she spoke.

‘I have ovarian cancer.’

She was always matter-of-fact, my mother. The words that came out of her mouth were so hugely monumental and devastatingly horrid, but her delivery was so devoid of emotion that my brain took several moments to catch up.

‘Mama,’ Tommy whispered and the fear in his voice finally woke me up. I searched his face, hoping for meaning in what was going on. My lack of medical knowledge felt brutally apparent. I didn’t know what to say. Was this a bad cancer?

‘Are you feeling … okay?’ I finally managed, shock seeming to have stolen my voice. I thought about reaching over to touch her hand, but she’d already moved it before I’d finished considering whether that was appropriate.

‘I’m tired.’ She shrugged and looked out the window, her expression unreadable.

I looked at my papa and saw his anguished expression, which didn’t fill me with confidence of a bright prognosis.

‘Have they confirmed it? Have you had a biopsy?’ Tommy was asking. He’d moved his chair beside Mama and his hand rested naturally on her knee.

Words like tumour markers and CT scans and bony metastases washed over me and I felt increasingly floaty, like I wasn’t quite there. When Tommy started crying, I knew things were properly shit. All I could focus on was the fact that there was music playing on the stereo. It was Eva Cassidy’s ‘Time After Time’.

There was never music playing in our house.

I should have known right then something was really, very wrong.

Chapter Eleven

The rest of the week passed in a daze. I felt numb and confused, with emotions about my mother I didn’t know how to handle. I was so used to being angry, defiant and bitchy to my parents that this was entirely uncharted territory.

Midmorning on Thursday, Delia demanded an explanation. ‘What the fuck is up with you, Sunny?’

I stared back at her. I’d been doing a lot of that. Staring. Unseeing.

‘I think my mum is dying.’

I watched mildly as she put a ‘closed’ sign on the gallery door and took me to the café across the road. She did most of the talking, saying things like, ‘Isn’t life just a bitch?’ and how she’d heard of someone overcoming ovarian cancer by meditating and maybe that was a good idea? And about how she’d seen those car stickers that said ‘Fuck Cancer’ and she could order a bunch if I was keen? She might have succeeded in making me smile. I couldn’t really remember. It was a weird time.

Millie insisted we go for a walk up the Rivulet track when she found out. She even managed to get a leave pass from children and there were no screaming matches about needing a lolly or a poo or a packet of Rice Bubbles or whatever. That made it all seem very serious.

She hooked her arm through mine. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said truthfully. I was still struggling to feel anything at all. Like I wasn’t quite there. Like my brain and my body weren’t properly connected any more.

‘Is it really bad?’

I’d managed to find out some more concrete information over the last few days. Tommy had been patient with me and spoken very slowly.

‘They’re not bothering with treatment,’ I said. ‘Which I don’t think means the prognosis is … peachy.’

‘Ah, shit, Sunny.’ She squeezed my arm.

We wandered in silence for a few moments. A jogger overtook us.

‘Have you cried?’ Millie asked.

‘No.’

I could feel her looking at me. It would have been very different if this was her mum. She would have known how to react. It would all have been normal.

‘What are you feeling?’

‘I don’t know, Millie,’ I said. ‘I feel numb. And guilty. Scared. I’ve stuffed this daughter thing up. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this now.’

‘You haven’t stuffed it up. You’ll work it out. Give yourself time,’ she said gently. She squeezed my arm again.

On Friday night, we went to my parents’ again. This time, Emma and the kids came too.

When I arrived, Mama and I looked at one another for a taut moment before I leant in for a slightly stiff hug. She patted my back and I patted hers. It was like I’d never in my life hugged a human and didn’t know how it was done. I felt sick, like a disgusting excuse for a person and I wished I was someone else—someone who knew how to handle this.

No one talked about Mama’s cancer. Over dinner, it felt like the silence around the polite requests for salt and offers of water, et cetera, was voluminous. No one knew what to talk about. At one point, Mama snapped uncharacteristically at Emma when she asked how she was feeling. Other than that, we all skirted around like there truly was a giant elephant in the room.

All the while Eva Cassidy was playing. Again. Turned out I hadn’t imagined it.

On my way out, I found myself looking at Mama’s shoes by the door. Her black, flat, well-supported shoes. She’d been wearing the same type for as long as I could remember. There was a trace of dust on the sides and a crease across the leather where her toes flexed. From somewhere, I found a feeling of tenderness rising inside me at the sight of them there, so worn and unassuming. I remembered out of nowhere an old black-and-white photo I’d seen of her as a little girl in her school uniform, with her shiny, hopeful shoes—also black. I wondered if this was all that little girl had imagined for her life or if her dreams had been more than a house in suburbia, a strained family, an exhausting job and the curtain call arriving before her sixty-second birthday.

The thought was almost enough to make me cry.

Chapter Twelve

Millie announced she and Pete and the tribe were coming over on Saturday to start Project Balcony. My wash of enthusiasm for home improvements seemed to have evaporated already, but the company was welcome after everything that had transpired in the last week. They were like family, Millie and Pete, and just seeing them was enough to make my tension unravel a fraction.

‘Sorry to hear about your mum, Sunny,’ Pete said as he arrived, an easy hand on my back and a carton of Moo Brew under his other arm. ‘An advance,’ he explained.

I smiled before we were pushed through the doorway into the house with the arrival of the kids and Millie. They’d treated me to a civilised start, which was nice, but it was still on the coffee side of midday.

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

I busied myself in the kitchen while Pete carried various pieces of building paraphernalia through my living room to the balcony outside. He talked about a bunch of things I didn’t understand but the gist of it was, I believed, that the pillars or foundations or poles or something that were holding the whole thing up were sound but the rail and decking needed replacing. I couldn’t really give a rat’s. So long as no one fell off and died on my property and I could catch the occasional bit of ‘cheeky afternoon sun’ (to quote the shmoozy real estate agent who sold the joint to me) I’d be happy.

As it turned out, eleven am or not, no one felt like coffee. I’d always had my concerns about Pete’s building site safety standards, which were confirmed when he started hooking into a cold tinny. Followed very closely by Millie and myself—but we weren’t operating any power tools.

The kids drank some homemade elderflower cordial that Mother Earth had brought. Insert eye roll.

Millie and I were soon onto our second, comfortably sinking deeper into the couch. I was feeling myself relax and enjoying the company despite the occasional high-pitched dispute among the children and the highly variable music selection that was blaring out of Pete’s Makita speaker.

‘What the hell is this?’ I called from my position to where he was working on the balcony beyond the playpen fence he’d set up across the doorway. ‘Highly effeminate taste you’re displaying here.’

‘Telenova. “Bones.” I thought you’d like this.’

‘I do.’ I smiled. ‘I just didn’t think you were such a girl.’

‘I’m being sensitive. You’re grieving,’ he said, before making some loud drilling noise. It seemed he was in actual fact pulling my balcony apart. Very counterproductive from my perspective.

‘He’s lying,’ Millie said. ‘He’s a total girl. Next he’ll be playing Thelma Plum.’

Sure enough, ‘Better in Blak’ boomed through.

‘Righto then, peanut gallery. Choose something else if you’re so fussy.’ Pete was now holding what appeared to be a sledgehammer and was literally smashing my balcony apart.

‘Hilltop Hoods are playing at the Derwent Entertainment Centre in a month or so,’ Millie said. ‘Shall we go? Get trolleyed for old times’ sake?’

‘Christ. Are they still going? I think the last time I saw them was about fifteen years ago.’

Millie chuckled. ‘Was that the night you scootered barefoot from North Hobart to the uni bar?’

‘Mmm.’ I winced at the memory. I’d almost lost the end of three of my toes on that particular adventure.

‘We should go.’ Pete paused between sledgehammer activity and pulled out his phone. Thelma Plum was rudely interrupted by the familiar beats of Hilltop’s ‘Cosby Sweater’. He started some kind of arms-in-the-air, pulsing behaviour, tool belt jutting around with his obscene hip thrusting.

‘Your husband is such a loser,’ I muttered to Millie, not particularly quietly.

‘I know, right?’ Millie agreed with resignation, but she was smiling and starting to groove her head in time with the music. I could feel her eyes on me but I didn’t look at her. I could see where this was headed.

You see, the thing about friends who were young parents was that they drank approximately half a glass of wine on their most excitable sessions and this was when they were being really outrageous. Millie had always been a lightweight and now she was positively feathery. Needless to say, it was no huge surprise that after two Moo Brews on a Saturday, she was significantly inebriated and now encouraging me to dance in front of children, her goof of a husband and the midday sun.

Perhaps it was all the heavy stuff I’d been contemplating, because, to my surprise, I was participating.

Pete turned the music up. I noticed with mild irritation that Wattle was pulling all the books off the shelf and Blossom had picked up a lacy red bra from the clothes horse and was tying it on her head. But then I got distracted with the likes of the ‘shopping trolley’ and the ‘sprinkler’ and the Legally Blonde ‘Bend and Snap’.

Pete had stayed on his side of the child-proof fence but was displaying no signs of self-consciousness either, really giving that tool belt a seeing to.

It was, of course, when we had reached the peak of thirtysomething dance-enthusiasm that the slightly lilting accent of my new acquaintance made me freeze mid ‘bend’.

‘Hello, everyone.’

I turned to the door, already cringing. There, in a halo of sunshine, was Al.

‘Fonzie! What hell are you doing here man?’

For some reason, that was Pete. My mind boggled in all sorts of ways.

‘Petey!’ Al was walking into my house now and high-fiving Pete over the child barrier then doing some kind of fist-clutch, half-hug thing.

Millie was staring at me with ‘Hooley dooley, I’d tap that’ eyes (an expression I was rather familiar with). I gave her my stern look in response.

Pete pulled away and pointed a finger between us with confusion. ‘You guys…?’

‘No!’ I answered in a hurry. I mean, Jesus. I grimaced at Bee Man to show my shock at such a preposterous assumption. It was paramount I didn’t let it slip that I had noticed his outrageous sex appeal. His giant hot-man ego wouldn’t need that kind of reinforcement.

I rushed into some kind of bee explanation but trailed off. I had no clue why Al was here again and, on reflection, there had been a surprisingly vast number of visits involved in the whole enterprise.

‘Sunny and I met at the market actually.’

I snapped my head in Al’s direction. Oh God. He remembered.

‘She tried to steal the honey I’d promised to someone else. I’d never encountered such a determined customer.’ He was looking at me like the whole ridiculous scene was flashing through his mind. I thought I might die from shame.

He gave me one of those tiny smiles that held all the naughtiness and mystery in the southern fucking hemisphere.

Trouble!

‘Why do you know him?’ Millie was asking Pete, and I nodded enthusiastically in mute agreement. That was indeed the question I had been shouting in my head but struggling to find the words to articulate.

‘Don College.’ He was smiling at Al and, I could only surmise, reliving amusing memories in his mind, presumably to do with Al’s womanising past. ‘Devonport.’

Al nodded towards the beer in Pete’s hand. ‘Looks like you’ve moved up in the world.’

Pete chuckled and shook his head. ‘Can take the boy out of Devonport. Want a beer, mate?’

So, there we all were. Drinking beer in my lounge room while the kids tore my home apart. Pete and Al seemed to have a lot of ground to cover and high school anecdotes to share, which was nothing short of enlightening. I was a little thrown by their apparent past friendship. I had a high regard for Pete and it put my suspicions of Al’s character in question. From time to time, I found myself staring. Al would catch me and treat me to one of his amused smiles before I would blush and look away.

I wondered how long the whole thing would last, but all in all, I didn’t completely resent the distraction from the strange week I’d had. Pete appeared to remove approximately two more screws before calling it a day and I was grateful that I wasn’t paying him. If his current progress was anything to go by, I would undoubtedly end up penniless on the street had he demanded payment.

As for Bee Man, I had really no idea why he was here at all, and I was too polite to query him.

Eventually, Wattle threw himself on the floor in defiant protest after Millie insisted that ‘we need to keep our nappies on at other people’s houses’. The ‘we’ reference was concerning.

I’d just about had enough, so offered thoughtfully, ‘Maybe he needs a nap?’

The Millie tribe departed in a rambunctious affair of bags and bottles and dummies and tools and I walked Al to the door behind them.

‘Well,’ I said as we loitered somewhat awkwardly in the entryway after the others had tumbled down the path to Pete’s Hilux. After a moment my politeness was trumped by genuine bewilderment. ‘Lovely of you to stop by but … why did you come here today, Alan?’

‘The frames,’ he said simply, giving me no further clues. ‘I built the frames for the hive and I needed to slot them in. The final step. Now we’re ready for your bees.’

I was surprised to find a little thrill of pleasure in my chest. Even with everything going on with Mama, I was going to have bees and look after them. I was going to do something good.

‘Thanks, Al,’ I said with feeling.

He was already walking down the path and his playful wave combined with his effortless smile caught me somewhat unexpectedly—right there where the thought of bees had.

And it felt bizarrely very nice.

When Adam arrived that evening, the house was still in a state of chaos, with the now semi-demolished balcony, remains of the playpen and kids’ toys in a lucky-dip style heap amid the contents of my bookshelf. I was sitting on the couch with my mobile in hand, thirty minutes into an attempt at constructing a message to Mama, suggesting maybe we catch up sometime. I’d gotten as far as: Hi Mama.

‘You’ve had a busy day,’ he said with amusement, noting the general state of affairs and picking a lacy lilac G-string off the light shade, where it had been discarded lasso-style by Blossom after being reprimanded by Millie that ‘it is not a necklace!’

‘Don’t ask,’ I said from where I sat on the couch.

It was good he was there, really. Tempting as it was to wallow in my funk and feel sorry for myself and my mum and the fly on the windowsill whose wings had been pulled off by Wattle earlier that day, there was unlikely any good to come of it. Ongoing distraction was a good thing.

In a moment of weakness, I thought about mentioning the Mama stuff to Adam. I wasn’t sure where to start.

‘Do you know much about ovarian cancer?’ I asked when he’d flopped down beside me with his fizzy whey.

‘Nup. I just do bones.’

I shook my head at him and took a sip of his beer. ‘That’s lovely, Adam.’

‘Any time, Moritz.’

Later, when our naked bodies were pressed against each other, I was grateful for the simplicity of touch and pleasure. More than ever, I relished the way the thoughts were pushed out of my head and my whole being dissolved into the sensory experience. With all that was going on, I really needed that.

In the very last moment, when my climax was inevitable and my mind was a clean plate of blissed-out nothingness, something very odd happened. I suppose this was the kind of thing people referred to when they mentioned ‘intrusive thoughts’, because it was entirely without preamble or any fault of my own.

But in the instant before the shuddering waves of ecstasy pulsed through me, a name and a face arrived quite unannounced in my head.

Alfonso.

Chapter Thirteen

Adam was gone before I woke up on Sunday and I was just settling into some alone time to read more about bees when my phone rang. It was Papa.

‘Hi, Papa,’ I said tentatively. It was exceedingly rare for my father to call me on my mobile. I was almost surprised he had my phone number and knew how to operate the technology.

Without beating around the bush, he announced he wanted to see me and was I home and could he come over right now? The last time my father had visited me was for an awkward afternoon tea Tommy had insisted on shortly after I bought the place. Today, I was again left with very little choice in the matter.

I got myself out of my slinky PJs and into some inoffensive clothes to avoid prompting any early disapproval.

I greeted my father with a perfunctory peck on both cheeks and invited him in. His body was stiff and he felt all at once too big and too small for the space that was my home. He just did not fit in.

I felt the weight of Papa’s eyes scanning the room. I’d tried to tidy a few things, but in reality it was still a milder version of the chaos created by the onslaught of visitors yesterday. I withered like a dying flower under his judgemental gaze. Although over the years I’d made every attempt to reject the scrutiny and pressures I sensed from my parents, the truth was I cared what they thought of me.

‘Cup of tea?’ I offered to fill the silence.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The sound of the kettle boiling was heaven. When it subsided, Papa made an uncharacteristic attempt at small talk.

‘Looks like you’ve settled in here.’

I nodded.

‘Seemed quite overpriced at the time. But maybe not a bad choice with how the property market has gone.’ This was high praise from Papa.

I made tea from leaves without thinking. My feeble attempts at demonstrating sophistication to my parents came through in the most useless of ways. Papa liked his tea strong with the smallest bit of milk. Incorrect ratios and colouring of the end product were inevitably met with disapproval. I noticed I was trying very hard, concentrating to get it right.

‘Have a seat, Papa.’ I gestured to one of the bar stools by the kitchen—it was that or the sinky plum couch facing the broken balcony.

He perched uncertainly on a stool and then launched into his apparent agenda item. There really wasn’t any faff factor in my father’s communication style.

‘I hope you understand the seriousness of your mother’s condition, Sara.’

I met his eye. ‘Uh, yes,’ I managed. ‘Tommy explained the diagnosis.’

He held my gaze steadily. ‘At best, we can hope she might still be well enough to enjoy Christmas. But it will be her last.’

He fell silent again. I nodded again. His features were hard, the gentleness and emotion I’d witnessed at their house last week gone. If I convinced myself, maybe there was a hint of it in his eyes, but it was tiny, squashed once more beneath the layers that had always hidden my father.

‘Is there … is there anything you need us to do? Tommy and me?’

‘Tommy.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘He is an exceptional man. A wonderful doctor and always thoughtful.’

There was another gap in the conversation as the underlying message of his words reached me as though they had been shouted: I was nothing.

‘I know your relationship with your mother has not always been easy, Sara,’ he continued. ‘What I hope you realise is that there is very little time for you to resolve it.’

My body was as tight as knot. I opened my mouth like I knew how to respond to this. All I felt was a tense constriction in my throat.

I waited, but it seemed this was all my father had to say. My eyes were out the window, past him. My body began a fine tremble, fuelled by frustration and hurt and confusion. A well-worn combination.

When he cleared his throat, I managed to meet his eye again. ‘Well,’ he said with the smallest of a shrug. For a moment it surfaced—sadness and something that might have been regret. He stood up and walked himself to the door before I could make any more sense of what it was he was feeling.

I watched the door close behind him and felt the emotions bubble up stronger, ugly and familiar. All I ever heard from my parents was the insinuation that I was a problem. It felt like the soundtrack of my relationship with them, and the only way I knew how to deal with that was to armour myself with anger and defensiveness.

But just before that well-rehearsed wall of self-preservation closed around me, I faltered and felt it again: the realisation that maybe it was time to take responsibility for my part in our broken relationship. That perhaps holding onto my bitterness, my cynicism and my sense of being wronged by my parents was not the path to happiness.

After all, time was running out. Maybe I should consider a different approach.

Adam came back for the evening and the lightness of his company was like properly good air-freshener. I’d managed to complete the message to Mama I’d started the previous day, and the emotional energy it had required had left me completely exhausted. A sensory unload was just what I needed. I’d kept my eyes open at the critical moment this time, lest any intrusive thoughts entered again.

Afterwards, I was lying on the couch in my PJs, my legs draped over Adam’s knees, when there was a knock at the door. It felt like I had no respite from impromptu visitors these days.

‘Oh my God!’ I sighed. ‘What is this? A fucking showroom where everyone just pops in for public viewings when they fancy?’

‘Would have been quite the showroom a few minutes ago,’ Adam said with a smug smile.

I dug my heel into his groin.

‘I might head actually. Leave you to your visitor.’ He turned to me, suddenly inquisitive. ‘Visitor?’

‘Oh, piss off! No. For your information, I don’t have any other of those sorts of visitors.’

The knock came again. Slightly louder this time.

I groaned and swung myself up off the couch while Adam disappeared into the bedroom to gather his things.

It was a very late time for a knock on the door. Maybe Glenda the weird, stringy-haired neighbour on the Not-Bob side of the fence had lost her cat again.

I literally jumped when the insistent knock on the door came again. By this point, I was standing only a foot away from the frosted glass.

I opened it.

‘Alan!’ I was shocked to see the Bee Man standing there in the darkness.

‘Sunny Surprise!’ He gave such an entertainingly delighted look of ‘Fancy seeing you here!’ that I found myself almost smiling despite my best intentions.

I pulled my features into something more stern. ‘What are you doing here? It’s nearly midnight!’ Okay, it was probably closer to nine pm. But still!

At that moment, I saw his eyes land on something behind me and his expression changed.

‘Hey, all good?’ That was Adam.

‘Yes! This is Adam, um, who’s … well … just leaving and this is Alan, I mean Al-something rather, or Fonzie…?’ I gave him a what-the-fuck sort of gesture, because—honestly! ‘Who is helping me with bees and is here for…?’

‘I have a swarm.’ Al’s enthusiasm level seemed to have dropped considerably.

Adam was beside me then and I felt him cock his head, clearly bewildered by the situation. I might not have mentioned the bees. Couldn’t be sure. We never did talk about much, Adam and I.

Adam’s voice was low when he spoke. ‘Are you … okay if I go?’

It was quite sweet really, though I hardly knew what he thought he’d do. Wheel out a femoral hip prosthesis? Throw a fitness app at Al? They were of similarly solid height and build, but I’d guess Adam would be about as effective in a brawl as Glenda the cat lady.

‘Sunny?’ he said again. It seemed I was prone to distraction tonight.

‘Yes!’ I said with slightly more elevation in tone than was required. ‘All good. I know Al.’ I gave Adam a reassuring nod.

He looked at me uncertainly before leaning in to kiss me on the cheek—a slightly more possessive gesture than was needed—and walking through the door. Bee Man moved to let him pass and we both watched as he disappeared down the side of the house.

All in all, it was one of the more awkward meets at Chez Sunny. If we were in a song, several beats would have passed. Perhaps even a bar or two.

Eventually we looked at one another, matching eyebrows raised.

‘That Whey Man?’ Al asked mildly.

‘Huh?’ I asked, as though I had no clue what he was asking about. I was hoping we might just pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.

‘Boyfriend?’ he tried again.

‘No! Certainly not a boyfriend. God. Just a friend. With expensive taste in beer. Ha ha.’ I felt like the biggest loser in the whole world.

His eyebrows were still busy nudging his hairline. I found myself wondering what he must think and felt revolting. Even if Al was a womaniser himself, I wouldn’t have him thinking I was that kind of girl.

‘Not—shit. That must sound terrible,’ I stammered. ‘He’s a friend. But not a boyfriend. But I don’t have lots of—’

‘Sunny,’ he said gently. ‘It’s all good. You don’t have to explain. Not my business. I shouldn’t have asked.’

I was more frazzled than I would have expected. It wasn’t his business, but the idea of him thinking badly of me made me feel kind of sick. This was the problem with these exotic-bird gigolo types—they had a habit of getting under your skin in unexpected ways.

‘I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of tramp. I just—’ Shit. The world was looking a little blurry. Where had the dust come from? ‘I don’t do … relationships very well.’

I swallowed what seemed to be a rogue frog that had found its way into my throat. Evidently, the events of the last week and Papa’s odd visit were getting to me.

Al’s features softened further and he smiled at me with some gentle combination of amusement, kindness and—golly, I must have been feeling truly all over the place, but it looked almost like affection?

‘I imagine that belongs with the lions, doesn’t it?’ He was leaning against the door frame and his foot moved a fraction to tap my own, which both surprised and somehow comforted me. Hang on, what was going on here? Man-slut pretending to be sensitive? Me falling for it? How confusing the world was of late. I needed to pull myself together.

A few more bars passed.

‘Now, come on. We have an exciting night ahead. Go get a jumper and I’ll tell you all about these bees. They seem very good natured, quirky, loveable, with an underlying feisty streak, and I would guess the sweetest honey in all of Tasmania. Perfect for you.’

I did as I was told and followed him out to his car, hugging my cardigan to my chest. When I saw him reach for a box of white fabric, a thought occurred to me.

‘Oh … is it okay if I don’t wear the suit thingy tonight?’ The idea of standing in that ridiculous headpiece and white onesie was beyond me.

He smiled. ‘All good. I’ll just be popping the hive down anyway, you keep back a couple of metres and you’ll be right.’

I watched him get his gear on and carry a wooden box up to my bee platform in the garden.

He faffed about for a little while and I crouched in the grass, listening to his bee nattering. I didn’t take in much other than the bit about the Queen.

‘She’s just a regular bee, Sunny, then she’s given the royal jelly and turns into a queen. She goes out on mating flights and has sex with all the drones. Every day. All day long. Everyone loves her. Until she’s no good anymore and then they kill her and give the royal jelly to someone else.’

His eyes glinted at me playfully and I thought about his words. There must be a life lesson in there. I just really couldn’t work out what it was.

Chapter Fourteen

When Tuesday came around, I was exhausted and astounded by the events that had unfolded in the last week. What with Mama’s illness and my new responsibility to the thousands of bees in my backyard, it was enough to make me feel a little manic. And on top of that, I still had to find it in me to move this Wayward Youth thing forward.

The students arrived slightly more punctually this time, presumably because I’d told them last week I would tally up how many minutes they made me wait and add on the equivalent in extra lessons dancing to Shania Twain.

They huddled in groups, coolness and shrieks of laughter all over the place. I could already see the beginnings of theatretype camaraderie developing among them—those folk always bonded when thrown into shitty situations, like trying to make Les Misérables new and exciting for the ten thousandth time. No doubt this would be similarly gruelling.

Nikisha sauntered in ahead of a gaggle and raised her voice in a very important kind of way.

‘So, miss—’

‘Sunny,’ I corrected.

‘Whatever. We’ve been talking. And we only want to do this if we can dance to Halsey.’

‘Halsey?’ I repeated. ‘That’s not hip-hop.’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not dancing to that shit,’ a slimy-haired boy sneered.

I rolled my eyes as a boring conversation ensued, which basically involved all of them working out how to show their coolness or breasts—or both—most effectively. I didn’t really care what they danced to, though listening to Halsey for two hours every week was possibly enough to make me question the value of life.

‘Okay, okay, shut up!’ I finally called. ‘You do Halsey for your song. The boys do Hilltops’ “Cosby Sweater” because every other suggestion was rubbish. We’ll work out the group number later.’

‘Let’s do the group one to Bliss n Eso’s “Moments”,’ someone who smelled like a bong said—possibly Darren? ‘It’s about growing up.’

I stared at him, the chorus of the song starting in my mind. It was fitting.

We had the beginnings of a plan. Perfect.

‘So, is it like a “friends with benefits” type situation?’ Millie was asking, between pages of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Wattle was on her lap. Pete was on the balcony with beer and tools. Blossom and Forest were having a Granny afternoon.

‘No,’ I said firmly, regretting the fact that I’d told her about Al’s late night visit with the swarm.

‘Or like, bees with happy ending?’

I shook my head in disgust. ‘You’re so sad.’

‘A little bit of Humpty Dumpty afterwards?’ She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Is he single?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘You don’t know?’ She was genuinely aghast. ‘He’s like a real-life, walking, talking Patrick Swayze!’

Millie was always on the lookout for a real-life Patrick Swayze and the bar was always getting lower. Though on this occasion, she was right. All other things aside—including the fact that he was most certainly a heartbreaker—Bee Man was a total god. And I really needed to curb the amount of time he was occupying my thoughts. A subject change was in order.

‘Did you know that bees have one-hundred-and-seventy odour receptors? And that the queen has her own Queen Mandibular Pheromone? QMP. She’s so hot.’

‘Oh God. You’re turning into a crazy bee lady already.’

‘And that ninety-nine per cent of bees in a hive are girls? And that in autumn the girls literally kick the boy bees out of the hive so they die. Meanwhile the girls eat the honey all winter. They’re so fucking cool.’

‘Okay, that’s pretty fucking cool,’ Millie agreed.

Pete called me outside to talk through decking options for a while. But I was only half listening, distracted by Millie, who’d started sniggering on the couch.

I headed back inside.

‘What are you laughing about?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’ She jumped when Pete’s phone in her hand pinged.

My eyes followed the sound and landed on my name there on the lit-up screen.

‘What’s this?’ I grabbed the phone out of her hand before she could stop me. Her smile was a picture of naughtiness. There was a message that involved my name but I couldn’t read it with the screen locked. ‘Unlock it,’ I demanded.

She continued sniggering.

‘Millicent!’ Her name was just Millie, but it wasn’t fair she could pull out the Sara card on me when I had no stern-voice, formal-name equivalent for her. ‘Unlock. The. Phone.’

‘Fine then!’ She took it back and put in Pete’s passcode.

There was a two-message chain.

Pete: Hey Fonzie! Great seeing you the other day. Sunny’s the business isn’t she?

‘“Sunny’s the business”? What the fuck, Millie? Did you write this?’ My voice was somewhere around high C.

Pete cont: She gave me your number.

‘Did she now?’ I shrieked.

Pete cont: Anyway, be great to catch up sometime. We could all go for beers? Pete

I stared at her and shook my head very slowly, and very darkly. She was still sniggering away and, for a moment, I forgot there was another message.

Fonzie: Hey mate! Great to catch up. Yep, Sunny’s a firecracker.

My tummy did a little wobbly turn there. Damn my tummy!

Fonzie cont: For sure let’s grab a beer sometime.

I turned to Millie. ‘You really are such a child. But if that’s what we’re doing now, hmm …’ I drummed my fingers on the edge of the phone then typed.

Pete: Did I mention I’ve been doing yoga?

I hit send. Millie raised an eyebrow at me.

‘What?’ I said. ‘It’s Pete’s fault for doing yoga. He’s such a girl.’

She nodded. ‘Such a girl.’

Fonzie: Uh, no? Nice one.

Pete: Every Wednesday morning I go for a little zen experience.

I waited, then got bored, so I typed another.

You should totally come.

Still no response. But I wasn’t giving up.

Pete: Have you tried yoga?

Fonzie: Can’t say I have.

Pete: Do you want to come?

Fonzie: Thanks. Wednesday morning’s a bit busy for me.

Pete: I think Thursday’s also an option if that’s better?

Fonzie: Appreciate the invite mate but I reckon I’ll pass.

Pete: Can you do the hanging lotus?

Fonzie: Sorry?

Pete: Can you do the hanging lotus?

Fonzie: Is this Pete?

‘Get a photo,’ I told Millie, handing her the phone.

She started scrolling. There was one of Pete with the kids on the e-bike.

‘That one.’ I grabbed the phone and sent the image.

Pete: Yeah it’s me : ) So you know the hanging lotus?

There was a gap in response. We waited in hysterics.

‘I’m actually pissing a little bit,’ Millie gasped.

Fonzie: No. I’m not familiar with the hanging lotus…?

Pete: It’s so good. Never had so much flexibility in my hips.

I can do anything. You should totally try it.

Fonzie: Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep it in mind.

I was crying with laughter.

Then I felt Millie stiffen beside me and I opened my eyes to see Pete looking at us quizzically. I swiped to the home screen and locked his phone, chucking it onto Millie’s lap.

‘What are you guys up to?’ he asked.

‘Just looking at photos,’ Millie said, eyes innocent and wide, looking so much like a guilty Blossom it was ridiculous.

Just then a well-timed bee made an appearance, zooming in through the open balcony door.

‘Look, a bee!’ I exclaimed. Searching for sex no doubt. I loved my girls already.

Pete paused a moment, looking between me and Millie and the bee before shaking his head and returning to his tools.

We burst once more into hysteria.

Chapter Fifteen

The situation with Mama was never far from my mind. As much as the delivery of my father’s message had been icier than a cold night in Antarctica, I knew there was truth in it: my time with Mama was limited. And this did put an emphasis on how long we had in which to find any harmony. The tensions we’d experienced certainly didn’t disappear on account of her diagnosis, but I found myself looking deeper into what, if anything, I could do to help it.

After a long-winded back and forth message chain around Mama’s availability, during which time I’d felt increasingly guilty about the fact that I still hadn’t seen her again, we finally locked something in. I suggested a wander at the Botanical Gardens if she was up for it and she insisted, Of course I’m ‘up for it’. I’m quite capable still, Sara.

She dismissed my invitation to pick her up with a similar response.

I arrived early—a true step forward in my usual parent–daughter behaviour—and was standing by the top gate when I recognised her walking towards me.

We did a kind of half-hug, half-kiss thing and filed through the narrow cast-iron entrance into the gardens. There were lots of bird sounds and water flowing, and people to navigate and I was very grateful we’d chosen this meeting point instead of something as static as sitting in a café or the likes. As we settled into a rhythm together, I tried to remember the last time we’d done anything recreational. I had a vague recollection of a ballet concert we might have seen when I was a pre-teen, but the memory bank was otherwise not overflowing.

When we were looking at some ducks in a pond, I mustered enough courage to ask, ‘How are you feeling, Mama?’ I stole a glance in her direction.

She was staring with dark intent at the ducks, her jaw hard, her shoulders tense. Then she shrugged. ‘How do you expect I feel?’

I truly had no clue. She was facing a terminal illness; I had no concept of what that experience might be like.

‘Are you scared?’ I asked. That was probably how I would feel.

She gave another mildly irritated shrug and made a funny huffing sort of noise. ‘I don’t know. Life isn’t always easy. And there is very little point to any of it. It will be what it will be.’

I bit at the inside of my cheek, unsure how to respond to this.

I felt her move from my side and followed her down the path through the gardens.

Neither of us said much more for the rest of the time. The silence was not comfortable. If I was to say anything positive about the interaction, I guess it would be that no one stormed off.

‘I think you guys just need time, Sunny,’ Tommy was saying. I had him on speaker, my phone jammed down my bra while I did my laundry.

‘But it’s just so painful, Tommy.’

‘I know it is.’

‘You’re fine,’ I huffed, throwing clothes into my wardrobe unfolded. ‘They adore you. The perfect son. I’m not bitter. You are perfect. I adore you. It’s just so much bloody harder for me.’ I heard the tight pitch of my voice. Like a whingeing, miserable teenager.

‘They love you, Sunny.’

I snorted. ‘I suppose they have some obligatory biological feeling of connection to me. But I’m not what they hoped for in a daughter, that’s pretty bloody clear.’

‘I think you both just miss each other a bit,’ he said. ‘I think you don’t quite know how to relate to one another and there’s all this misunderstanding that snowballs into tension.’

‘But even when I try it just goes nowhere! I always try for it to be nice. It’s just such hard work. I have no idea what to do.’ I swallowed, my voice close to breaking.

‘Maybe stop trying,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe that’s some of the problem. You’re both trying so hard and it puts a lot of pressure on everything.’

‘You could have played fucking violin on the tension in the room when Papa came over on the weekend. And Mama … I could barely talk to her about the state of the weather let alone her dying.’

The line was quiet but for the rumbling of his car engine and the occasional sound of the indicator.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘How are you going with all this? I’m being selfish.’

‘One day at a time. That’s all we can do.’

He was so bloody sensible, that brother of mine.

‘How are the kids?’ I asked.

‘They don’t really get it yet. We’ve told them she’s sick, but they’re so little it’ll be hard to understand for a while. It just needs to unfold gently, I think, for all of us. Keep doing what you’re doing, Sunny. I’m sure Mama really appreciated you making the effort to see her, even if it wasn’t easy.’

I was wiping the kitchen bench down at this point. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

‘And another thing,’ he said, his voice soft and wise. ‘Remember we’re all just people, doing the best we can, making mistakes. Mama and Papa too. I think if you can realise that, it might help to accept some of their peculiarities.’

I paused my wiping, chewing on his words. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

‘Are you there?’ he asked after a moment.

I pulled my phone out of my bra and checked the screen, then pressed unmute and returned it. ‘Oops, sorry, I muted myself.’

‘I really wish you’d think about getting those ear buds I suggested.’ His voice lightened. ‘I think it would be a real opportunity for personal growth and development.’

‘You’re such a doctor.’

‘Christmas is just around the corner.’ I could hear him smiling.

‘Love you, Tommy.’

‘Love you too.’

All this la-di-da emotional stuff really got me in the mood for housework. It felt good to be moving, and pulling my surroundings into shape was therapeutic—strangely satisfying, actually. I’d finished tidying the kitchen and lounge room and my home was starting to resemble something like a cared-for environment.

I had a vague recollection that Adam was coming over later that evening and decided I really wasn’t in the mood. For once, I felt okay in the space I was in, mulling over Tommy’s words and my time with Mama, and I found I wasn’t craving distraction in the way I’d become so accustomed to. I sent Adam a message, telling him I was ‘harnessing a rogue surge of domestic motivation’, which was true, if not elaborately reflective of everything that was going on.

The evening light was lingering outside, and I found my energetic enthusiasm leading me there. All the way to the back garden, in fact. Maybe it was the bees that had pulled me there, buzzing around industriously mating and making honey. There was something comforting in their presence in my backyard and something inspiring about their purposeful ways. Before I knew what was happening, I was pulling at some sticky weed that had engulfed an unknown variety of native-looking tree. This was unprecedented behaviour on my part. I might not ever in my life have done anything that could be remotely classified as weeding. To my absolute astonishment, it was quite fun. The clinging tendrils came away easily and in no time at all I had made a giant pile of the stuff and was puffing with satisfaction.

I was just about to launch into the neighbouring tree when a deep voice behind me made me jump.

‘Sunny Surprise!’

‘Alan!’ I shrieked, hand on my racing heart. ‘Are you trying to give a girl a heart attack?’

‘I’m sorry.’ He looked genuinely apologetic. ‘I did text you this time. Figured I should probably stop barging in, what with Whey Man, et cetera.’

I wiped my sweating brow and rested my hands on my hips to catch my breath, doing my best not to look as discombobulated as I felt. ‘It’s fine. I was just caught off guard.’

He smiled and his eyes on me made me conscious of the heaving of my chest. My pulse quickened again, not with fear this time, but with something else. Something nice. Something exciting. Something—

Damn his outrageous sex appeal!

‘What are you doing here?’ I made myself ask to stop my runaway mind.

‘Day four. Remember? I need to put the second box on top. They’ll be settled in now and ready for more room.’

I had a vague memory of something like that. But he had been wielding those impressive biceps when he’d given me the bee instructions, and my mind had a tendency to wander at the best of times. Like right now I should probably stop staring at his crotch.

‘Sunny?’

‘Yes!’ I tore my eyes up and let them rest on a tree behind him, hoping to spot a swift parrot. Safe zone. Safe zone.

‘Are you okay if I do that now?’

I tried not to meet his eye, but I failed and looked at the bastard and blushed.

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I said, flapping my hand in irritation.

‘And you’re … gardening?’ His eyebrows were raised ever so teasingly. ‘Wouldn’t have picked it.’

I shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Just a little spot of weeding. Nothing out of the ordinary.’ I was still holding a handful of sticky weed.

He nodded earnestly and gestured around. ‘No, no. It’s obvious you’re regularly tending to its … upkeep.’

I could see he was working hard not to laugh. I threw the handful of sticky weed at him and it landed on his crotch. Now we were both looking at it and he was properly laughing.

‘Go away.’ I was also laughing despite my best intentions. I pushed his chest before turning back to my tree and carrying on with my weeding.

My mood was suddenly quite different, but not unpleasantly so. I still felt energetic and wanted to be outside, so I carried on. Al disappeared and returned a few minutes later with various bee paraphernalia. He explained what he was up to with some smoky thing and some bark and I watched, trying to make sense of it all and learn what I would have to do when it was my turn to check on the bees.

I offered him a cup of tea when he was done and he accepted so long as it was ‘that stuff that tastes like a rainbow’. I brought out a pot of Crème Brûlée and we sat on the mown grass above the steps. The bees were agitated after all the activity around their home so we gave them a reasonable amount of space.

‘So, what do you do when you’re not tending to the bees in my backyard, Alan?’

‘Oh, various things. Pilfering chickens. Attending to council disputes over my illegal boat mooring.’

‘Ah, so you live on a boat do you?’

‘Of course,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Nothing lovelier than being at sea.’

‘Uh-huh. And what else do you do?’

‘This and that. The odd Trans Derwent ocean swim.’

‘Really.’ He was so full of shit.

‘No better way to start the day. Throw in a few unexpectedly large boats passing by and it really does get the neurons firing first up.’

I met his eye; that quirky, hard-to-read, mischievous look. I never could tell if he was deliberately flirtatious or if his magnetism was entirely unintentional.

‘And what do you do to sustain your energy demands? Pluck marshmallows out of the sky with a bow and arrow?’

‘I told you,’ he said, all serious. ‘Pilfering chickens from Government House gardens. And yes, I do shoot those with a bow and arrow. Shotgun would draw far too much attention so close to the city.’

I rolled my eyes wearily. ‘You’re a really strange man.’

He nodded in apparent agreement.

‘And have you ever had any kind of … conventional occupation?’

‘Good question. Have you?’

I snorted, thinking of my ridiculous string of jobs. I was glad the oliebollen gig no longer featured. ‘Touché.’

‘I work for the Antarctic Division, doing ice core sampling,’ he said. ‘I can tell you all about that if you like, but you might find it somewhat … nerdy.’

I studied his features, trying to determine the level of truth in what he was saying. I decided I believed him. It seemed appropriately random.

‘Try me. Tell me about it.’

‘Well, most recently we were measuring cosmogenic radionuclide concentrations to reconstruct the solar Gleissberg cycle. Heard enough?’

Something stirred involuntarily in my groin. I didn’t understand a single word of what he’d said, but it sounded indecently sexy.

I cleared my throat. ‘Yes. Enough, thanks. So, what are you, a scientist?’

‘Mmm-hmm. Though I’m having a break. Might never go back.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Bunch of reasons. Sick of hanging out with jaded scientists. Sick of getting caught up in bureaucratic rubbish. Sick of trying to convince politicians of the urgency around environmental policy change.’ He stretched his arms up and then leant back on his elbows. ‘Also got told to step out for a while. Sent one too many narky emails to parliament on behalf of the Antarctic Division and didn’t listen to the warnings from my boss to stop.’ He gave a sardonic smile. ‘They really shot themselves in the foot there, though. The whole project is in a pickle now. We were all set up for a trip south soon. If I don’t go, it’ll be the first summer in eight years I haven’t spent on ice.’

‘Eight years? Jesus. That sounds awful.’

He laughed. ‘I like it. There’s something kind of addictive about leaving the world behind for a couple of months every year.’

I didn’t get it. I scrutinised him. ‘You’re a total weirdo. Have I said that yet?’

‘Mmm, you’ve indicated your thoughts on the matter.’ He smiled, unfazed. Giant ego.

‘Nothing tying you down then, obviously?’

Not that I cared for personal reasons, but I was curious about Al’s romantic world.

‘Quite the opposite.’ He seemed to chew the words, his expression turning serious. ‘That’s another reason I’m considering pulling back on the whole thing. I’ve got a son I ought to be around for more.’

That had my eyes turning to saucers, but before I could press for more detail, he had moved on.

‘Anyway, I’m feeling fairly burnt out, so the timing isn’t bad. And for now I’m getting a lot more satisfaction from fleecing the odd chicken and increasing the population and health of bees. Much more agreeable a species than humans. Humans are really stupid.’

I laughed.

‘What about you, Miss Surprise? I don’t suppose you have a boring job, do you? Art gallery Christmas party planner and the likes?’

Jesus Christ, he must have thought I was such a ditz.

‘Do I look like someone who isn’t interested in the environment?’ I asked, genuinely interested.

He cocked his head. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say you struggle to marry the sparkle in life with the constant conversation topic of the climate situation.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You seem clever, so I doubt you’re in denial about it. But I’m pretty sure if I sat you down to a heavy discussion every time I saw you, this whole bee enterprise would be short-lived.’

That made me smile. ‘Probably true. My parents more than cover all my doom-and-gloom, apocalyptic-outlook needs, that’s for sure.’

He nodded. ‘Mmm. You don’t want to flog that horse too much just for the sake of it.’

‘I think I just get so sick of everyone talking about it and no one doing anything. I don’t see the point of that. Just makes me feel depressed and hopeless.’

‘Could not agree more, Sunny,’ he said with feeling. ‘You see? You’ve got far more intelligence than most politicians and scientists.’

We were quiet and my mind wandered to my parents and the discord that wrapped around our relationship.

As if reading my thoughts, Al asked, ‘Things a little tense with your folks?’

I huffed drily. ‘That’s an understatement.’

I lay back on the grass, my eyes on the slow-moving strands of clouds above. He didn’t say anything, but I felt him waiting for me to continue. It seemed suddenly very trivial to try to explain the tension I experienced with Mama and Papa, and I wondered how to sum up the situation.

‘My mum has cancer,’ I said eventually. ‘We only found out a couple of weeks ago. We’ve not had the easiest of relationships and her prognosis is bad.’

‘Ah fuck, Sunny.’ I was startled by the genuine concern in his voice. ‘Here I am rabbiting on about bullshit. That’s really tough. I’m so sorry.’

I sat up and waved a hand dismissively. I didn’t trust myself to talk any more about it.

‘What’s the story with your parents, then?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to elaborate on the lions?’

He gave a small groan. ‘I’m not sure you need the non-lion version of the story this evening, Sunny. I fear I might have used up my quota of antisocial conversation topics.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said, my interest piqued and keen for a distraction.

‘I’ll tell you another time, how about that?’ He had sat up too and bumped his shoulder with mine. ‘We could talk about bees, though. Did you know they are deaf, so they need to communicate by dancing?’

‘Really?’ I found myself smiling, trying to read the cheekiness that had found its way back into his eyes.

‘Mmm-hmm.’ He gave a nod, holding my gaze. ‘If there is nectar within ten metres they do the Round Dance and run around in circles.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I returned his teasing shoulder bump. ‘And what does that look like, Alan?’

He stood up in the dying evening light and gave me an entirely unselfconscious rundown, complete with flapping hands and all. There he was, making me smile again. He was good at that, I had to admit.

‘Then if a bee wants to be groomed, they do the Cleaning Dance, in which they stamp their feet and shake their bodies. You’d be good at this one.’ He had me well and truly laughing as he put on a stroppy, demanding face and stamped around the grass.

‘One of my favourites is the Joy Dance, which they use in times of celebration, like when the Queen comes out. They put their front legs over each other like this and pulse their tummies up and down. Little bit what I felt like doing when you opened the door in your reindeer jumper.’

‘You bastard.’ I shook my head, my shoulders shaking. ‘We’ve been over this. You were not who I was expecting.’ I pushed his legs with my foot, taking advantage of his poorly balanced dancing position. He humoured me by falling onto the grass beside me.

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, facing me. ‘Want to hear my favourite, though?’

‘What’s that?’ I leant back and mirrored his position. He was such trouble, this man. Honestly.

I must have been tired and emotional because something was fluttering involuntarily in my tummy and I found myself giving in to his charm.

‘Massage Dance. Purpose here is to get a massage. Obviously. The bee turns their head like this and the other bees oblige by pulling at her legs and touching her sides.’

‘You are so full of shit.’ I shook my head at him, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

‘Want a demonstration?’

‘No.’

It was too late—he was already yanking on my leg and tickling my sides and I was writhing around, giggling and squealing like a swooning girl.

Of course I protested, with laughing shrieks of ‘Stop!’ and eventually he did. I kind of wished he hadn’t.

We lay side by side on our backs in the aftermath.

‘Sorry there, Sunny. It’s just too lovely hearing you laugh.’

I found myself grinning. ‘Did I mention you are the strangest man I’ve ever met?’

‘And you are as wildly fascinating as the bees.’

After Al left, I felt a gentle sort of contentment, not to mention satisfaction, brought on by my brief period of domestic productivity.

Despite his bee stories sounding completely outlandish, it turned out he was right about the dancing, and I found myself getting lost again in hours of reading about the habits of the species I now had in my garden. I could see myself ending up as some sort of crazy bee lady, living in spinsterhood, my house full of bees, honey all over the walls, my wardrobe filled with bee suits instead of normal clothes, I’d greet people with my own versions of bee dances …

He really was pleasant company, Al, and as much as I had my suspicions about his heartbreaking tendencies, I had to admit he seemed like a fairly nice person. I supposed it wasn’t his fault that he had been sculpted out of the same material as the Greek gods, so maybe it wasn’t fair to write him off so early on as a gigolo on the basis of his looks and charisma alone. It was also becoming apparent that he was extremely clever, what with the science and all.

And then there was the matter of his hands on my waist—firm and warm, hinting at all sorts of competencies—the memory of which was highly distracting, if I was being truthful.

Anyway. Best not dwell on these dangerous thoughts.

Chapter Sixteen

My week continued uneventfully. I did my fortnightly nude modelling for the life-drawing class. It was really just an opportunity for me to stare into space and think about whatever I wanted without feeling guilty. Pay wasn’t high, but you couldn’t put a price on a bit of exercise room for the mind.

On my way home, I got a call from Millie, inviting me to dinner the following evening. To my astonishment, it was to be an adults-only dinner.

‘Come straight up after work,’ she said. ‘We’ll drive you home.’

That was sweet.

I should have known she was up to something.

When I arrived, they were in the final throes of getting the kids bathed and jammied and story-timed. I left them to it and parked myself on the couch. A quiet evening with just the three of us. How lovely.

I was just preparing for a little shut-eye myself when there was a knock on the door. Perhaps they’d ordered pizza?

Just as I was nearing the front door, a blur of naked child came shooting past me.

‘I’m not putting on my pull-up!’

I recognised the screech as Blossom.

Pete thundered past a moment later. ‘Blossom! You will put that nappy on right now!’

I took another step closer and nearly tripped over Wattle, who had appeared, chasing Pete and Blossom and shrieking with delight, evidently not wanting to miss out on the action.

I opened the door and was met with four jovial-looking adults and a number of babies on hips.

‘YOU’RE KEEPING ME AWAKE!’ came Forest’s roar from behind a closed door in place of my ‘hello’.

My mouth was still opening and forming the greeting when the throng of people brushed past me and entered the house. I found myself being dappled with kisses and ‘Hi Sunny!’s and watching their retreating figures, recognised them with a sinking feeling as Boob Out Susan and husband, Ed, and Lycra Vivian and husband, Carl, and their respective dribbling, crying appendages.

Oh, my nice quiet evening!

Millie appeared out of a bedroom, followed by a grumpy-looking Forest.

‘Oh, well! Looks like the kids won’t be asleep for a while!’ she shrilled and I gave a nervous laugh in response. ‘Welcome, everyone! Suz! So good to see you. Viv!’

Greetings and hugs and kisses were exchanged and I watched with dismal acceptance at the sudden change in the vibe of the evening.

‘What’s news then, Sunny?’ Boob Out Susan sauntered up beside me with enthusiasm and flopped out a large boob, to which she attempted to attached a wriggling baby. I tried to look at the bushes swaying in the breeze out the window.

Boob Out Susan had a habit of excessive breast exposure. For the six years that I had known her, my every conversation with her had been joined by one or both of her boobs. I’d run out of fingers if I tried to count the number of times I’d had to remind her that said boob was still out and about after the youngster had stopped requiring it.

‘What’s going on at the gallery?’ she was asking excitedly. By this point, her snotty child was loose on the ground, crawling around and reaching up my legs to smear green nasal discharge on my pretty blue work dress. I was just clearing my throat and discreetly indicating her boob when Lycra Vivian joined us.

‘Viv! You look great!’ Boob Out Susan was exclaiming.

‘Susan, you’ve just left your … um …’ I managed and she threw her head back like it was the most amusing thing ever and flopped the great balloon back into its large maternity-bra home. I grimaced slightly, but at least I could look within the room now.

‘So much fun to have a dinner party, isn’t it?’ Lycra Vivian was talking to the toddler perched on her hip and pumping a little fist in the air. ‘Want to say hi to Aunty Sunny, Pippa?’ Lycra Vivian was sing-songing to the child, who scowled at me in response. I liked her for it and scowled back.

Lycra Vivian earned and maintained her title on a daily basis. I’d never in my life witnessed someone who could spend so much time in cycling pants and brightly coloured lycra workout gear. It was well understood that mountain biking was her thing, and she was forever sporting the most ridiculous get-ups to announce the fact that she had ridden here or there or whatever to collect a tomato from the Salad Bowl or some such. Whenever I saw her, I couldn’t stop staring at her large, man-sized quads and the presence of what looked like a nappy in her pants.

‘You’ve been there, haven’t you, Sunny?’ Boob Out Susan was asking.

‘S-sorry?’ I stammered.

Fortunately, Millie joined us, offering glasses of wine, which I accepted gratefully even though only one of them was for me. Disappointing.

Wattle was wailing some distance behind her.

‘Shall I read him a book?’ I volunteered and headed in his direction with relief, wine in hand, leaving behind the conversation that was developing about nut-free lunchbox ideas.

I tried to convince Wattle to join me for some quiet time on the couch, but he was fixated on wailing ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ respectively, depending on who was least available. Blossom was still naked, running a circuit that involved jumping off the back of the couch. I was just preparing to ask her if she wanted to play dolls when I got pulled into a eucalyptus oil-scented hug.

‘Sunny! It’s been ages!’

When I had a chance to view the owner of the smelly hug, my already heavy heart plummeted to rock bottom. Shameless Kita.

‘Kita!’ I tried to move my face in such a way that might represent a happily surprised expression. ‘Ages!’

Shameless Kita had been in our year in high school and rediscovered Millie after recently moving back to Hobart. She had been one of those super nerdy, studious teenagers, spending all her lunch times doing debating or letter writing for Amnesty International or something similarly do-goody. Then she’d done the ‘late bloomer’ thing and flourished into a moderate level beauty but had no sense of how to handle it. Consequently, she disobeyed all the rules and flirted with everyone else’s boyfriends, thus earning her title of Shameless Kita.

‘And what are you doing these days, Sunny?’

‘Oh, you know! This and that. Bit at the gallery, bit of this … and that.’

Literally saved by the bell as an electronic jingling tune pierced through the room, I looked around in confusion. Pete, who was pulling a steaming lasagne out of the oven, met my eye.

‘Doorbell! Go get it, would you, Sunny?’

Halle-fucking-luja.

It was a relief to walk down the corridor to the front door just to enjoy the decrease in volume. The noise in the room was outrageous and I felt pressure pushing at my temples. There were at least seven children (seven too many) at this apparently adults-only dinner, and all their corresponding parents were drunk on their first glass of wine, laughing and gesticulating wildly.

I opened the door and found myself facing a very odd sense of déjà vu.

While I’d become fairly accustomed to being met by this unexpected guest at my house, I was not anticipating the same when I opened the door at Millie and Pete’s.

‘A-Alan,’ I stammered.

‘Sunny Surprise!’ He really did look surprised.

I continued to stare in confusion. He was holding a dish that looked like a squashed, slightly burnt kind of cake.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Dinner party?’ He smiled sheepishly at the tray in his hands. ‘Not a very good oven on my boat and didn’t fare so well on the ride over.’

It was then that I noticed what he was wearing. Black, nicely fitted T-shirt, navy pants hugging a tight waist and continuing in a pleasing, straight-legged fashion with firm disregard for the current man-in-skinny-jeans era. (There was no reason a man should ever wear trousers that highlighted his calves. Never. End of story).

It was the first time I’d ever seen Bee Man in anything other than his tradie pants and threadbare T-shirt. The effect was … a little dizzying.

I was still staring when I felt his eyes wash over me.

‘You look very nice, Sunny.’

I realised it was probably also the first time he’d seen me wear anything other than the likes of dance pants, bikinis or fluffy pink reindeer jumpers. In that regard, my navy lace work dress was probably a welcome change.

My lips moved while my features maintained a fairly possum-in-the-headlights sort of expression. ‘Art wankers spend more if they’re sold a piece by someone in a nice dress.’

He laughed, then glanced down at the squashed offering in his hands. ‘Be all right if I came in?’

‘Sure!’ I finally came to my senses, re-entering my body and brain. ‘It’s very noisy and chaotic in there. Evidently, you got the information about the “dinner party”. I thought it was just me for a nice quiet evening with Pete and Millie. I’m feeling very hard done by with everyone else’s arrival. No offence.’

He followed me down the corridor and we stood side by side, appraising the situation in the room.

‘Do you have a guinea pig or a rat or a screaming child in your pocket to contribute? I think that was part of the invite requirements. The memo of which I also missed,’ I said.

‘Mmm. Certainly been a while since I’ve seen so many small children in one room,’ he agreed.

‘Fonzie, mate!’ Pete yelled from the kitchen. He crossed the room to hand Al a beer. ‘Great you could make it.’

‘Thanks for the invite,’ Al said, accepting the beer.

‘Sunny can introduce you to everyone. What’s been happening?’ This was standard man talk that didn’t really call for an answer and Al nodded and said something nondescript back.

Millie joined us, a wriggling (still naked) Blossom under her arm. ‘Sorry about the chaos. I had hoped it might all be a little … quieter than this.’

‘All good.’ Al smiled then turned to Pete with genuine interest.

‘So, really into the yoga, huh?’

Millie and I erupted into laughter, which was met with bemused expressions from the men.

‘What?’ they asked in unison.

‘Forest! Get Wattle away from the toaster!’ Millie roared and darted across the room, sparing any explanation. ‘We do not toast Lego!’

‘Put some music on would you, Sunny?’ Pete asked, before returning to the kitchen to do his food things.

Additional noise was hardly required, but, ever glad for an opportunity to talk to no one here at all, I obliged. I scrolled through Millie’s Spotify and selected what I hoped was an inspiring playlist: Relax and Unwind.

Al was now loitering over by the island bench with the other menfolk, so I joined them. I tuned in and out of their manly discussions about bikes and Pete’s recurrent mechanical trouble with his Hilux, nodding occasionally, but mostly just enjoying the fact that I wasn’t having to give my opinion on age-appropriate toilet-training techniques.

I was just easing into my third glass of wine when Shameless Kita shouldered her way in between Al and me.

‘Hi!’ She fluttered her eyelashes and gave a cutesy little shrug. ‘I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Kita.’

‘Al. Nice to meet you.’

My attention wasn’t on the music anymore. It was very sharply in the moment.

‘How do you guys know each other?’ Kita was asking with her most polished I’m-an-outrageous-flirt smile.

Al and I looked at one another.

‘He’s been helping me with some bees,’ I said.

‘Oh my God! I’ve been wanting to get bees!’ Kita exclaimed with enthusiasm. ‘Are you like, a bee specialist?’ There was no reason her tongue needed to be involved in that question, but she managed to dart it around the corners of her lips seductively.

I groaned in disgust. Inwardly or outwardly, I couldn’t be sure.

‘I do a lot with bees, yeah.’ He met my eye, his smile momentarily cheering me up.

‘I’ve got this huge backyard I’ve been giving such a makeover!’ Kita continued. ‘I’m really into the whole permaculture thing and I’ve been so busy getting the veggies and orchard in shape. Bees would be really great.’ She carried on talking about a worm farm and managed to include in her flirtatious monologue her busy important job at the hospital and how she hardly had time to do all the things she wanted to since ‘moving back from the medical work on Elcho Island’.

I might have accidentally audibly snored. I certainly started noticing the wind in the trees again and thinking about what I might make for breakfast tomorrow morning.

‘And what about you, Sunny?’ Shameless Kita pulled me back into her tiresome presence.

‘What about me?’ I asked.

‘I hear you and Adam are a bit of an item now, huh?’ She nudged my shoulder in some girly, gossipy, BFF kind of way.

‘Uh … we’re not …’ I mumbled and felt Al’s eyes on me.

‘It’s so cute!’ she gushed.

I was starting to fantasise about beating her over the head with the spatula that was on the bench.

‘Weren’t you guys high-school sweethearts? I heard you hooked up again at the reunion? I was so sorry to miss that! Sounded like a blast, but I was running a masterclass on infection and immunity at Monash University!’ She rolled her eyes in an it’s-so-tiring-being-amazing sort of way. ‘Don’t you love it when those old flames work out?’ She flashed one of her smiles at Al.

I hated her so much. It was enough for me to regret my ill thoughts towards Boob Out Susan and Lycra Vivian, who seemed positively saintly in comparison.

I met Al’s eye. He wasn’t smiling. The intensity of his gaze drowned out the irritating voice of Shameless Kita and I let myself lock onto those gentle blue eyes and wonder who the man behind them really was.

I realised with an unexpected pang that I was not the girl who would ever know.

Chapter Seventeen

I woke with a head heavy from red wine. My phone showed the time (eight fifteen), three missed calls and a very drunk-sounding message from Millie sent the previous evening around ten thirty.

Millie: Kids fucking asleep fucking finally. Where are you? Pete opened wedding wine. Bastard. So much trouble. Viv stripped down to bike pants on the dance floor. wtf. Where are you.

It made me smile. Then, imagining drunk Pete and Millie (and Al), I experienced an immature pang of FOMO despite knowing I’d done the right thing in coming home. Ugh.

I peered at the day beyond the curtains. It was grey and drizzly—that not especially heavy rain but the kind that planned to hang around. I heaved myself out of bed and felt slightly better after a shower.

It was an okay day in the end. I felt gently melancholy and listened to sombre music like Garrett Kato while finishing the last of my pantry clean out and making some solid progress on combating the mould in my bathroom. I tried not to think about Shameless Kita and her world-domination achievements and congratulated myself on the small wins, like the bathroom mould.

Around midday, I couldn’t ignore Millie’s calls anymore and caved in.

‘Hi,’ I said, scrubbing a stubborn patch of grime on the bath.

‘Where the fucking fuckity fuck have you been?’ she screeched, then, less loudly: ‘Not now, Forest! I’m on the phone. Go ask Daddy.’ I heard the door slam. ‘Honestly, I can’t get a moment alone around here! Why haven’t you been answering my calls? Where did you disappear to last night? I’m so fucking hungover and Pete is just lying in bed, nursing his sore head. I’ve sent the kids in there to wake him up like twenty times, but he’s virtually comatose. What happened to you?’

I was familiar with these moods of Millie’s. Best just to wait it out. Most of her questions didn’t really require an answer.

‘Sunny!’ she shrieked, making me slip over in the bath. Obviously, she was expecting an answer this time.

‘I felt poorly—’

‘Fuck off with the poorly!’

‘I had a headache—’

‘You don’t get headaches!’

‘PMS?’

‘Oh, piss the shagging off! You don’t believe in PMS, you told me so yourself, you liar.’

‘Why do you keep hanging out with Bitch Face Kita?’ There. It was out now. ‘She’s such a pain in the arse.’

‘Oh!’ Millie snorted. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot over her. She’s fine. Stop changing the subject. What are you doing right now? You’re in bed with Adam, aren’t you?’

‘No, Millie, I’m scrubbing my bathtub, for your information. Are we done? Let’s talk when you’re not so hungover and pissy—’

‘I’m not pissy!’ she ranted. Pissily.

‘Bye, Millie. Bye-bye. Rest up now, bye.’

I hung up and had to smile. She was hilarious when she was hungover. Almost as hilarious as she was when she was drunk. I was once again disappointed that I’d missed it. But I also really had no appetite for a grilling about Adam right now.

Adam did come over later that evening. And I blamed Millie and Bitch Face Kita for being all muddled up.

He was midway through some thorough nipple work when I decided I wasn’t getting in the mood.

‘Adam,’ I murmured, pulling him up to lie beside me. ‘I’m sorry … I don’t think I’m really …’

He stared at me, entirely perplexed.

‘… feeling like sex right now,’ I finished, almost amused by how much I needed to spell it out.

He nodded, finally cottoning on. ‘Ah, no worries.’ Then, entirely without irony, he said, ‘All good, Moritz. I’ll just have a wank when I get home.’

I stared at the ceiling. I truly did not know how I’d come to be spending so much time with this man nor whether I found his honesty refreshing or just completely fucking ridiculous.

I didn’t see or hear from Al for the rest of the weekend and well into the following week. I supposed the bees were set up now and he probably didn’t need to tend to them much. I tried not to think about it or why I felt a little knot of discomfort in my belly when I did and how my mind kept returning to Shameless Kita and wondering where she was up to in getting her bees going …

In the meantime, I did my own research, hoping to find out what I needed to know to keep my bees happy and healthy. I found being responsible for these creatures gave me a sense of purpose. The bees were a slightly uplifting distraction from the weight that I felt around everything that was going on with Mama.

I hadn’t managed to see her again since the Botanical Gardens, despite trying. She was still working and seemed to have zero spare time between that and her own medical appointments. The best we’d managed was a couple of stilted phone calls that had left me sad and confused and feeling completely inept in developing any connection.

It was the third week of Wayward Youths, and I was surprised to notice I was really looking forward to seeing my students. I had a good handle on everyone’s names now and a basic understanding of their personalities, how to wind them up or blow smoke, depending on what I was hoping to achieve. It was nice having some sort of plan and structured approach since we’d settled on the songs and the basic outline of what we were aiming for. Gina had specified details on the concert that we’d be holding at the end of January, which was important in securing the students’ re-enrolment at school and their alternative community service commitments being lifted.

I’d become accustomed to Nikisha’s spunky attitude and standard-issue retorts on all my suggestions, but oddly, this week, she was considerably more subdued. At first, I was grateful that we could just get on with the session and not have a confrontational discussion over every point, but as the evening wore on, something started to irk me. It seemed, without her spark, the group was off-kilter too, searching, rudderless, trying to find some sort of leader.

At the end of the class, Nikisha hooked her bag over her shoulder and was one of the first to head towards the door. Something made me want to stop her.

‘Nikisha,’ I called and she turned towards me expectantly.

The others continued out, until it was just the two of us.

‘Do you have a sec?’ I asked. I had no idea what I was hoping to do with ‘a sec’.

She hesitated and I saw something pass briefly over her features that I couldn’t place.

‘It’s nothing important,’ I said, waving a hand, hoping to lighten the mood. ‘Just wanted to check how you felt it went today? You were a bit quiet, that’s all.’

Her eyes locked onto mine but gave little away. She shrugged.

‘Yeah. It’s fine.’

‘Okay.’

She was glancing down at the phone in her hand. I suspected it was a reflex move rather than anything pressing requiring her attention. She was wearing heavier makeup today than usual. It was impossible to know how she looked underneath it all.

She lifted her eyes to mine again, eyebrows raised. ‘Okay?

I’ll see ya.’

She hesitated again, though, and I had the feeling she was about to say something. Instead, her face changed into what I recognised as one of the glazed-over veneers I used to use myself and she disappeared through the door.

It was like looking through a porthole to the teenage version of myself. But I sensed Nikisha had a lot more shit on her plate than I ever had. And somehow, I couldn’t quite shake the desire to understand her better.

Gina called on my drive home from class requesting ‘an update’.

‘What’s the juice with the delinquents, then?’

‘It’s going pretty well, I think.’

‘Haven’t been bashed up yet?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘No.’

‘Mugged?’

‘They’re just regular teenagers, Gina. They’re doing a good job.’ I thought about Eddie, Darren and Mikey, who’d spent most of the class looking like they were seeing fairies and hoovering down corn chips against the back wall, not doing a heap of dancing, it had to be said. Who was I to judge? I hadn’t exactly been squeaky clean myself at that age. ‘Well. They’re doing their best anyway.’

‘Tas Arts will be expecting we’ve got something to show for the funding, so make sure you’re getting those bozos learning how to do the Tassie Two-Step or whatever. Obviously, no one is expecting to be particularly wowed, just make sure they all show up at the concert and ideally none of them are pregnant.’

I shook my head in disbelief. Only Gina could get away with talk like that. There was no point trying to pull her into line; her opinions were as deep as her DNA. ‘Understood,’ I said.

When I hung up, I felt a sense of protectiveness towards my Wayward Youths. Being a teenager on the edge of the throng was hard at the best of times, let alone with the addition of things like housing shortages, unemployment, domestic violence and parental substance abuse, which I suspected were rife among the group.

I found myself thinking about my students for most of the drive home, trying to pull the little information I had into some sort of idea of their backgrounds. There was so much more grit among them than I’d ever witnessed in my school colleagues or the girls I used to teach at Gina’s. The sort of grit I always wanted myself—not that I’d wish for the experiences that were responsible for that grit. That got me thinking about how little I’d actually had to deal with in my life. What a victim I’d always felt, but had I ever really had it very tough? No.

There was something I was increasingly admiring in them and I had the suspicion I was going to learn a lot more from them than they ever would from me.

Chapter Eighteen

Pete and Millie arrived with the whole clan mid-morning on Saturday. As seemed commonplace with all my visitors, they came unannounced.

I was weeding in the backyard. It took Millie about half an hour to recover from her hysteria at finding me there, with leaves in my hair and dirt on my knees.

She was still bent over double, panting, ‘I’m weeing, I’m weeing! Stop! Stop! It’s too funny!’ when I decided to pick up the whole pile of that morning’s productivity and throw it over her head.

‘Make yourself useful, would you?’

She was still hiccoughing occasionally as she reluctantly pulled on a pair of Pete’s work gloves and corralled the children into helping as well.

It was a still and sunny morning and I found myself enjoying the physical productivity and vitamin D exposure more than I ever would have admitted. Even the incessant piercing sound of Forest whistling through strands of grass didn’t piss me off as much as it might usually.

Pete was busy working on the balcony again, all his tools strewn about and spilling into the living room.

It occurred to me what a pleasant way of spending time together gardening was. No need to converse. Social requirements met. Excellent.

The pleasant feeling lasted about two and a half minutes.

‘Have you finished up with Adam yet?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know why you’re so interested. Why don’t you mind your own sex life?’

She scowled at me. ‘When you’ve got three children under six and have to remind your husband to clip his nasal hairs, you will understand the lack of interest I have in my own sex life.’

I grimaced. ‘Yuck.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I love him like hell, but we’re not exactly living in a Mills and Boon story.’

Pete wandered up the steps at that moment and Millie abruptly stopped talking.

‘Look at you guys,’ he said with genuine affection. ‘Living the domestic dream! It’s looking great out here.’ He put a hand on Millie’s back. ‘What did you do with the keys, honey?’

I listened to their conversation behind me while I yanked on a weed. Whatever she said, the love and tenderness between them was obvious, even if it wasn’t all X-rated. There was something achy and hollow inside me, which I tried not to think about too much.

‘How’s your mum?’ Millie asked after Pete left.

I stiffened. Every time I thought about Mama, I felt panicky. ‘Uh. Not very good. Obviously. I don’t know.’

Millie stopped and I knew she was watching me.

‘What?’ I snapped.

‘Just … you never talk about it. I hope you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine.’ I swallowed and kept weeding, evading Millie’s eyes.

I wasn’t fine. I didn’t talk about it because I couldn’t. I was paralysed by it. I had no clue how to fix it. I felt like the biggest failure of a human being for how broken my relationship with my parents was—for reasons I was beginning to see might be largely my own fault.

Millie kept watching me then sighed as though in resignation.

I hoped we might be done with the Sunny Life Interrogation, but it seemed she was only just getting started.

‘Fonzie’s a total babe. What’s your plan?’

‘What do you mean?’

She gave another sigh, exasperated this time. ‘Come on! You fancy the balls off him!’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Oh, whatever.’

‘He’s a nice guy, but he’s really not my type.’

‘How is he not your type?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Handsome. Sophisticated. Clever.’ I could feel Millie glaring at me.

‘Okay,’ she said slowly. ‘And the problem there is…?’

‘Oh, you know men like that. He’d be a total womaniser.’

‘No. You know men like that, Sunny. I don’t. You’re sleeping with one, so I guess you’re an expert. But Fonzie’s great. And from what Pete tells me, he’s anything but a womaniser. Maybe some issues with commitment, but that’s another thing.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ I said, desperate to know, then quickly recovered my cool. ‘Whatever. We have nothing in common. There’s nothing he would see in me. I’m not interested anyway.’

‘That’s an absolute load of crap,’ Millie said.

‘But I think Kita feels differently, so if you’re hoping to find out how big his willy is, you could ask her.’ I was aiming for light, indifferent, funny, but it was hard not to notice the unpleasant feeling that started in my tummy again.

‘Yeah, well. I saw her at the Salad Bowl and she mentioned getting Fonzie to help her out with some bees herself. So, you might have competition if you’re not careful.’

My insides curdled a little more. ‘Excellent,’ I found myself sneering. ‘Good luck to her.’

Millie stopped mid-weed and faced me with the full force of her anger. ‘Sunny. Cut the shit.’ Her lips were tight, her eyes piercing. ‘You are intelligent, desirable and worthy, not to mention one of my favourite people of all time. If you want to sit back and moan because life is happening to everyone except you, then go right ahead, but it’s a fucking waste and I’m not going to listen to it without telling you how goddamn angry it makes me.’

This was very characteristic Millie behaviour. Hers was an entirely transparent kind of love. I always knew where I stood and there were no weird obstacles or hidden meanings to negotiate. She in turn expected honesty from me and had an eagle eye for recognising its absence. These were probably the reasons our friendship had such longevity, and even when she was giving me the shits, or voicing opinions I’d rather not hear, were why I had such enormous respect and gratitude for her. She was also one of the few people whose advice I could tolerate without feeling patronised—I understood that the intent behind it was all care.

It was all these things combined that made the confronting words she said always eat at me, creep under my skin, play at my conscience and find their way to the little part deep inside that knew she might be right.

Tommy arranged dinner at our parents’ on Sunday. I knew I needed to be doing more to try to resolve things with Mama, but every time I thought about what I could do I got panicky—that tight, strangled feeling of powerlessness and confusion and self-loathing that felt too dense to work through. On top of my guilt and panic, reading about death and cancer pain had filled me with an enormous sense of foreboding. Mama might look completely emaciated. She might require sponging of her lips and help with toileting.

As it turned out, my mother looked pretty normal. She was in her work clothes—basically the same as her home clothes but with a giveaway hospital lanyard attached to her hip.

‘Mama, you’re still working a lot, aren’t you?’ I asked with a mixture of shock and hope—perhaps the whole thing had been misdiagnosed? Perhaps she was fine and we could all just go back to disagreeing on career pathways and approaches to climate change?

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘I was rostered on call this weekend. It was fine.’

I noticed a disapproving look coming from Papa in the kitchen.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ she asked him. ‘Sit around feeling sorry for myself all day?’

Tommy passed behind her and gave her shoulders a rub. ‘You should rest, Mama. When are you finishing?’

‘Christmas,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s not long now, so there’s no need to get all melodramatic about it. I’m perfectly capable still.’

I bit my tongue, sensing that any input from me on this one wouldn’t be welcome. But it did seem strange that with so little time left in life, she was choosing to continue working a job I don’t think she particularly enjoyed.

‘Your mother is a wonderful psychiatrist and very dedicated,’ Papa said, and I could hear the conflicting feelings in his voice, of wanting to defend Mama’s choices while willing her to be gentle on herself. I watched him, his eyes on her, and saw with shock that same tenderness and unwavering dedication that I’d noticed between Millie and Pete yesterday.

Funny, I’d always dismissed my parents’ relationship as something practical and devoid of sensitivity or emotion. Maybe I was just tired and sentimental.

After dinner, I lingered longer than I normally would have. There had been relatively little confrontation over the evening and I had intentions of developing harmonious interactions, even if I didn’t exactly know what that was supposed to look like.

On the way back from taking some recycling to the garage, I found myself pausing by Mama’s study. It looked much the same as it always did: tidy desk with old PC and printer; bookshelf with psychiatry textbooks; tax folders organised by year. There was a black folder I recognised as an old photo album I hadn’t looked at in ages and I pulled it from the shelf without thinking.

I opened it on Mama’s desk. It began somewhere around the time Mama and Papa must have moved to Australia. There were photos of them, young and childless. Mama’s hair was long and dark, with gentle curls, much the same as mine beneath the red. There was a photo of the two of them in front of the Sydney Opera House on what might have been one of their first days in Australia. It was a slightly posed shot and they had that fresh European look to them—Papa in beige shorts and a pale blue shirt, Mama in a neat navy dress. The next picture must have been the same day, judging by the outfits. In this one they were on a boat, the water blurry behind them. Mama was looking ahead and holding Papa’s hand, which was draped over her shoulder. There was a hopefulness in their expressions, a sense of possibility and promise for the future. The images stared at me with a poignancy I’d not experienced before.

I continued to pore over the album, noticing things I had never cared to see before. The way Mama held me in her arms as a baby, her eyes twinkling with pride, my tiny hand curled around her finger. Another of Papa pushing me on the swing as a toddler, his smiling eyes on me as I laughed to the camera. The four of us with a young Tommy on Papa’s shoulders, standing at the top of the Isthmus Lookout on Bruny Island. All through the pictures, which continued up until around my early teens, there was evidence of love, care, joy. Components that I had never considered to be part of the family I was raised in.

I knew that photos always took the very cream of times and made everything look better than it was, but still, there was history that was undeniable, and for the first time, I couldn’t help but think of all that we had shared. All the times my parents carried me, changed my nappies, settled my tantrums, fed me, bathed me, kept me alive. All the magnanimous bullshit I’d witnessed Millie and Pete do with their kids, my parents had done with me, at least to some degree. The realisation was so simple and yet somehow completely breathtaking.

I turned back to the start of the album and found myself staring at the photo of Mama and Papa on the boat.

‘There you are.’

Mama’s voice startled me and I jumped involuntarily, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been. She peered over my shoulder at the pictures and gave a sort of surprised sounding huff. I touched the picture and I looked up at her, finding within her features the woman in the photograph.

She met my eye and a thickness formed in my throat.

‘You were beautiful, Mama,’ I whispered.

I felt strangely tender when I got home.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I had left my parents’ house with a feeling I could only presume was something like affection. The images in the photo album continued to circulate through my mind, surfacing at random moments: waiting for the kettle to boil; brushing my teeth. It seemed so obvious all of a sudden, but I had literally never considered the volume of time and care my parents had given to me over the years. The realisation left me feeling quite off-balance now that I tried to comprehend it. It brought my whole sense of frustration and disconnect with them into question. Of course that stuff didn’t just disappear, but it did feel somewhat undermined and made me wonder where in the story it had broken down, what my role in it might have been and if perhaps, even at this late stage, it could be salvageable.

These thoughts were wrapping in and around a little kernel inside me that was working its way to the surface. The kernel that had been fuelled by Millie’s words and which was finding my own deeply buried truths.

Was it possible that, in my stubborn opinion of who I was, I might be writing my own destiny in ways that weren’t in my best interests? Was I running away from connections that might have been meaningful and beautiful because I had a fear of rejection or unworthiness? That thought brought the deepest question of all: Was I worthy? Was I the person my parents wanted me to be? Or—and here was the clincher—was I the person I wanted to be, living the life I wanted to live?

There were no obvious answers for me right then, but what I did see was a glimmer of something I yearned for. That thing I saw between Millie and Pete. The thing I saw between Mama and Papa. And that thing I thought I could see in those photos, between me and my family, all those years ago.

Chapter Nineteen

I was extremely distracted at the gallery on Monday, finding myself frequently staring into space and vaguing out when I was supposed to be answering customer questions. Delia told me, ‘If it’s about your dying mum, then go on, have a cry, but if it’s something else, then pull your finger out, would you?’

Frederick made an unexpected visit and caught me gazing out the window, completely missing the gallery phone ringing.

‘You’re away with the fairies, Miss Moritz,’ he commented, pulling down his spectacles. ‘Are you on something?’ He leant closer. ‘Is it any good?’

‘No!’ I exclaimed in shock. ‘No, it’s not good! I mean, I’m not on something!’

I was all flustered, but the old man just looked a little disappointed, scratched his white hair with the end of his glasses and sauntered back out, the purpose of his visit remaining unknown.

I was thinking a lot about all the Millie, Mama and Papa business. And to be honest, the whole Kita and Al thing wasn’t far from my thoughts either.

I walked the long way home, my thoughts twirling around, and things started to crystallise. I knew what I needed to do.

Moments after my new found clarity, Adam sent a message, telling me he was on his way over.

Yikes! I wasn’t ready!

Aided by a jog, I managed to get home before him. I had just got my heart rate back to normal, quenched my thirst, pulled off my sticky shoes and reined in some of the crazy curls when I heard a knock at the door. A knock from Adam was such uncharacteristic behaviour, I wondered if it might be someone else. Could it be Al? I realised it had been more than a week since I had seen or even heard from him, which was odd, given how often he’d been here before. Though, in light of possible developments with Kita, probably to be expected.

I opened the door and almost all I could see was an enormous bunch of flowers—the fancy ones with varying levels of elevation: proteas, leucadendrons, deep red lilies; that kind of thing. Behind the gigantic floral display was Adam.

Fuck almighty, what was this about?

‘For you, beautiful Moritz.’ He pressed the flowers into my hands and I gaped a little in thanks before gesturing for him to come in.

I followed him into the house and busied myself finding a vase while racking my brains on how to get hold of this situation and proceed in the way I had been so resolute about such a short time before.

I fetched Adam a beer and we settled ourselves on the couch. My mind continued at a hundred miles an hour.

‘Thanks for the flowers—’

‘Moritz,’ he interrupted solemnly.

My heart started thudding away. Oh, fuckety fuck. I was really hoping this would not be a declaration of love.

‘Moritz,’ he repeated, and so began our second ever serious conversation. ‘You and I have had truly fantastic sex.’ He spoke with the measured authority I presumed he might use with his patients.

I nodded slowly.

‘And I can’t thank you enough for both the quality and adventurousness of your sexual spirit. Nothing short of spectacular.’

I didn’t know how to respond to this, and I was truly mystified as to where this speech was going.

‘But you see, my sweetheart—’ he traced a finger along my jaw, ‘—I am a very simple man with very simple needs.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Honey. You may not realise it yourself yet, but you’re going to end all this very soon. You’re outgrowing me. And as you know, I have a giant ego that I have to maintain. So, I’m finishing up with you first.’

‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yep.’ He nodded with a smile. ‘I’m just a very horny bastard—I’m never going to make good relationship material.’

I stared at him, then exhaled and leant back into the couch. It seemed casual sex had reached its expiration date. As I’d already known.

‘Well,’ I said.

‘Not to worry, Moritz. It’s been top notch.’ He patted my leg and we were silent for a few minutes.

‘Did you know I had a huge crush on you in high school?’ I asked after a while.

‘Mmm.’ He grinned. ‘But now it’s out of your system, yeah?’ He looked like he was genuinely concerned for me.

‘Uh, yes. Yes, I guess it is.’

‘And that bee man has got it for you bad. You’ll have sex with him next.’

I turned to him, shocked, and clipped him on the arm. ‘Adam! Jesus. No! God.’

He gave me an indulgent smile and wriggled his eyebrows. ‘Mmm-hmm.’

He looked so ridiculous I burst out laughing and pushed him harder on the shoulder. ‘Shut up!’

He was still watching me, still smiling. ‘It’s okay, Moritz. I’m not jealous. Virtually all my brain cells are in my penis, bar a few that I use to talk to people about joint replacements. You’re wonderful, but I’m really not emotionally invested.’

He was seriously unbelievable.

‘But the bee man. I can recognise a horny bloke when I see one.’

I laughed. ‘You are something else, Adam. Though you’ll be interested to know I think he and Kita Gall might be an item. You remember her?’

‘Oh, Kita Gall.’ He cringed. ‘Yeah, I saw her a few months back, actually. Nearly went home with her, but she talked so much I lost my erection before it was fully formed. A man should never set himself up for performance failure like that. I pulled the pin.’

I snorted and he met my eye, serious all of a sudden.

‘No competition there, Moritz. Trust me on this one.’

We carried on talking for ages and I felt an ease and immense sense of … rightness. All in all, the conversation had gone exceedingly well and I had a gorgeous bunch of flowers to boot.

We hugged at the door and I felt true warmth for him.

‘Anytime you want to feel sixteen again, you just give me a call, yeah?’

I smiled. ‘Yeah. I’ll keep it in mind.’

‘I’m free tomorrow night, if you’re keen?’ His eyes sparkled and it was impossible to know if he was serious or not.

‘Goodbye, Adam.’

I blew a kiss and closed the door.

Chapter Twenty

I woke the next morning with a deep sense of peace. I usually felt quite good after the relationships with my arty boys ended too, but it really took the shine off when there was all that wailing and crying and professions of love and injustice and, I don’t know, leftover quinoa in the cupboard. Adam was a like a breath of fresh air, and while I saw now that the time had come for it to end, it had been quite excellent while it lasted. And instead of the pungent stink of incense and grainy organic toothpaste hanging around, all that remained was the unexpected scent of lilies.

I positively bounced into work and through the day, such that Delia scolded me for overly enthusiastic energy levels. ‘You’re as erratic as a Sandy Bay poodle. Settle the feck down!’

I talked to Tommy on the way to my dance class about this and that and why Mama was still working.

‘Doesn’t she have anything she likes doing?’ I asked him, not unkindly. I just felt truly baffled by it.

‘She’s been busy a long time. Maybe she doesn’t.’

‘Isn’t it weird, though, that there’s nothing she does for fun?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said and I could almost visualise him shrugging as he drove. ‘Like the rest of us probably, it’s not exactly like I’m wildly engaged in anything outside of work and family. Maybe you are.’

That took the incredulity out of my tone. Was I?

Our conversation wrapped up with a bit about one of his sick kids and how wet the weather had been, by which time I was at the studio.

As I got organised for the class, I found myself thinking about our conversation. Fuck it, I was no better than any of them. Apart from the bees, which in truth weren’t actually requiring me to do much yet, did I have any hobbies? Any pursuits that gave me pure joy and excitability?

What was even sadder about my lack of hobbies or active interests in anything was the fact that I didn’t even have the excuse of a family or an important job to occupy all my time, as could be said for most of the people around me. Nope. Just me. My useless occupations. And my grand old cynical attitude.

How had I come to be like this?

I was a few minutes early and as I hooked up my phone to the speaker, my mind travelled to things gone by that used to fire me up.

Dancing. I used to love it more than anything. But somehow over the years, I had so entirely stepped into the role of jaded, dissatisfied, whingeing individual that the joy I used to get from dance had completely evaporated. For amusement’s sake, I found myself putting on the song I’d danced my solo to at my last concert. I hadn’t listened to it in years, and in the wonderful way that music worked, I was taken back to my seventeen-year-old self, becoming part of the music, an extension of it.

The muscle memory was all there. The heavy bass beat drummed with my heart; my body pulsed and pushed with the song. It was one thing to instruct a class, it was another to lose myself in a piece that was mine. The song took me out of the person I’d become and back to someone passionate, someone for whom dance was a deeply satisfying, compulsive form of expression; a way of unhinging myself from the everyday experiences of my life.

My poignant moment was rudely interrupted by a loud wolfwhistle, heralding the arrival of the Wayward Youths.

Alas, it wasn’t one of those über sleek times where everyone suddenly realised I was totally boss. It was actually fairly awkward and rather embarrassing. I hit stop on the music and muttered something along the lines of ‘Don’t mind me, just doing a little warm-up, been a long day, how’s the rain?’ and got on with the job at hand. They were all quite obliging with the dancing by this point, I had to say.

Nikisha showed up late, moving with considerable lack of vitality. She was a good dancer. That had become apparent early on. Her physique was gorgeous and she was a quick learner, but it was the way she moved and the attitude and personality that permeated her style that was eye-catching. It was sad seeing her moving in such a lacklustre way when I’d seen how great she could be, but even so, she was still the most striking in the group.

We weren’t aiming for anything particularly sophisticated. But all in all, it was starting to take shape.

I tried to catch Nikisha again on the way out, but she was one of the first to go and didn’t linger long enough this time for me to intercept her.

I called Gina on my way home and she answered so loudly it made me jump.

‘SHUT UP! I’M ON THE PHONE! Sunny, love. What is it? Don’t tell me you’re quitting. I don’t care how many spit balls have landed on you. It’s chaos and the bloody Christmas concert is doing my head in. I’m missing twenty-five tutus and twelve sets of camel jazz shoes, Eliza Harper has gone anorexic on me and now bloody Charlotte Osborne’s mum is on about her wearing a cobalt instead of a goddamn ultramarine leotard.’

‘Oh.’

‘WHAT IS IT?’

I jumped again. ‘I … uh … was just wondering what adult classes you’ve got at the moment. I’m thinking of dancing again—’

‘What?’

‘I’m thinking of dancing—’

‘I heard what you bloody well said!’

‘Okay, well, uh—’

‘Are you quitting the delinquents?’

‘No, they’re fine, I just—’

‘Well then, piss off. I don’t have time for this right now!’

‘Oh, okay. I wondered—’

‘Tori. Call her. Tori. Gotta go. Cindy, I’ve told you ten thousand times to wear black instead of red fishnets—’

I fumbled madly with my phone and finally found the hangup button.

I’d known Tori since we were teenagers. She was virtually part of the studio fabric. She taught full time and always had her finger in a number of pies. I sent her a message along the lines of wanting to get involved and what was she up to. It felt kind of thrilling to consider dancing again.

I startled when my phone immediately began ringing in my hand.

‘Hello. That was quick.’

‘Are you available January seventeenth?’ Tori demanded.

I smiled. She’d started adopting some Gina mannerisms, all serious, efficient, important Dance Drama Master.

‘Uh …’ I did a quick mental scan of my virtually empty summer calendar. ‘Yes.’ I felt a great sense of apprehension. Valid. Very valid.

‘Fantastic. This is brilliant. Vera Blue and Flume. Combo deal concert. We’re doing three numbers with them. You’re in now. You can’t back out.’

‘Huh?’ I managed.

‘There’s five of us. Six now, with you.’

‘Flume …’ I processed the information. ‘Wow, that’ll be easy to dance to,’ I said, thinking of his electronic style. ‘January seventeenth? That’s very soon.’ Yet something inside me wasn’t completely dismissing the idea.

‘Piece of piss,’ Tori continued. ‘It’s all sensual swaying, silhouetted screen stuff with the odd bit of tight chorey. You’ll nail it in an afternoon.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘I was thinking something more along the lines of a casual little hip swing with cocktails on a Wednesday evening or something.’

Even as I said it, I knew that was not all I’d been hoping for.

‘Tough titties.’ So very Gina. ‘We rehearse Thursdays.’

I chewed my lip, but already there was a thrill enveloping me that I knew I’d have trouble ignoring. This was an incredible opportunity. But could I do it? After all this time?

‘Why me? You must have loads of girls who could do this.’

‘This is Flume and Vera Blue we’re talking about here,’ she said. ‘We can’t go throwing any old do-si-do up there. Got to put our best foot forward. In other words, need your hot bod, Sunny. Gotta go now.’

‘But, Tori—’ I started. This was terrifying. Thrilling, sure. But also terrifying.

‘One more thing. Nude body suits. They wanted us to look naked but not. I’ll order your size eight. See you next week.’

On Wednesday after work I decided I needed to check on my bees. So far, I’d managed to have Al around to do all the important things like putting on the white suit and the headpiece and wafting the smoke about. But it was seeming like he might not be part of my bee adventure any more, so I needed to pull my finger out and learn how to do it myself.

It took me about forty minutes to work out how the suit and gloves and headpiece were even meant to be worn, and by the time I was dressed, the sweat was dripping off me. Then I needed to light the fire and nearly burnt my hand and ended up having a mild flare of my childhood asthma from the smoke.

By the time I lifted the lid off the top box I was pissed off, and my bees were pissed off too.

After finally—and, let’s be honest, appropriately—being stung by a bee on my inadvertently exposed ankle, I huffily replaced the lid and concluded that I needed to educate myself on this before meddling in their precious home any further.

I cared about these bees and I wanted to help them—keep them disease-free and thriving. I wished Al was still popping in so I could ask him to show me what he actually did when he inspected the bees. But in the absence of that, I guessed I’d be booking myself in for a course after all.

True love takes work, I was learning. And I loved my bees, so I would do the work.

‘Are you going to call your bee man then?’ Delia was draped languidly on my couch later that evening, wine in hand.

I was doodling with a plate of acrylic paint, enjoying something like sensory art therapy (aka finger painting) and periodically running my coloured hands across the canvas on the coffee table.

‘Ugh. I don’t want to bother the man.’

‘Oh, stop it. He wants to be bothered. Why else would he be hanging around your backyard all the time? And if we don’t come up with something interesting for the Christmas party, we’ll have a bunch of artistes mopier and moodier than ever on our hands.’

I grunted and threw some paint at the canvas.

Truth be told, I was missing the visits from Al. I’d come to expect his unannounced presence and quirky intelligence. And I wanted to talk more about the bees and tell him the things I’d discovered. Like how each individual bee changes its role at different stages of development: from cleaner bee, to nurse bee, to guard bee, to flying bee. There were so many ridiculously fascinating things about them and I wanted to share them with another enthusiast.

Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few more demonstrations of the habits of the bees. Like the dancing. Loved that. Especially the Massage Dance, when Al had his hands there on my hips and—

‘Did you ever meet Shameless Kita?’ I asked Delia, using my yellow finger to draw a face with a giant penis erupting out of the forehead.

‘Was she the one rabbiting on about saving the world from leprosy we saw at Post Street ages ago?’

‘Sounds about right,’ I muttered.

‘What about her? Did she catch leprosy?’

That made me smile. ‘Hopefully gonorrhoea, at the very least. She’s whoring around the place, pretending to be the face of goodness. She completely hijacked Bee Man at a dinner party a couple of weeks ago. Rattling off life-saving medical stories and world-enhancing permaculture ideas. Now he’s doing her bees and I haven’t heard from him since.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Delia nodded. ‘Presumably, he’s now busy tending to the pollination needs of her bush.’

‘That’s a truly disgusting analogy, Delia. Please never say that again.’

‘I bet she’s got natural and organic pubic hair to go with her natural and organic garden.’

‘Stop.’

‘It’s probably jungle-like down there, with all the goodness she’s doing for the world.’

I sniggered despite myself. ‘Bringing out the animal in Bee Man.’

‘She’s probably all free and smelly with giant sweaty patches of underarm hair too.’

‘And she’s got gonorrhoea. Let’s not forget that. And herpes,’ I said.

We were both giggling now.

‘You’re really immature. Do you know that?’ I said in mock disapproval.

‘I know. Isn’t it refreshing?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you have to win him back of course. Dazzle him with your silky-smooth legs and magnetic charm.’ Delia heaved herself up and got her fingers involved in the paint. ‘Remind him that intelligent savages are boring and hairy.’

I shook my head and sighed, moving my focus to working on a small ladybug in the bottom corner of the canvas. ‘Nah, he was always out of my league. He’s far too good looking and clever and interesting. I don’t even fancy him. I don’t fancy anyone. I’m starting my celibacy time. It’s been almost a week already.’

Delia threw her head back in hysteria. ‘You! As if! You’re probably getting randy at the sight of the enormous cock coming out of Shameless Kita’s head! Celibacy my arse. Good luck with that. Get Bee Man to that Christmas party, Sunny. Then get in his pants. Do a good deed.’

She did make me smile, Delia. And it was possible this year’s Selia Dunny creation was our best yet.

The Christmas party was now twenty-four hours away and I still hadn’t mustered the courage or desire to contact Al. I just felt too stupid about it all. And I couldn’t bear to hear confirmation of him ‘tending to Kita’s bush’, as Delia had so delightfully put it. I’d rather spend an evening with a bunch of unimpressed artist folk than have to face that reality.

I had just sent a message to Nikisha, asking if she was okay, when my phone pinged.

Alan: Sunny Surprise. Just noted my calendar says I’ve got a honey-orientated commitment Saturday night. Are we still on? Al

The blood beneath my skin felt suddenly hotter and a little jiggly sensation in my tummy suggested all sorts of things I wasn’t willing to acknowledge.

I chewed my lip and tapped the side of the phone nervously, my thoughts racing.

I was at a crossroads: Blow him off and save myself from probable significant levels of embarrassment and disappointment, or accept and improve the chances of Frederick and the artists being satisfied with the evening? I wasn’t particularly concerned about Frederick and the artists, but I did like the idea of seeing Al (dammit) and ogling his fine, fine body (shoot me). Naturally, I did what any celibate girl in my position would do and responded immediately with affirmative effect, fetched my tweezers, nail files, exfoliator and all the other required tools, and groomed myself to pristine perfection. Oh, yes, I did.

Chapter Twenty-One

In my defence, I wasn’t expecting anyone to see the underwear. It’s just that there’s no better way to set yourself up for success than starting with an exquisite ensemble of silk and lace. I’d treated myself to an early Christmas present and was the proud new owner of a truly exceptional set that was more a work of art than anything I was likely to see on the walls of the gallery that evening. The pieces were very tiny, so my consumption of the world’s resources on this occasion was exceedingly modest. Not that it mattered, but the bottle green of the lacework was just the slightest shade lighter than the fabric of my silk cocktail dress, such that the combination was really quite enchanting.

I was pleased to see I wasn’t the only one who had made an effort. When I arrived at the gallery, Delia was already there, bustling about frantically in party-prep mode. She looked like an extremely sexy take on Sesame Street’s Big Bird. She wore a bright yellow dress with long puffy sleeves and was displaying a good twenty centimetres of upper thigh. Staggeringly high white heels made her lovely legs look truly spectacular. Frederick was also there, sporting a pair of purple corduroy pants, an apricot shirt and a black pinstripe waistcoat. His white hair was styled back in a windswept look of utmost sophistication.

It was six pm. Half an hour until our guests would arrive and the time at which I’d asked Al to make his appearance.

‘So, is he going to show?’ Delia asked me as we arranged champagne flutes and polished the blemishes. ‘You look dropdead sexy, by the way.’

‘And you look sensational,’ I said with feeling, then shrugged with something like nonchalance. ‘I suppose he will. We’ll see.’

We looked up in anticipation at the subtle tinkle of the door opening.

‘Paul!’ Delia squealed and rushed over to greet the coordinator of the life-drawing class, whose presence here I didn’t quite understand. Delia had offered to take over the modelling a few weeks ago when my world had started feeling like it was bursting at the seams.

By the time they came over, I had recovered my bemusement. ‘Hi, Paul.’

‘Sunny, so nice to see you, honey!’

I glanced at Delia quizzically.

She was blushing and flustered in a way that I doubted was at all due to the decorations. ‘I’m so glad you gave me the gig there, babe. Paul is divine! And of course a lover of art, so I thought he might like to join our party tonight.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’ he asked politely.

‘Nothing! Just have a wander around. Enjoy the art!’ Delia gestured lavishly to the room and I watched Paul move through the gallery. My eyes landed on the Selia Dunny artwork, framed and hanging like the other pieces, the elegant spotlight illuminating the piece and making it shine off the wall. I stifled a snigger at our technicolour creation. It didn’t take too much imagination to find the abstract image of a face with a protruding penis on the canvas.

‘I think we’ve really nailed that this year,’ I said quietly, my body shaking with barely contained laughter, which got Delia going as well.

I was still trying to settle my hysteria when the door tingled again and Delia’s hand darted out and gripped my arm.

‘Fuck me dead and call me Betty,’ she whispered fervently, her fingernails digging into my flesh.

I followed her gaze and had to bite my tongue to avoid making a similar exclamation as my eyes locked onto Al’s.

God help me.

He had dressed for the occasion in a crisp shirt and charcoal pants, and had his hair cut and his stubble trimmed perfectly. My whole body beneath my silky dress went a little more slippery. His eyes were piercing and he gave the smallest of smiles that tipped me right over the edge such that I felt all hot and jittery and had to busy myself with the champagne flute I was cleaning.

‘Fuck me dead, fuck me dead, fuck me dead,’ Delia continued to chant beside me and I had to tread on her foot to silence her. ‘Go say hello!’ she hissed and I realised she was right. I couldn’t very well ignore the man I’d invited on the pretence of nonexistent smudges on our glassware.

I moved from behind the table, by which point Al had made his way across the room. Suddenly, we were face to face.

He felt taller than I remembered. At my eye level was the skin above his collar, the delicate hollow at the base of his neck. It was smooth and golden and biteable. I could smell some combination of cleanness, deodorant and manliness, and had to clasp my hands behind my back to stop myself using them to grope him.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely a matter of seconds, I lifted my eyes to his and had to lick my lips before my mouth seemed moist enough to speak. Where had my saliva gone? Probably halfway down my chin.

‘Hello.’ Wow, Sunny. A truly excellent start.

‘Hello.’ He didn’t manage much more than me, but coupled it with another half-smile that really rendered me entirely dry-mouthed again. And then, Jesus fucking Christ, he was leaning in and my cheek was brushing against that torturously bristly stubble, and his hand was on the bare skin of my upper back, warm and giant and delicious and the smell of him was overwhelming and his lips were brushing near my ear and then it was all over and I had all but melted into a puddle on the polished floorboards beneath me.

Delia clearing her throat brought me rushing back to the present.

‘Delia. Bee Man. Bal-man. Alan. Belia. Celia. Delia,’ I stammered. I felt my face colour and my palms go sweaty where they were still clasped behind my back.

Bless her canary feathers, Delia swept in and saved me from my humiliation. ‘Alfonso! So lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you!’ She had rounded the table and lurched forward, confidently pecking his cheek in what I now recognised as the same greeting we had just shared, mercifully giving it a normal touch rather than something that had seemed inappropriately intimate, and left me with images of ceilings and the absence of clothes.

‘So you can have that entire area over there and set it up in any way you need,’ she was saying and my heart rate managed to come down from five thousand beats per minute to something closer to two thousand. I was so grateful that she was there.

At the end of whatever else she said, he nodded, glanced briefly back at me and then turned and walked out the door. All I could do was gape at his departing figure, my eyes moving from the broad shoulders to the pert bottom to the sturdy neck to the ripped forearms to the—

‘Sunny fucking Moritz!’ Delia’s fingernails were in my skin again the moment Al had disappeared, her eyes wide. ‘He is off the charts sexy!’

I finally exhaled and turned to her, feeling rather disorientated. ‘Mmm,’ I murmured robotically. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

She wafted off in her cloud of yellow and I busied myself smoothing tablecloths and the like until Al reappeared.

Fortunately, on his return there was a general increase in the bustle with the arrival of the caterers and a few early attendees and the space didn’t seem to completely explode with Al’s presence. I’d managed to calm myself down and had risen out of my non-verbal state. I offered to help him and he let me unpack various jars of honey and arrange them artistically on the bench. He’d brought an empty hive as an educational tool and had an array of information cards and diagrams, tasting paddles and bowls with neat little labels saying ‘used’ and even a ballot box for people to insert their name with their best guess of whether the mystery honey sample was Leatherwood, Silvergum, Bottlegum, Something Gum or Some Other Gum.

‘You’re very organised,’ I said, genuinely impressed.

He looked pleased, then admitted, slightly bashfully, ‘I haven’t done anything quite like this before. Aside from the market tastings, I usually just do a bit of backyard teaching and step in for the odd workshop tutorial.’ He cocked his head in the general direction of a few artists, partners and other gallery folk who had begun to fill the room. ‘All these fancy people and beautiful ladies.’ His eyes scanned the room and, for a tiny moment, they landed on me. ‘Makes me a bit nervous, truth be told.’

‘Oh.’ I blushed. Why was I blushing? ‘Well. I think it looks very impressive. And delicious.’

He caught my eye again and my blush deepened.

‘The honey, I mean.’

He smiled and I had to look away.

He’d always been lovely, but I hadn’t remembered feeling this much of an idiot in his presence. I could barely string a sentence together, for God’s sake. This was, no doubt, my jealousy at play. Shameless Kita had presumably triggered my animal instincts and was making me want what she had. How irritating life was. I must get a hold of myself.

I was about to attempt to ask something about the wellbeing of my bees when Delia breezed over and whisked me away with something along the lines of roses for the artists and secret Santa requirements. I was only too glad for a distraction. It was infernolike, being that close to him. I feared for my dress—silk is highly flammable after all.

As the room filled and the atmosphere changed from preparty to mid-party, I began to relax. I glanced frequently at Al, nervous that he was bored or being accosted by neurotic artists and pompous art fanciers. But he looked completely at ease, despite what he’d said about being nervous. He was talking to people and smiling and laughing. I found myself experiencing a sense of pride, not that he was mine to take credit for.

Frederick did his customary Christmas party speech, which as usual was long and meandering. He said ‘magnificent’ about fifteen thousand times and we all nodded along in slightly baffled fondness for him. At the end of his speech, he did his thank yous and Delia and I swanned around from artist to artist, delivering cellophane-wrapped yellow roses. Once distributed, Delia and I settled back into the crowd and Frederick wrapped up by launching into a longwinded reference to the bees and something about ancient Rome.

I felt Al beside me before I saw him. His warmth and smell made me tingle. I pretended to listen to Frederick, but my concentration transitioned from very minimal to completely absent. The room was full and the inevitable shuffle of bodies brought Al towards me, such that my shoulder was pressed up against the fabric of his chest and beneath the thin silk of my dress, my bottom could feel the warmth of his leg. I was wildly turned on. I blamed my almost ten-day period of abstinence since breaking up with Adam.

‘He has a way with words,’ Al whispered ever so quietly.

I smiled, but all I really registered was the tickle of his breath in my ear.

‘Very eclectic mix of artwork here,’ he murmured. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of someone with a penis coming out of their head.’

I snorted involuntarily, which mercifully shook me out of my highly inappropriate lustings.

My heart rate had lowered slightly by the final formality of the evening. Frederick finished with a thank you to Al (Delia gave Al a yellow rose) and the whole room erupted in heartfelt applause and exclamations of ‘Fascinating!’, ‘Brilliant!’, ‘What a lovely idea!’

I glowed with pride for the success of my Bee Man more than he did.

I felt close to euphoric after all that. (Maybe I was still just sexually excitable, hard to distinguish sometimes.) Delia pressed bubbly into my and Al’s hands and the atmosphere seemed generally livelier and more jovial than any Christmas party I could remember in previous years.

Al turned to me. ‘Well.’

‘Well.’

We shared a look that lasted just a bit too long and it was he who glanced away this time. Jesus Christ, was he blushing?

‘Show me round?’ he asked, gesturing with his glass to the artwork.

I’d thought he might disappear now that his requirements were finished, but he didn’t seem in any rush so we wandered around the horseshoe-shaped gallery.

I leant into him and said quietly, ‘I’d give you my usual wanker spiel, but the artists might take offence when they hear I don’t have any idea what their work is supposed to represent.’

He smiled.

We stopped in front of a large piece titled Tyrannical Desire, staring at it for a few moments.

‘Call me simple, but to be honest, art sometimes goes over my head a little,’ he said.

I laughed. ‘Do you think they’re advocating for tyrannical desire or condemning it?’ I whispered back.

‘Mmm, hard to say. Though I can’t say I’m finding it especially arousing.’

I tried to ignore the fact that he’d just said ‘arousing’.

‘That’s probably for the best. I’d be worried if you were into that kind of thing.’

‘I can assure you, I have no obscure sexual fetishes,’ he said.

‘No BDSM?’ I asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘Bondage, domination, sadism or masochism?’

‘No! Jesus.’ He seemed genuinely shocked. Then he turned to me. ‘You?’

‘No!’

‘Good. Or whatever. Not my business.’ He cleared his throat.

I moved to the next piece and he followed.

‘Listless Eternity,’ I explained into his ear. ‘This work reflects the state of the artist who, after struggling with RSI from overzealous paint-brush grip, saw a Bowen therapist and was recommended to try psychogenic fungi—colloquially named magic mushrooms—and has subsequently remained in a mild state of ongoing psychosis ever since.’

I felt him laugh and led him to the next artwork, which was none other than our Selia Dunny creation. I remained silent, allowing the visual details to speak for themselves.

He nodded contemplatively as he read the title. ‘Reminiscent of She.’

Amusing as I still found the piece, unfortunately I was now thinking of Shameless Kita and my glow diminished somewhat.

Delia came by at that point and stuck her head between us. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? Reminds me of someone but can’t quite put my finger on who. I’ll let the artist know you’re into it, if you like. You’re coming to the group show next week, Alfonso? Excellent.’ She squeezed both our shoulders and breezed on.

Al was still frowning at the artwork. ‘I don’t mean to keep bringing out the sexual references, but it looks distinctly like a penis coming out of the head there.’

My body shook with involuntary laughter.

‘Least it’s colourful,’ he added.

‘Been doing much bee work lately?’ I asked before I could stop myself. While it would have killed me to have Al’s involvement with Shameless Kita confirmed, something in me still desperately wanted to know.

He nodded. ‘Absolutely. Lots of hives to check, some extractions, a few new setups.’

‘My bees have felt a bit lonely without you popping around,’ I said lightly.

‘Is that right? I didn’t want to intrude too much.’

I felt his eyes on me and shrugged as we wandered on. ‘You’re not intruding.’

At this point, the privacy of our gallery circuit was interrupted and Al was bailed up by someone to answer questions about bees. I moved through the crowd and engaged myself in conversations with a small degree of interest.

It seemed the peak of the evening had passed and numbers were starting to dwindle. Then I noticed Al was packing up his gear.

‘Go thank him!’ Delia appeared out of nowhere. ‘Paul and I are going for drinks. Want to come? Bring him!’

I narrowed my eyes at her. ‘You know he’s gay, right?’

‘Who, Bee Man?’

‘No! Paul.’

She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, sure. He is, he isn’t. I’ve kissed ladies before. It’s all very dynamic and lovely. He’ll come around. So, are you in?’

I bit my lip and watched Al working away, clearing his things up over the other side of the room. He must have felt my eyes because he looked up and gave me a brief smile before carrying on.

‘Sunny’s got it baaad, Sunny’s got it baaad,’ Delia teased and I elbowed her hard.

‘I don’t. And I also have some self-respect. If he’s involved with Kita, I don’t want anything to do with him.’

‘Ugh.’ She threw her head back. ‘How very moral of you. I’m bored already.’

‘Right,’ I said resolutely. ‘I’m going home.’

I said a few goodbyes and made my way over to Al, handbag on my shoulder. He also looked like he was ready to depart.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It was really great. Everyone loved it.’

‘Pleasure.’ He smiled. ‘You going? I’ll walk down with you.’ We were quiet as we descended the stairwell side by side.

Outside was dark and cool and I hugged my arms across my chest. We stood there facing one another without knowing what to say, the ease of banter we’d shared in the gallery seeming to have evaporated. Probably because the debauched contents of my inappropriate mind were wildly obvious while he was busy thinking about Kita.

‘Do you need a ride home?’ he asked.

‘I’m okay.’

‘You sure?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

He narrowed his eyes at me and my belly went all wobbly again.

Finally, he pulled himself up a bit straighter and nodded. ‘Rightio, then.’

‘Thanks again!’ I said brightly and turned away. I really couldn’t take another cheek-kiss thing or I would literally die.

‘Bye,’ he said, sounding slightly bemused as I walked down the street. ‘I’ll come look at those bees sometime, maybe.’

I stopped and looked back. The sight of him there with his bee box and his soft expression was enough to make me very nearly suggest he take me home and help me get out of the green dress I was wearing. And then, all of a sudden, I felt terribly sad. He was lovely. Entirely lovely. And once again, I was the viewer of other people’s love story, going home alone.

‘Yeah, maybe. Bye, Al.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

I really had no clue how the monks did it. Masturbated a lot, I supposed. After the Christmas party, I had such exquisite dreams I actually had an orgasm in my sleep. I woke up feeling like a first-class loser—fantasising about a man who was seeing someone else.

Anyway, there was much I needed to do. And I had planned to see Mama on Sunday, so no time to dwell on my inappropriate thoughts about Al.

I’d mustered up the courage to invite Mama for a walk on the mountain. As much as I had no clue how to connect with her, my guilt and panic about our relationship was rising and I couldn’t bear it any longer.

We met at the Springs, halfway up Mount Wellington, where trailheads led in various directions and a converted shipping container offered coffee and meat pies, as well as random things like lavender soap and candles. Maybe it was her walking clothes, but she looked slimmer than I remembered. As always, the relatively mild day in Hobart equated to positively wintery temperatures on the mountain and Mama was properly prepared in a down jacket and neck warmer. I hugged my thin cardigan to my chest and wondered why I continued to be surprised by the inclement conditions of a Tasmanian summer.

We agreed on the trail to Sphinx Rock and started down the path together, finding an easy rhythm and, for once, a silence that felt relatively comfortable.

‘How is work, Sara?’ she asked after a while.

There was a nervous knot in my belly. Conversations around my occupation were always risky territory.

‘Okay,’ I said, keeping my voice light. ‘The gallery is busy at this time of year.’

She murmured an acknowledgement but didn’t say anything more.

‘To be honest,’ I found myself continuing, ‘I feel like if there were something else that came up I might consider winding down there. But my coworkers are lovely, so it could be worse.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for good colleagues.’

I waited for the critical follow-on. It didn’t come.

‘And the dance teaching?’

I was floored that she even remembered I taught. She’d never taken much interest in my work beyond an expression of general disapproval.

‘Well, I’ve changed classes recently. I’m teaching a group of kids who’ve had slightly difficult journeys and ended up expelled from school for various reasons. It’s a Tas Arts–funded initiative to get them involved in the arts instead of less productive correctional measures.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

I couldn’t be sure if she was just humouring me, but I didn’t hear obvious sarcasm.

‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asked, and once again her apparent interest was startling. In fact, no one had asked me that question.

‘I am,’ I said truthfully. ‘I’m really enjoying it. They’re great people and, well, I guess I’ve not always been a particularly high achiever myself, so I think I can relate to them and I feel … quite fond of their foibles.’

I felt Mama looking at me. It made me nervous.

‘You’re your own person, Sara, you always have been. But you have your strengths, we do see that.’

I could feel my automatic defensiveness bristling within me. But in that moment, possibly for the first time, I saw that I had a choice in how I responded. My instinct was to clam up, say something prickly along the lines of ‘Yeah, yeah, my own person, not the person you want me to be. Not good enough.’ Or I could recognise her words for the compliment that they were. I remembered Tommy’s advice and wondered if maybe he was right. Maybe we were all fumbling our way through this, doing the best we could. Trying to be understood. And maybe we weren’t always showing each other the best versions of ourselves—intentionally or otherwise.

I tried to swallow my guardedness.

‘Thank you,’ I said, with as little cynicism as possible.

Then, in this new realm of interaction, where I had not bitten in the place I usually would, I heard the kindest words I could ever remember my mother saying to me.

‘You were always a beautiful dancer, Sara. It was your spirit in the movement that made it wonderful to watch.’

I met her eye before she wandered on down the track. As I watched her figure moving ahead, I was struck by the peculiarity of what I was feeling.

For perhaps the first time, I felt seen by my mother. Valued by her.

And a little part of me seemed to unfurl, like the soft kiss of winter sun on a frosted flower.

My phone pinged as I pulled up outside the dance studio. Millie. My smile grew as I read her message.

Millie: Hot scoop. Fonzie started yoga with Pete. Oh. My. Gad. Can you believe them? They even go for coffee at the wholefood shop afterwards and sit on the antique chairs, gossiping like ladies. Pete says Fonzie has ‘casually’ asked about you on three separate occasions. What’s happening with Adam? Please tell me we can pass on an update about your status that involves no arrogant orthopods?

Millie: ps coming to yours for balcony and wine tomorrow arvo x

I chuckled, highly amused that Al had ended up doing yoga. Though Millie’s insinuation that he would be asking about me was difficult to believe.

Another message came through before I’d even put my phone away. It was Tori—sending a picture of the nude body suits that had just arrived with a string of flame emojis. My stomach flipped nervously. Rehearsals had been going well, dancing again was like riding a bike, but the idea of performing still terrified me. I paused a moment before getting out of the car, suddenly struck by how different life was beginning to feel. There were things unfolding around me that were beautiful, satisfying, good.

The class went nicely. The boys’ number was looking awesome, with some of them wheeling out breakdancing moves and giving the whole thing a significant lift in spunk and attitude. Nikisha too had been more engaged in the dancing this week—not quite back to her usual zesty self, but bringing in a flavour of broody darkness that was a nice touch, even if it was slightly unsettling. She was a gorgeous girl, even more so when she was unaware of the gaze of multiple boys who wanted her, and all the girls who wanted to be her. When she wasn’t intentionally flaunting herself.

At the end of the class, she nearly escaped, but I caught her.

‘Nikisha, can I ask you something?’

She stopped. ‘Huh?’

‘Did you get my message this week?’

She frowned at me. ‘Yes?’

‘I … was just wondering how everything is going? You’ve seemed distracted the last few weeks.’

‘Oh.’ She stared at me. She was so intense this girl.

‘So … is everything …’

‘I’ve actually really got to go. I’ve got work starting in half an hour and my bus leaves in two minutes. Was there something you needed?’

‘Where do you work?’

‘Kmart. Which is why I need to go right now and catch my bus.’ She started to head out the door again.

‘I can give you a lift.’

She snorted and shot me a mocking expression. ‘I don’t think it’s in the direction you’ll be going.’

‘I don’t care.’ I shrugged, flicking off the sound system and lights and gathering my things. ‘It’s no trouble at all. Will give me a chance to pick your brains about how we can finish the Halsey number. Okay?’

She was still looking at me incredulously.

‘Oh, come on.’ I knocked her arm gently with my elbow. ‘You don’t have to carry the whole weight of the world. Let me drive you. Save you from being hit on by some slimy middle-aged man or getting chewing gum stuck on your arse.’

I could see her fighting the smallest of smiles and a part of me glowed with satisfaction.

‘Fine.’ She recovered her usual demeanour with a weary eye roll.

‘Where are we headed?’ I asked as I backed out of my parking spot.

‘Glenorchy.’

I could feel her looking at me.

‘Not your neighbourhood?’ Her tone was sneery.

‘True. Not my neighbourhood. But you look tough. You’ll protect me if someone tries to bash me up, huh?’ I hoped she heard the irony and not any judgement in this. Playful pisstake versus condescending criticism is a very tricky spot to hit. Best move on. ‘Have you worked this job for long?’

‘Yep.’ Her tone was tight. ‘It’s not all bongs and Big Macs out here in the burbs, miss. Centrelink doesn’t pay shit, you know?’

I didn’t know what to say. ‘I bet. Do you live with your folks?’

‘You’re very nosy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said with genuine regret. ‘You just tell me to piss off if I’m asking anything you don’t want to talk about. I’m just interested.’

I could feel her eyes on me again. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

‘I used to live with my mum,’ she said with something like a teasing quality to her tone. ‘But she’s always off her face high or pissed, or fucking some arsehole who steals all her money and we had a really big fight and she kicked me out of her house so my povvo grandma had to take me in and agreed to share her KFC with me if I pay my way working at Kmart. So, it’s all just peachy out here in ’Norchy and isn’t that So. Very. Interesting.’

I really didn’t know what to say and felt like a prying idiot for having asked at all. I swallowed and drove in silence. Her world was so very much outside anything that I had ever experienced.

‘Do you feel sorry for me?’ she said after a few minutes. There it was. That testing question. The reason she’d told me all of it in the first place.

I considered how best to respond. I wasn’t fool enough to think that pity would be welcome. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Nikisha. You’re totally badass and everyone worships you. Will you still be able to make it to the class?’ I asked, attempting to move on. ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, but you’re very good. The quality of the group benefits from having you in it.’

‘Oh,’ she said flippantly, but I could hear an edge of pride in her voice.

The conversation shifted into safer areas after that. She seemed to let some of her tough exterior drop and it became quite easy to chat with her. She told me about working at Kmart since she was fourteen and how she was managing her area there now (a lot more than I was doing at sixteen) and I told her about studying philosophy and she glared at me and proclaimed with outright contempt, ‘What the fuck are you going to do with a philosophy degree?’

I laughed so hard I missed my turn at the roundabout and told her she obviously had a lot more sense to recognise its uselessness than I had. When she got out of the car I could see a tiny smile she was struggling to control and I felt a rush of warmth for her.

‘I’ll give you a lift each week if you like. It’s really no trouble.’

She eyed me suspiciously and then shrugged. ‘Okay.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

Delia regarded me smugly as I walked into the gallery the evening of the group show. ‘Well, look at you. Don’t come dressed like that and pretend you’re not looking forward to seeing a certain someone.’

I glared at her. ‘Piss off.’ I’d dressed up for my own pleasure alone. There was no way Al would be coming tonight. I’d not heard a thing from him since the Christmas party and had concluded our brief friendship and bee connection was finito. Oh, well. That wasn’t going to stop me having a good time and looking my best.

My bees seemed healthy and thriving from what I could tell on my daily visits to the backyard, and I found myself spending more time tending to the garden, thinking about flowers I could plant that they might enjoy. Maybe I’d never find romantic love, but I had my girls.

Tonight there were about twenty times as many people as had attended the Christmas party. Fortunately, Delia and I didn’t need to do much. We’d spent the last two months hassling all the artists to contribute their pieces, which was plenty work enough. Now we just got to enjoy gallery-funded alcohol and laugh our way through the auction, crossing our fingers that this would be Selia Dunny’s lucky year.

I was mid-conversation with a man I’d met at last year’s group show when my eyes lifted and I found myself looking at Al. He was looking straight back at me, as though his gaze through the crowded room was a magnet. My stomach jolted with the shock of his unexpected presence and I hadn’t even managed to return his smile before his concentration returned to the conversation he was in.

I couldn’t for the life of me work out why he’d chosen to come.

Ten minutes later, I was snaking my way through the crowd when I felt a warm, firm hand on my arm. I turned to find myself squeezed chest to chest with none other than Al. Oh my.

‘Sunny Surprise,’ he said, his eyes so soft I almost forgot how to speak.

‘Al,’ I croaked. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Delia invited me. You know me, art connoisseur from way back. Wouldn’t miss a show for the world. Did you hear Selia Dunny has put in a piece this year?’

I gave his chest a little shove. It had very little give and I couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like beneath his cotton shirt.

Stop it, Sunny!

‘I do apologise on her behalf. She has no self-control,’ I said, trying to maintain my cool and stop examining the way the tanned skin sat so nicely over his collar bone and how his chest filled out his shirt …

‘That’s okay.’ I could see him suppressing a smile. ‘I’m getting used to unusual messages coming my way. Inviting me to yoga and the likes.’

‘Uh …’ I felt myself colouring, but I couldn’t help returning his smile. ‘Sounds like we did you a favour really. Seems you are the complete new-age man after all. Yoga and almond milk frappuccinos, I hear?’

‘Yup.’ He nodded. ‘Guilty. Pete was right, the stranded octopus really is great for pelvic flexibility. Or was it the hanging lotus? I can’t quite remember. Anyway. It’s life changing. You should come.’

‘Is that right?’

‘How are your bees?’ he asked, his eyes twinkling.

‘Very good. Buzzing.’

Maybe it was all coming from my end, but it felt like the air between us was alive.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said and my insides went funny again under the intensity of his gaze.

I was searching my brain for something suitable to say when Frederick’s voice boomed through the microphone, heralding the start of the auction. I could barely concentrate as he launched into details on moss and Betsy Island with occasional prompts from Delia. All my awareness seemed stuck on Al beside me, the warmth of his arm against my shoulder. I kept inhaling deeply, trying to distinguish the components of his smell. There was a combination of cleanliness, like laundry powder or deodorant, mixed with something musky and manly. And the sea. Yes, there was a distinct hint of saltwater crusted on something nautical.

Mmm-mmm.

I was aware I probably looked like I was hyperventilating and, in fact, I was feeling slightly dizzy, so I tried to control my breathing and concentrate on the art auctions.

Frederick went through piece by piece, drumming up enthusiasm and encouraging bids against bids. When it was time for the Selia Dunny piece there were variable murmurings through the crowd. Definitely the odd whisper of ‘Who is Selia Dunny?’ As well as appreciative comments on ‘the choice of palette’ and ‘textural variation’ and just as Frederick was quieting the crowd, the noise dropped enough for the whole room to hear someone saying, ‘Penile frenulum.’

By this point, I was too lost in fits of laughter to pay much attention to the details of the bidders. Al was making matters worse by muttering comments in my ear like, ‘Do you think it’s her penis or someone else’s?’

All in all, it was definitely one of my favourite auctions of all time, even if it might not have been Selia Dunny’s most successful. It didn’t win, nor even get second or third place as we had managed in years gone by, but the bidding had been lively and entertaining nonetheless.

At the end of the auction, Delia suggested Al and I join her and Paul on a pub crawl.

‘Thank you, Delia,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve done enough damage, inviting the poor man here tonight. I doubt he needs to witness any more of your alcohol-infused debauchery.’

‘We should go,’ Al said firmly. ‘Celebrate the achievements of Selia Dunny. Such artistic prowess.’

‘Excellent.’ Delia threw her head back languidly.

Once we were outside, Delia hooked arms with Paul, announced we were going to Post Street Social and strutted off down the footpath, her long leg flashing through the slit in her dress on each stride. Al and I settled into step behind them.

‘You really don’t have anything better to do than hang out with us on a Saturday night?’ I asked with genuine curiosity.

‘Nope. I’m a real loser. I haven’t “hit the town” in living memory. This is good for me. What about you?’

My mind flashed to my last night out, which had involved the dingy underground club, Mobius, and a drunken dance-floor pash with Adam. I cringed at the memory. ‘Not … generally,’ I said dismissively. ‘So where do you find your ladies, then? Online dating? Hit up the pokies?’

‘Excuse me?’ I could hear him laughing.

‘Or do they just come flocking to you, Man of Mystery?’

He snorted. ‘Not sure about that.’

I blame the aftermath of my Selia Dunny hysteria for my next unfiltered comment. ‘Or Kita? Millie mentioned maybe you guys were seeing each other?’

‘Sorry?’ He sounded so genuinely mystified that I found myself questioning what Millie had told me. Had she actually said they were seeing each other?

‘Uh, never mind. Sorry. It’s not my business. I was just under the impression you guys might be—’

‘Kita from Millie’s party?’ His face was a picture of confusion.

‘Yes? You don’t have to comment.’

He laughed then. ‘I can assure you there is absolutely nothing going on between Kita and me. She needed a swarm. I needed to get rid of a swarm. She talked a lot and I went home.’

‘Oh.’ A smile spread over my face as the information sank in.

Maybe good things did happen in life.

‘And you? Since we’re on the topic? That fancy fellow still stocking your fridge with whey beer?’

‘I stock my own fridge, thank you very much.’

He lifted an eyebrow teasingly.

I blushed. ‘There was nothing metaphorical or inappropriate in that comment.’

He laughed. I had to break his gaze for the intensity of it.

‘I think we’ve lost them.’

Delia and Paul were no longer in sight. I didn’t think we’d been walking that slowly.

I pulled out my phone to call Delia and saw a message.

Delia: Can’t remember if I said bye? Paul and I going home for a bath. Told you he’d come round ; )

I shook my head in disbelief. Only Delia was capable of that.

‘Looks like it’s just you and me, Al.’

He laughed again and we wandered on in silence for a few minutes.

‘So, we still going to this post office joint?’ he asked.

I grunted. ‘It’s full of ageing nobs and botox Barbies. I could take it or leave it, to be honest.’

‘Mmm. What about a row around the harbour?’

‘A what?’

‘I’ve got my dinghy tied up here,’ he explained. ‘I’ll take you for a spin. How are your sea legs?’

I considered the last time I’d been on a boat. The Bruny Island ferry about three years ago?

‘Very sturdy,’ I said with more conviction than I felt. ‘Let’s do it.’

We walked past the bars and outdoor tables laden with drinks and merry people enjoying the novel sensation of warm evening air and the sense of celebration that the month of December held. The silences in our conversation were easy and I relaxed into Al’s company. He led me down the ramp next to Fish Frenzy that connected to the floating jetty. The combination of my high heels, the disequilibrium of a water-based platform and the three glasses of champagne I’d drunk very nearly resulted in my disappearing into the inky water. At one point, my balance veered so obviously seaward that Al had to grab my elbow to stop me plummeting into the depths.

He made nothing of letting me hook my arm through his to support myself for the rest of the walk along the jetty, though he did give me an amused smile and share an observation on the sturdiness of my legs.

‘Here we are,’ he said as we pulled up beside a shiny white boat of some material that looked expensive.

‘Wow. Fancy man,’ I said, quite surprised.

He huffed a laugh. ‘Me? Not fancy at all.’ He pushed gently on the small of my back, leading me past the shiny boat to something so small and lacking in reflectiveness I almost couldn’t see it was there.

I scrutinised the tiny wooden thing, whose sides barely appeared above the water. ‘Jesus. It’s like a raft.’

‘You might want to lose the shoes,’ he said, deftly untying the dinghy from its tethering device and hopping aboard without so much as causing the vessel to sway. ‘Here.’ He somehow managed to hold onto the jetty with one hand while reaching his other hand out to steady me without falling into the ocean. Incredible. My heart was beating hard (of no romantic account) as I took his hand and lowered myself into the boat.

He smiled at me as I sat on the wooden seat and gripped the sides with white knuckles. ‘Okay?’

‘I’m not so sure about this. When I said that about my sea legs, I might have suggested more experience than I have …’

‘You’ll be right.’ He gave my knee a reassuring squeeze and pulled out some oars before connecting them to some rusty loops. ‘I’m a good swimmer, remember. I’ll sing you sea shanties and swim you to shore if we fall in.’

‘Oh, fantastic. I’m full of confidence,’ I said shrilly.

He was still smiling as he expertly manoeuvred the boat this way and that, negotiating a clean path out of the scattering of boats and into the harbour. Mercifully, it was a warm and still night, the water forming glassy reflections of the waterfront lights. Had I not been fearing for my life, I might have appreciated how spectacular it was.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked once my heart rate had settled a fraction.

‘Anywhere. Where do you want to go?’

‘Somewhere we’re not going to run into a giant cruise ship or that Antarctic boat, please.’

He laughed again. ‘We’ll stay close to the shore, potter around towards Battery Point. How about that?’

‘Is there not, I don’t know, a motor or something?’ I asked after a while of watching him row. It was obvious where he got such lovely forearms.

His eyes twinkled. ‘That’d ruin the serenity a bit, wouldn’t it?’

‘You’re right. It’s magical,’ I said, with only slight sarcasm. ‘Are you going to wheel out a ukulele now or some such? Or a flute? Wind chimes?’

‘Ha ha. I wish. Would be a nice touch, wouldn’t it? I’ve got a bottle of green ginger wine under your seat, though.’

‘No!’ I felt beneath my seat and my hands landed on the cool glass tucked in the corner. ‘May I?’

I took a sip and handed Al the bottle. He paused to drink then carried on gently propelling us along.

‘Pete mentioned you’re a dancer when you’re not creating fine art pieces.’

I snorted. ‘Hardly. I teach a few kids hip-hop to try to keep them off the bongs for a couple of hours a week. That’s what he’s referring to.’

He seemed to ponder this for a moment then asked, ‘Sounds very worthwhile. Do you have any vacancies?’

‘Interested, are you?’

He smiled. ‘No. My son. He’d do well to have something to get him off the bongs. Though I don’t think he’s quite the hiphop type.’

He had mentioned a son a while back, I recalled, but I’d never had the chance to find out any more. And the mention had been coupled with a meandering story about lions and ex-girlfriends, so I hadn’t taken it to be based on much truth at the time. Now my mind whirled with questions around wives and relationships and the appropriateness of me sitting on a small boat drinking Stone’s Green Ginger Wine with this stupidly sexy man.

‘He might like hip-hop,’ I said. ‘Lots of boys do. Lots of foxy girls there too. If he’s into girls, of course.’

He gave a small laugh. ‘I don’t know what he’s into, to tell you the truth. I feel like I hardly know him these days.’

‘Does he live with you?’

‘No,’ he said and I saw the muscles in his jaw working. ‘He lives with his mum. Things aren’t particularly easy between us. There were custody battles for a long time when he was little and everything is still pretty messed up between us.’

‘When did you separate?’

‘When Sol was about eighteen months old. I—we did try … but, well. Here we are.’

His expression was dark, unreadable. This was the first time I’d seen him less than chipper about anything. I’d always taken him for light, carefree, uncomplicated. Now it occurred to me that maybe his life wasn’t as simple as that. Maybe his jolly veneer was masking a whole lot more underneath. There was something captivating in seeing a deeper side to him and the suggestion of complexity in his world drew me in even more.

‘Are you close with him?’

I watched the emotion in his eyes as he squinted at some unknown place over my head.

‘Yes. No. We were. Really close. But he’s been in a bad way for a long time. Retreated right in on himself. I don’t know how to reach him.’

I thought of the young people I taught and could just picture what Al was dealing with. It was hard to know if they were really fucked up or just too indifferent to show emotion.

‘He was in hospital for three weeks earlier this year after he tried to kill himself.’

My hand flew over my mouth. I felt like the air had been punched out of me. ‘Oh my God,’ I gasped against my palm. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I searched his eyes, shock coursing through me. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

He shook his head and blew the air out of his nose. ‘There’s nothing to say. Other than thank fuck it didn’t work out how he planned. He’s on medication now and he’s more stable. Though I can hardly see the boy I used to know. He’s just a muted version of himself.’

‘Jesus.’ My hand was still over my mouth. ‘And how are you?

I can’t even imagine.’

I saw him hold the air in his chest before exhaling slowly. ‘Scared. Confused. Out my depth.’

I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head in disbelief.

‘Wasn’t long ago it was all running races on the beach, toilet training and disputes over cleaning up toys.’ He gave a half-smile at the irony. ‘The things Tatiana and I used to think were the big problems. Give me a shit on the carpet any day.’ He gave a slight grimace. ‘Sorry. Ever want to have kids? I’m not painting the best picture here, am I?’

‘I’ve spent enough time with Millie and Pete’s family to be familiar with the idea of a misplaced bowel motion,’ I muttered, somehow finding my voice again. ‘I don’t know about kids. I can barely sort myself out let alone grow a whole other human being. Do you like being a dad?’

‘I do.’ He nodded. ‘It certainly didn’t pan out exactly how I’d thought it might, though. Unexpected pregnancy with a fiery Russian scientist I never should have been with. Father at twenty-three. Custody battles and mental health crises. I don’t regret it for a moment, but it hasn’t exactly been all happy family photographs and Mary Poppins singalongs.’

‘What kind of stuff does he like?’

Al let out a small laugh. ‘Art, actually. And music. Much more sophisticated than me.’

As he rowed us past CSIRO and around to Battery Point, I found myself completely forgetting I was on a small boat with a man I hardly knew.

‘I think it’s a hard time to be growing up,’ he said thoughtfully, almost to himself. ‘The shit kids are processing while skipping school and smoking weed is a lot heavier than what I remember from those years. It’s like what we were talking about the other day—all the depressing problems with civilisation. Except you and I are grown up. The kids in Sol’s generation are only just forming themselves in a world whose future is questionable. I think that’s really tough.’

He paused, miles away, and I waited, hoping he would continue.

‘It’s certainly complicating my decision to go back to work. In some ways, I’m desperate to go back. Desperate for the Antarctica trip. And their insistent pestering that I go isn’t helping.’ He gave an unexpectedly dry laugh. ‘They call us the Antarctic Tragics—the ones who can’t stand reality and just keep running away. Going to that disconnected world where life gets smaller and simpler and all we have to worry about is keeping warm and doing science. But I’m also not winning fathering awards by disappearing every summer. And after what happened with Sol this year, it’s pretty obvious I’ve got to do something different.’

His words triggered a flash in my brain, something Millie had said about commitment, but it disappeared before I could unpack it. I watched his mind at work and felt a rush of affection towards him, coming from somewhere deep inside me—not the highly active place where all my sexual lustings arose from, but from somewhere closer to what might have been my heart.

‘How’s your mum, anyway?’ he asked as though returning to the present.

I was thrown by the abrupt topic change.

‘She’s okay,’ I said, bringing my own thoughts back together. ‘She doesn’t say much about how she actually is, but I feel like maybe we are making progress in the mother–daughter thing. We’ve seen each other on at least two occasions without any major altercations, which is a significant step forward.’

‘Bonus.’ He smiled one of his easy ones again and it was soothing, seeing the trouble lift from his eyes.

‘What happened with your parents, then? Are you going to elaborate on the lion story?’

He gave a sort-of laugh before he frowned at me appraisingly, serious again. Something stilled inside me, like maybe I didn’t want to know the answer to my question.

‘This is not exactly the kind of conversation I’d had in mind when I invited you aboard. I doubt you’ll ever want to hang out with me again.’

‘Come on,’ I pressed. ‘I’m a big girl. What happened?’

He was quiet and a feeling of foreboding started to creep around me.

‘I don’t really know exactly what happened to them, Sunny.’ He paused at the end of a stroke and the whir of the city beside us filled the silence.

‘They disappeared. Geologists in South Africa. They weren’t always welcome where their research took them. I was ten when they died, and for about two years, I tried to accept the explanation about them getting lost and taken by lions.’ He gave a little huff of a laugh. ‘At the time, it was slightly more palatable than the reality of what probably happened to them. And sometimes I still like to believe that was the case. Little more circle of life-ish or something.’

‘Jesus Christ, Al,’ I breathed, my hand back on my mouth, my skin all prickly.

He stopped rowing then and tilted his head, his eyes gentle on mine. ‘Sorry, Sunny.’ He looked truly regretful. ‘I didn’t want to get all heavy on you there. Good things have happened too. You’ve heard the worst of me now, I promise.’

‘No, I’m just—fuck,’ I stammered and blew the air into my cheeks. ‘Don’t apologise to me. I can’t even begin to imagine. I mean … are you even okay? Fuck. Sorry. I’m just … shocked.’

I couldn’t believe he had the capacity to be reassuring me right now. He reached over and took my hand and I realised my eyes were brimming and the lump in my throat was getting tighter.

‘Sorry,’ I gushed again, almost shrilly, slightly unhinged. ‘Your son and … your parents. Here I am worrying about my poor privileged upbringing, in my poor normal family and you … you … Jesus.’ I was really losing it now. ‘I’m sorry, Al.’

He’d moved forward on his seat and reached his other hand up to my shoulder, murmuring soft and soothing things. He was a blur beyond the wall of my tears and suddenly all the years of emotion seemed to be bubbling up from some deep pool I didn’t even realise was there.

‘I’m sorry, I’m being so selfish,’ I managed, brushing my eyes and trying to swallow my tears. ‘You should be crying and talking, not me.’

I felt the weight of the loss of his parents. I felt the weight of his fear for Sol’s wellbeing. And while it seemed so stupidly selfabsorbed, I couldn’t help but recognise how much I had taken for granted. How little I had appreciated the care and the presence of parents who were most probably doing the best they could, and how I had been that daughter—unreachable and confusing—who had no doubt caused Mama and Papa the same sort of pain that I could see in Al.

He kept hold of my hand, his grip firm and warm, and I settled.

When my eyes had cleared, my gaze met his, and for once his eye contact didn’t leave me dizzy. Just slightly awed.

‘You are … incredible, Al,’ I whispered.

He looked at me for a long moment before responding.

‘So are you, Sunny Surprise.’

‘Pff. I just make a mess of everything. I’ve got nothing to complain about yet have spent my life complaining. Blaming others, evading responsibility. Searching for meaning when it’s probably been right in front of my nose. How self-indulgent is that?’

He shrugged and sat back. The night air stung the skin where his hand had been.

‘You can’t make comparisons between different people’s situations, Sunny. I’m sure there are reasons you feel the way you do about your parents. And who knows, maybe if my folks were still around, we’d have had some major family blow-up by now and I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with them. All you can do is deal with what you have now and make the most of that. We try our best. We fuck things up. We’re all just human.’

We were quiet for a while, lost in our own thoughts, until he stopped rowing. I noticed we were back where we’d started.

‘Well,’ he said and a spell of time seemed to break. Normal life was drifting closer as the jetty neared. ‘If you ever want to feel really depressed you know where to find me.’

I smiled. ‘I don’t feel depressed,’ I said truthfully. ‘I feel kind of amazed. If you can get through all of that and still smile at the world and joke about pornographic art pieces then anything feels possible.’

He tied the boat and helped me climb out in a reversal of his earlier demonstration of marine competence. We had a brief dispute over how I might get home. He insisted on walking me but finally agreed to put me in an Uber.

When the car pulled up beside the marina where we were waiting, I didn’t have any hesitation in farewell etiquette. I turned to Al and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my face into him, and he held me just as tightly in return. There was nothing of the flirty flippancy I’d felt earlier, the zingy sexual tension. What I felt now was bigger—enormous appreciation, coming from my whole body—and the only way I could express that was to hold him as fiercely as I could.

Eventually, we pulled away and I opened the car’s door to get in.

‘Hey.’ I turned back, biting my lip. ‘This might not be the thing at all, but … the kids in my class are all going to this concert next weekend. Hilltop Hoods. It’s kind of a big deal. They’ve got a discount on youth tickets and there’s a lot of hype about it. I’m going with Millie and Pete as well and … I don’t know. Maybe you and Sol might like to come?’

I watched him frown at some spot on the concrete. He began to nod ever so slightly, then with more confidence. When he looked up, he was smiling softly.

‘Okay. I’ll ask him.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

I was nervous. I knew I wanted to say something to Mama, but I couldn’t work out exactly what or how.

We were sitting on a picnic rug at Long Beach on one of those perfect summer mornings: blue skies, minimal breeze; walkers, joggers and kids making a postcard of the whole thing. I couldn’t help noticing that Mama was looking paler and thinner than when I’d last seen her. Tommy had been answering all the questions I’d been too scared to ask her and it seemed that the cancer was progressing. It was real. It was happening. Yet it was still somehow completely incomprehensible.

I swallowed. I didn’t have to wait for a gap in the conversation; as usual, small talk was absent and my opportunity was wide open.

I took a deep breath and stole a glance at Mama. Her eyes were focused on the water. ‘Mama,’ I said. ‘Do you remember how when I was in high school I was a little bit … difficult to communicate with?’

She startled me by giving an abrupt, dry cackle. ‘Yes, Sara. I remember.’

I paused, trying to find my words again. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and kind of trying to work out how it all ended up that way. At the time, I felt justified in my behaviour, but looking back, I wonder if maybe I was a little bit, um …’

I found myself squirming under her gaze. I had a flash of Al in my mind and remembered my anguish when he described the distance he felt to his son. The emotion bubbled up again and came out in a rush. ‘I feel like I caused you guys a lot of worry and maybe I was blaming you for things that weren’t your fault and I think I might have made a real mess of everything when I should have been more grateful for what you’d given me …’

I glanced up, my throat thick, and halted when I saw the expression on her face—eyebrows raised, subtle smile.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said with another laugh. This was not going how I expected. ‘You were … not an easy teenager, Sara. But really, don’t think of yourself too wildly. With everything I’ve seen over my years of work, you were, comparatively, a well-mannered angel.’

I didn’t know what to say. She was still watching me with an expression I could only interpret as amusement.

‘You didn’t think I was off the rails or…?’

Another laugh. I swear I had never heard my mother laugh as much as during this conversation. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended.

‘Of course you weren’t off the rails,’ she said with a hint of exasperation. ‘Self-absorbed, yes. But you were a teenager. That is what we expect. Ungrateful. Probably. But again, appreciation and awareness of those around you comes with maturity.’

I bit my tongue to stop the defensive retort at this insinuation of immaturity. She was right, anyway. I’d never managed to mature past my teenage self. Therein lay my problems.

‘Well,’ I said uncertainly, ‘I just wanted to apologise for being difficult and not talking much and all the … God … carrots and death stares and things.’

‘The carrots!’ she shrieked. Honestly, who was this woman? ‘I did ask my colleagues about that one. You had me and your father mildly baffled, I’ll give you that.’ She glanced at me and seemed to notice my stricken expression. She gave me a light pat on the hand. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sara. The truth is, I was fairly preoccupied with my own dramas at that time. I knew you weren’t starving and aside from frustrating me at times, I wasn’t very worried.’

This was good news, though it left me feeling like something of an idiot.

It seemed, in hindsight, I was the only one taking myself too seriously at the time. In fact, maybe I was still the only one taking myself too seriously.

‘Oh … well, that’s good then.’

We were silent for a while. When Mama spoke again, her voice had turned serious.

‘You know, Sara, often we can’t recognise the things that make us behave the way we do. But no person is an island and if we look hard enough, our reactions and behaviour are usually the result of something around us. Shortly before your black clothes and angry music stage, your father and I were going through a very difficult time. You may not even have known about it.’

I frowned, trying to remember. ‘I didn’t know. What kind of difficult time?’

‘I suppose it’s better that I tell you about it. Soon I’ll be dead and then someone else might give you a different version.’ Her tone wasn’t dark, quite the opposite—flippant, almost sardonic. ‘I had an affair.’

My stomach jolted and I stared at her, my mouth hanging open in shock. The idea of my mother romantically alive enough to have an affair was truly astonishing.

‘Oh,’ was all I could say.

‘Your father knows, of course. I was never very good at hiding it. Or maybe a part of me was hoping he would find out anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘Same reason most people have affairs,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Feeling old, feeling stuck, feeling boring. There is nothing like the exhilaration of someone new being attracted to you. It makes you feel interesting and exciting when you’re probably not. And your papa. Well. He hasn’t always been very expressive in his emotions.’ She was so matter-of-fact about it all.

‘So … what happened?’

‘Your papa found out.’ She frowned. ‘It hurt him very much. He was sad more than angry. And he wanted to understand. It was perhaps the first time in our marriage that I discovered how much he cared for me. It was only at that point that I understood how much my subconscious was craving his love, and for him to show me that love.’

‘And … the other man?’

She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, that was never going to last.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘An artist—a conductor. Far too gushy and all over the place. I was glad to see the back of him.’

That made me smile. Whoever would have thought that my mother could relate to my dislike of artistic men?

‘Gosh.’

She turned to me. ‘We all do things we regret, Sara. And there is usually a reason. We can’t change what we’ve done but we can learn from it. We’re not bad people, any of us. We’re just people.’

When she looked back to the ocean, my eyes stayed on her face, the patchwork of our past shifting and rearranging in my mind, her secret finding its slot like a piece in a puzzle I’d never known was missing.

The sense of relief was almost immediate. That weighty confusion and immense feeling of guilt shifted as I understood the bump that had caused ripples without me even realising, sending us down paths of misunderstanding that had led to where we were now—with that wide gap between us.

Suddenly, I could see the fork at the start of that divide and, like a map, I could see that there was a path back to our meeting point.

In fact, we were already moving towards it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The most alarming issue I seemed to be facing was the number of mullets on show. That hairstyle which I’d thought I had managed to avoid in my life entirely had apparently found a revival. Furthermore, it was evident that in my skinny black jeans and singlet, I was wearing so much clothing I could practically be mistaken for a nun. And a very old one at that. Never in my life had I seen so much young flesh on display and abhorrent mullets being brandished as when I walked into the Hilltop Hoods venue. It was nearly enough to make me turn right around and hail my Uber driver again.

Millie had promised me she and Pete would be waiting out the front.

They were not.

I was all by myself in the throng of drunk, long-haired kids and I was having serious doubts about the whole evening.

Just as I was contemplating my next move, I found myself being propelled forward by the weight of multiple sweaty bodies colliding with mine.

‘Miss!’

‘This is going to be fucking awesome!’

Aha. My Wayward Youths.

I untangled myself to find I was surrounded by at least eight, very pissed, members of my class. The only one who seemed to be maintaining any sort of dignity was, of course, Nikisha. She was wearing a tiny black dress and heels, but contrary to the ninety-nine per cent of other females present, she somehow looked like a babe rather than a sex worker.

I found myself being dragged through the crowd into the auditorium and was surprised to feel a sense of comfort in the mixture of adolescent arms draped around me, all sweaty armpits and fruity cannabinoid as they were. Funny how even the oddest of company can be reassuring when you’re feeling out of your comfort zone.

I didn’t recognise the music of the support band and really the only thing I could hear was loudness. So very loud.

‘SUNNY!’

The screech above the noise was Millie. I turned to find her red face roaring at me, Pete by her side, only a body or two away. I reached out and grabbed her arm like she was a life saver and I was about to drown.

‘Holy shit, Millie! Where were you?’

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’ she yelled, indicating her earplugs. (Genius idea.) ‘WHO’S THE DUDE? LOOKS A BIT YOUNG.’

I remembered Mikey still had his arm around my shoulder. He looked suspiciously like he might be about to fall asleep.

‘He’s in my class,’ I said, shrugging him off and then catching him before he fell over.

‘WHAT?’

‘He’s in my class!’ I repeated.

‘WHAT?’

I waved a hand in exasperation. ‘Never mind!’

In my peripheral vision, I saw something tall and handsome and, like a good girl, checked him out before doing a double take when I realised it was Al standing just behind Millie. The combination of familiarity and genuine surprise that he’d come was enough to make me throw my arms around him.

‘You came!’

When I pulled away, he gestured to the gangly blond teen beside him—a slightly younger and wirier version of Al. ‘Sol, this is Sunny. Sunny, Sol,’ he yelled.

‘Hey,’ I said above the noise. ‘This is very loud! Might not have suggested it if I knew it would leave us all deaf!’

Sol gave me a casual smile and shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’ His eyes seemed to move beyond me.

I made one more attempt at conversation, trying to elicit some amusement from Pete and Al’s latest yoga session, but got tired of trying to comprehend anything above the noise, so settled into watching the band. Once Hilltops started, I didn’t want to talk anyway. They really were the best, even if they all looked fairly middle-aged these days and slightly rounder in appearance.

When the intro to ‘Cosby Sweater’ started, I found myself being dragged back under the smelly arms of Darren and Mikey. Soon they were in full hip-hop dance mode, their true level of alcoholic inebriation on show, and a small space formed around us, which was not necessarily on account of the spectacle being anything particularly impressive, but likely because people were scared they might get inadvertently elbowed in the eye.

Mostly the performance was wildly flung limbs, but there was about a five-second period in which they all suddenly seemed to be moving in synchronised choreography and they looked good. There was much cheering at the end of the song as well as some targeted applause around us. I couldn’t help but grin, feeling something like pride for the motley group of kids who’d managed to learn to dance in the middle of their complicated lives.

When I extricated myself and moved back to my Millie/Pete/Al tribe, I was still smiling like a proud parent.

‘You see that?’ I couldn’t contain my happiness.

‘THEY’RE HOT AS!’ Millie yelled. ‘I TAKE IT BACK! THEY’RE NOT TOO YOUNG AT ALL!’

I clipped her on the back of the head and stole a glance at Al, who was smiling, and Sol, who seemed to be frowning somewhere past me again. I followed his eyeline and saw Nikisha mirroring the intensity of his gaze. Perhaps they knew each other from somewhere.

Before I had time to ponder any more, ‘The Nosebleed Section’ was underway and Millie was grabbing my hands and hip thrusting at me like we were teenagers again.

When they played ‘1955’, I couldn’t help but notice the way Millie and Pete seemed to lose themselves back in time, just like in the song. Millie had her hands around Pete’s neck, his arms circling her waist, and I could almost see how their years of children and night-feeding and toilet-training evaporated and they became just them again, head over heels with one another. It was the second time in only a few weeks that their connection gave me a pang of something like envy that I never remembered experiencing before. I almost forgot how to dance and was momentarily still, feeling lost as all the bodies moved around me.

And then, as though sensing my loneliness, I felt the unexpected warmth of two large hands on my hips. They turned me and I faced Al, his kind eyes looking down at me as though saying, ‘You’re not alone.’ In his easy style, he moved me this way and that in the small space we had. A twirl or two, a little waltz. As usual, there was no awkwardness in the way he moved his body—fully in command, lacking self-consciousness or hesitancy—and I was swept away by it. It would have been wishful thinking to interpret the moment as anything romantic, but it gave me a buzz of warmth nonetheless, if only because of the sense of friendship.

And, okay, let’s be realistic—I didn’t not notice the firmness of his chest, the mounds of his shoulder and the way the muscles of his back flickered beneath my hands.

Towards the end of the song, I glanced over and saw Sol had joined Nikisha, his head bent low to her. I squeezed Al’s shoulder and cocked my head in their direction. He gave me a baffled glance in return.

When the show finished, I felt giddy as we moved with the flow of bodies out of the auditorium. The youths had all but dispersed into the masses and when we emerged into the cool night air outside it was just Millie and Pete, Al and Sol, me and—here we go—Nikisha.

‘THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME!’ Millie was yelling at the same pitch we’d needed to communicate over the band. We all flinched at her volume.

‘You can take the ear plugs out now, Mils,’ Pete said into her ear with an affectionate ruffle of her hair.

A brief discussion on transport home ensued, during which time Sol and Nikisha had found two purple e-scooters and were now cutting figure-eights around each other in the carpark.

‘We’re riding these home,’ Nikisha announced, after we’d settled on a maxi taxi.

‘Yup,’ Sol agreed.

‘Uh …’ I looked at Al, who looked back at me with subtle surprise.

‘We’ll do that,’ Millie said firmly. ‘There’s a free one over there. Run, Petey!’ She slapped his bottom and he trotted off good-naturedly.

I decided not to participate in the discussion of what combinations would be involved in moving six people on three scooters. Nikisha and Sol needed no encouragement to decide that they would share one scooter and started towards the cycle way. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed when Millie insisted the yoga boys should have some bonding time and pulled me onto her scooter.

‘I feel like such a numpty,’ I said, my arms around her middle. ‘I promised myself I would never get on one of these.’

Her body shook with laughter. ‘You do look pretty awful with that helmet.’

‘Fuck you,’ I said, but I was laughing too. When I turned around to see Pete clinging on to Al, their enormous bodies dwarfing the purple plastic and making it look like a kid’s toy, I started laughing even harder.

‘Stop it!’ Millie yelled sternly. ‘You’re making us all wobbly!’

I was really losing it now.

‘And the yoga boys come through on the inside, making up ground in a breathtaking display of athletic excellence,’ Al commentated as they caught up beside us.

Pete chanted along in some sort of falsetto version of Hilltop’s ‘I Love It’.

Sol and Nikisha were a spot in the distance and continued right out of our reach—which was probably for the best, as none of us adults were displaying very mature behaviour.

‘I WHIPPED YOU WHEN YOU WERE TWENTY-FIVE AND I’LL WHIP YOU AGAIN NOW, PETER FUCKING THOMSON!’ Millie was bellowing, clearly capitalising on a ride down memory lane and an opportunity without children to show her true colours.

Every time Al and Pete started to gain on us and threaten to take the lead, Millie would veer wildly across the cycle path in their direction, forcing them to slow down or run into us. Millie continued to yell playful abuse all the way through Glenorchy, into Moonah and past the Botanical Gardens, while Pete spanned his whole musical collection, ranging from Ugly Duckling to Britney Spears, most of the time singing at a pitch that had me suspicious about the state of his balls.

‘Did you put one of those little rubber bands around his testicles, Millie?’ I said in what I thought was a quiet voice. Millie shrieked with laughter then wobbled uncontrollably as Pete grabbed the handles from behind Al and did his own wayward steering in our direction.

We saw Sol and Nikisha becoming bigger and it was evident they had stopped. We caught up with them at the Cenotaph. Their faces reflected their slightly incredulous bewilderment as we came to a stop, breathing hard and recovering from childish hysteria.

‘I’m fucked,’ Millie said, her playful energy seeming to have deflated like a balloon. She shoved me off the scooter. ‘Pete. On. Let’s get out of here.’

There was a brief muttering of farewells, then they were disappearing into the city, the hungry noises of Pete nibbling Millie’s neck drifting behind them.

The rest of us stared at one another for an awkward moment before Nikisha cast her eyes briefly skyward and announced, ‘We’re going to a party. See you round.’ She glanced expectantly at Sol.

He gave a shrug in Al’s direction and said, ‘See ya,’ before hopping back on the scooter, his arms holding the handle bars around Nikisha’s frame.

‘Uh,’ Al grunted as he caught my eye. We shared a slightly uncertain look.

‘Dad,’ was all Sol said, but his unwavering tone and the fierce look in his eyes spoke volumes.

‘Are you … going to make it home okay, Nikisha? Do you need me to call a ride … or … call your … grandma or …’ I stammered, unsure what the appropriate action here was.

Her expression was mocking, disbelieving. ‘Sunny, you’re my dance teacher, not my guardian. I’ve taken care of myself forever. Trust me, no one gives a shit where I am right now.’ She nudged Sol with her elbow. ‘Come on.’

They faced forward and were already moving away when Al called after them, ‘Call me if you need a lift. And get back to your mum’s by morning, okay?’

When they were out of sight, I turned to him. He was still staring after them, biting the hand at his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ he spat, kicking the kerb, his hands landing on his hips. Then he sighed. ‘Sorry. I don’t think I was supposed to let that happen.’

‘Don’t ask me for parenting advice, what would I know? But what do you do? Hold him down? He was going to that party, Al. He’d have climbed out his bedroom window if you hadn’t said yes. At least he might actually call you if he gets into trouble now.’

I could see he wanted to believe me, but his face was full of worry and regret, and his voice came out small and uncertain.

‘Maybe.’

I hadn’t seen this version of Al and a wave of tenderness came over me. I reached for his hand. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I mean it. I was like that. And when my parents stopped me doing something, it would just make me want to do it more. He probably already sneaks out to parties all the time.’

I let go of his hand, feeling suddenly self-conscious, and he ran his fingers through his hair, then looked back in the direction Sol and Nikisha had taken with something like bewilderment.

‘You know what, I haven’t seen him like that in … years. Part of me doesn’t really care what he does as long as he wants to do something. I was so caught off guard. I think I forgot how to be a parent. Not that I really have any fucking clue how to be a parent. Give me a manual, Sunny.’ He lifted his hands and dropped them by his sides as though in defeat, shaking his head at me wearily. ‘Humans. This is why I do bees and science. Again and again, humans are impossible to understand.’

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure if it unsettled me to see his turmoil or drew me to him even more.

‘Sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘I promised myself last time I wouldn’t get all heavy on you.’ He squeezed my shoulder and gave me a small smile. ‘This has been great. Sol loved it, I could tell. Fuck knows what’s going to happen now but the concert was a great idea. Thank you.’

‘You don’t have to apologise, Al. If anything, it’s comforting knowing I’m not the only one who doesn’t have it all worked out.’

He tossed his head back at that and laughed at the stars. ‘Oh, Sunny.’ He looked at me, affectionate and amused. ‘No, you are not the only one who doesn’t have it all worked out.’

We held each other’s gaze and I felt small and vulnerable, but for the first time that I could remember, I also felt safe.

‘I guess it’s just us now, huh?’ he said, gesturing at the purple scooter beside him. ‘The helmet’s cute, by the way.’

‘Ugh!’ I raised my hand to the helmet I’d forgotten I was wearing. ‘I hate these helmets. I hate these scooters.’

He laughed, a proper deep laugh that felt like music to my heart. ‘Well, beats walking home. Hop on, then. I don’t care what you say. I’ve already done one act of negligence tonight, I’m not about to do another. I’m making sure you, at least, get home safely.’

There was no room for argument in his voice, and to be perfectly honest, there were very few places I could think of wanting to be more. So I obliged and stepped between his body and the handlebars.

With his arms either side of me, I let myself imagine, for the short time it took to go home, that Al was my man, and I was his girl.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Some moments in life worked out very nicely. Others were nothing short of a big, fat, cataclysmic, cringeworthy disappointment. Unfortunately, the latter was what the gods had planned for me that evening.

I wouldn’t mind just skimming past it, if that’s an option. Or maybe deleting it from history altogether. Or—and here’s a lovely idea—we could just imagine the night progressed along swimmingly with an appropriate sprinkle of romantic magic, one thing leading to another and—what do you know—suddenly, there we are, Al supporting his weight on his forearms above me while he tells me sweet nothings and I wrap my legs around his—Whatever.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything like that.

We did the whole e-scooter thing and I cursed the stupid e-scooter makers for their stupid, purple, plastic helmets and their stupid, robotic voice for creating the damn situation in which I had to stand with my body pressed against Al for the twenty-minute journey home, by which point I was sure the spot I had found against his neck had been designed purely for me, and my time of celibacy was soon to reach its satisfying end.

Fuck that.

Just fuck that.

When we pulled up in my drive, I took off my helmet and turned to Al.

‘Are you going to see me to my door, then? Check the house for monsters before you leave me alone and defenceless?’

‘Obviously.’ He smiled in what I could only read as a clear return of my flirtation.

I walked down the path leading to my door, taking out my keys. The door unlocked, I pushed it open. He followed me inside and went through the full performance of checking under my bed and in my wardrobe while I watched him from the living room, hands in my back pockets, allowing myself to notice how goddamn gorgeous he was and how goddamn much I wanted him to throw me on my bed and rip off my clothes.

After a moment, he returned to where I stood.

‘Satisfied?’ I asked, hands still shoved in my back pockets.

He didn’t answer, but tilted his head ever so slightly and the gleam in his eye sent a rush of warmth to the business end of things. ‘Mmm,’ he muttered, neither in agreement or disagreement, his gaze rendering me increasingly hopeless all the while.

He was standing close. Too close not to notice how his height dwarfed mine. Too close not to notice the way our breathing was right up in our chests.

I dipped my eyes from his and my gaze landed on his lips before I dropped it to the floor. My heart was pounding so hard I suspected he could probably see it move my ribcage. Because I liked this man. I really liked this man. Fuck the celibacy. Fuck the working-my-shit-out idea. I’d work on that later. Right now, I just wanted him—all of him.

I took one tiny step to bridge the final few inches of air between us and moved my hands from my pockets to take his in the same instant that he cleared his throat and stepped back.

The moment evaporated like fucking alcohol rub on cut hands, leaving an unexpectedly aggressive sting.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled to the floor, hands whipping up across my chest. ‘Do you need a water before you go or—’

‘No. No, thank you, Sunny, I—’

He might have stepped towards me, but I was already moving to the kitchen to get myself a drink, mortification wrapping around me. My back was to him, hiding the deep blush I could feel on my cheeks.

‘All good, thanks for the ride!’ My voice was dripping with dental receptionist false cheer.

He hesitated, and when I glanced over my shoulder, it was almost as though he was contemplating whether to follow me into the nook of my kitchen or bolt to the door. The awkwardness was unbearable. I felt sick with shame at my poor interpretation of the situation. What had I been thinking? I should have known this wasn’t a romantic thing. I’d worked out he wasn’t a player. I’d been wrong about that. Fine. He was just unknowingly dropdead gorgeous, sophisticated, full of depth, kind and funny and totally desirable. What interest would he have in someone like me? How could I have ever thought it would go anywhere?

He tilted his head and when he spoke, my name came out almost as a groan. ‘Sunny.’ He hung his head and sighed. ‘I should probably go home.’

‘It’s fine!’

‘I’ve got kind of a lot going on at the moment—’

‘No worries at all!’

‘I’m still trying to get my head around this Antarctica situation—’

‘You don’t have to explain, Al! All good!’

I walked past him to the door and opened it. He just stood there staring at me and then, after God knows what kind of internal conclusion, he slowly followed me to the doorway.

I gave a false yawn. ‘Gosh, I’m knackered! Lucky you’ve got the scooter—you’ll be back at the boat ramp in a jiffy!’

(Jiffy? Honestly, where did I come up with this shit?)

I turned away to head back inside, but Al grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop. My eyes hung on where his hand clasped me.

Don’t look up. Don’t look up.

Fuck.

I looked up.

His expression nearly made me lose myself again. His eyes were almost piercing—

In the blur of what followed, it’s possible I fabricated my own ending to the night, albeit a spectacularly convoluted one. His grip on my wrist dropped and he was moving towards me, my back pressed against the open door, his hands in my hair and his mouth found mine, hungry and fierce.

I didn’t know how long it lasted. Long enough to be shocked by the melting insistence of his mouth, recognise the firmness of his body pressed against mine, and the response it ignited in me.

An involuntary moan escaped my throat in the same moment he groaned, with something half desperate, half anguished.

He broke away, his breath raspy, and pressed his hand against his lips. ‘Shit.’

‘Shit?’ This was not happily-ever-after speak. I pushed his chest, forcing space between us.

‘Not … this.’ He moved back, his hands finding his hips, staring at the ground. ‘My head’s all over the place. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking clearly tonight.’

‘Awesome.’ I’d ditched dental receptionist. Now I was channelling purple, robotic voice.

I was completely exhausted. Depleted. In the last ten minutes, I’d been through an emotional journey of excitement, arousal, embarrassment, regret, awkwardness, deep blissful oblivion and now rejection.

I was finished.

‘I think you should go home now.’

‘Sunny …’ he started, but I didn’t care to hear the rest of whatever regretful, apologetic, pacifying bullshit he had for me.

‘Never mind. We’re both tired. See you, Al.’

There was nothing he could do but go outside as I closed the door, twisted the lock and went into my bedroom.

It’d been a long time since I’d had a properly good cry. It started quite naturally when I stubbed my toe on the leg of my bed frame after slamming my bedroom door. I hopped around holding my foot for a few seconds, cursing and swearing, and then slumped on the bed and launched wholeheartedly into the crying.

I turned on some appropriately tear-jerking music, starting with Vera Blue’s ‘Mermaid Avenue’, in which she laments the loss of her love and shattering of her dreams—entirely fitting. I cried about my mum and how I’d wasted all those years of a proper relationship with her. I cried over my stupidity in thinking Al might be remotely interested in me. I cried about his parents and Sol and all the unfair things that happened to people. I cried about the cockroaches I’d found in my bathroom cabinet.

By this point, we’d reached the end of ‘Mermaid Avenue’, and as the next Vera Blue track—‘Regular Touch’—started, I was already tiring of feeling sorry for myself and found my tears were no longer forthcoming.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling as the music engulfed me. Out of the sadness I felt something different growing, fuelled by the impassioned lyrics of Vera Blue. By the time the chorus hit full swing, I was seizing fistfuls of girl-power energy and thrusting my body with the music.

Fuck Al. Fuck relationships. Fuck the past. Fuck all the things I couldn’t control.

There’s a strong possibility the complete exhaustion and general emotional rollercoaster of the evening had left me slightly unhinged, slightly manic even, but whatever. I felt good. I felt powerful. I felt free.

And if Al was knocking on the door outside, I would have neither heard him nor given a shit.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next day, my phone pinged at 9:17 am and I picked it up with trepidation.

A number of missed calls and a blur of Millie messages awaited me.

Millie: How was your night???

Millie: Where are you??

Millie: Did you go home with Fonzie!?

Millie: I’m awake if you want to call me back.

Millie: Anytime now.

Millie: You’re so badass I bet you’re in bed shagging him right now.

I was just preparing to switch the stupid device off when it started ringing. I was literally an instant away from pressing answer and yelling, ‘FUCK OFF!!’ when I saw the caller name was not Millie, but Al. I threw the phone across the room like it was a hot potato and dived back into bed, pulling a pillow tightly over my head to block out the sound.

Fuck my life.

I lay there for a tense few minutes until the sound abated then retrieved my phone and sent a rapid-fire text to Millie.

Me: Feeling poorly. Probably got covid. Or the plague. First seen in Hobart today. Bye now.

I could see her call coming through as I turned the phone off.

I gathered my poor, miserable self out of bed and decided to attempt something productive. This is top secret, but I was getting into the hang of this weeding and gardening thing. I found it bizarrely satisfying. I’d even planted some borage that had just started flowering and the bees were going crazy for it, just like the garden shop lady had said they would.

It was also time for me to have another go at looking at the bees. The next beekeeping course wasn’t until the new year, so in the meantime, I’d done some YouTube research and felt like I had a good enough handle on the logistics of the outfit, as well as what I was supposed to look for in the hive.

With two puffs of Ventolin before lighting the smoker, I managed not to spend the whole time wheezing and coughing, and I soon found myself absorbed in the task. I carefully lifted the lid and shushed the bees into quietness with my smoke; they seemed to sense my increased competence. I counted the number of frames that were occupied and felt a little thrill to discover more than half were—this, I had learnt, meant my colony was strong. I even discovered one or two frames were capped, filled with honey! They were too new to disturb and I wouldn’t be taking any honey from them just yet, but they were making good progress. With an expected sense of satisfaction, I closed the hive up again, grateful for the distraction while it had lasted.

I tried not to think about the hideously embarrassing episode with Al the previous evening as I packed my gear away. Unfortunately, it kept popping into my mind. Usually preceded by a pleasant recollection of his body pressed against mine, which was rapidly replaced by the crashing reality of his obvious regret at such a stupid move. Ugh.

I wondered vaguely if his sudden change of heart had something to do with whatever commitment issues Millie had mentioned a while back. Maybe. But more likely, he had just remembered the complete joke of a person I was and decided he wanted nothing to do with me.

The moral of the story was I needed to sink more deeply into my celibacy. Men were a distraction from all the other things I needed to sort out in my life.

When it was finally time to clean myself up to go to my parents’ place for dinner, my yard was significantly tidier, as was the state of my mind.

I turned my phone on to see another three missed-call messages from Millie and one from Al. No doubt calling to let me know, ‘Sorry, sorry, but really not thinking straight and please don’t get any ideas.’

I didn’t have any ideas. Whatsoever. He could just go ahead and save his breath.

It had been too long since I’d seen Tommy and his embrace was like a soothing balm for a sore head.

‘You all right?’ he asked as I held him a moment too long.

Ever the attentive, sensitive doctor.

‘Ugh. Shitty week. Hungover. Top-notch loser. All the usual things.’

He laughed and gave me a squeeze. ‘What’s all this?’ He gestured to the scratches up my arms. ‘Have you been in a fight with the cat next door again?’

‘Ha ha,’ I said drily. ‘You’ll tease me.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Just a little bit of … gardening.’ I said the last bit through a poorly disguised cough.

He looked at me incredulously. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my big sister?’

I pushed him playfully on the arm and followed him inside my parents’ house. Something tightened in my throat when we entered the kitchen to find Mama with her legs up on the couch, resting back on the pillows and covered in a soft, cashmere blanket. She looked so small and demure and so uncharacteristic reclining there late afternoon, I almost had to look away—as though I’d sprung her in the nude. It was these little moments that always caught me, when I actually felt the weight of reality and what was happening to her.

There was a hesitation from both Tommy and me that could only have lasted half a second but was enough for Mama to notice.

‘Oh, stop staring at me like that.’ She batted her hand at the air with such Mama-like energy to her words that we were jolted out of our stupor.

I gave Papa a peck on the cheek and settled myself on the other end of the couch.

‘You’d need a rest too if you had a gigantic tumour growing in your pelvis,’ Mama said in her dry tone, which I’d come to realise was her version of humour.

I swung my legs up under the blanket, mirroring her position on the couch. It still felt weird, this new realm of interaction, but I noticed the panic I used to experience had lifted.

‘Let them do the work,’ Mama said, cocking her head in the direction of Papa and Tommy. ‘Has to be something good about all of this.’

It occurred to me what was so strange about this idle version of Mama: I’d never seen her relinquish control of herself at any moment. She had always been so incredibly wound up, tight as a spring. And apart from knowing that the cause of this change was so sinister, witnessing her relax was somehow startling and even beautiful—like she was finally letting herself go.

Al’s message came at 6:23 am on Tuesday and it woke me up. I’d missed a further two calls from him on Monday. I just hadn’t bothered answering.

Persistent man he was indeed, but the purpose of his calls was loud and clear: he was far too wonderful a person for the likes of silly old me. He was regretful for his wayward moment and he wished me all the best for my life.

Best get it over with.

As soon as I opened the message I was struck by the length of it—apparently I was the recipient of the world’s longest text message blow-off.

Alan: Sunny, I was really hoping to speak to you, but it seems you’ve gone underground. Fair enough. My behaviour on Saturday night was confused and confusing. I’m sorry. I’ve had a weird few weeks with work and Sol and Tatiana and I would have loved to explain it properly in person instead of text. But here we are. I think I mentioned the Antarctic Division has been hassling me to do the sail south for months. I’d held onto the intention that I wouldn’t go, basically because of Sol and the hope that I could somehow help him by being here. They kept planning and pestering me, but eventually found someone else to do my job, so I thought (not entirely without regret) that I was off the hook.

As I worried it might, shit hit the fan after I let Sol go to the party on Saturday. He was fine, but Tatiana has gone mental over it. It’s really messy between us and I’m worried it’s actually making things worse for Sol. Serendipitous perhaps that the bloke who’d filled my role has appendicitis and I got the beseeching call late last week to go in his place. What can I say? Things are fucked up here, and I was already pretty bloody tempted.

This mess of a situation (even before the latest instalment following my demonstration of fathering ineptitude) is essentially where my hesitation lay in complicating your life, and further complicating my own.

I’m boarding for Antarctica now and about to go out of range for eight weeks. I’m sorry I’ve been a dick, particularly with everything you are going through at the moment. The bees should be okay so long as they don’t swarm—queens can be flighty when they get pissed off. Take care, Sunny Surprise x

I stared at the screen, reading and rereading the message. I felt a weird combination of emotions rolling inside me, one of which was unmistakably disappointment. Sometimes we didn’t realise the things we were still holding out for, but yes, hope had been there in some form, and now it was gone. Closely following the disappointment came frustration. I felt like I’d seen so much of Al but still knew so little. He’d always had me thinking his life was rosy, easy, breezy with bees—a jovial, flirty guy with not a care in the world. And only so recently had I learnt all the things he was dealing with. Things I wished I had known. Sadness started to pierce through, sadness for what could have been if he had opened up to me, and if I had been the sort of girl he could want to be close to.

Now, he truly may as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

I didn’t know whether to ignore his message or reply. Was I angry with him or just disappointed? Did I feel sorry for him or wounded by him? In the end, I couldn’t be bothered being angry with him. Life felt heavy enough these days. He was obviously going through a lot and I guess he didn’t owe me anything.

Me: I’ll keep an eye on the queen. She sounds like my type of lady. I also get flighty when I’m pissed off. Though maybe you too? Have fun in the ice. Bring me a snow cone.

I hit send.

I guess that was that.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

At the end of my very glum Tuesday, the absolute knockout moment came at my dance class. I was just about to start a warm up to TZU’s ‘Summer Days’ when in walked Nikisha with an unmistakably smug expression on her face and an unmistakably Sol boyfriend on her arm. I opened my mouth, trying to find appropriate words, but she relieved me.

‘He’s joining,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Sol, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Sol.’ She turned and placed a highly saucy smooch on his lips to leave absolutely no doubt as to the status of their relationship.

‘Uh …’ I cocked my head slightly at Sol, who returned my gaze with an infinitesimal shrug. ‘Great. Well. Let’s get started then.’

The shock of it was almost enough to lift me out of my Al-induced fug. I tried to concentrate on the class I had planned, but couldn’t help expecting a camera crew to jump out at any moment and start laughing at me for thinking this was really my life.

Al’s son was here. His eyes barely left Nikisha. And he was dancing hip hop like he had been designed to do it since the day he was born. His addition to the group brought the number of boys to nine, lending itself perfectly to a new configuration that made the whole number work remarkably better. I kept asking if he’d done any dance classes before and he kept assuring me he hadn’t. Either all the other boys in the class were abysmal, or Sol was just outrageously naturally talented, because by halfway through the evening, he was putting them all to shame.

It would be highly inappropriate for me to notice the aesthetic appeal of a sixteen-year-old boy, but the likeness to Al in his features and stature was hard to ignore. So much for forgetting the stupid Bee Man for the next eight weeks and forever beyond, his goddamn stunt-double junior was right here, and as far as he and Nikisha were concerned, he was here to stay.

At the end of the class, I hesitantly approached Nikisha. I didn’t want to ditch her now that we had formulated a routine.

‘Would you … still like a lift to work?’

She turned to Sol and answered while still looking at him.

‘Okay.’

‘And … Sol would you like a lift somewhere?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

Weird. Weird. Weird. Weird.

As I gathered my stuff, tidied the room and changed shoes, I glanced at the pair of them from time to time, as subtly as I could. The rest of the group had left and it was just the lovebirds—Sol leaning against the wall, Nikisha straddling him, their fingers entwined, talking in hushed voices, the occasional bubble of laughter.

It was the sweetest thing. All Nikisha’s performance had gone out of her now. They were just obviously, hopelessly, terribly and unselfconsciously mad about each other. Sol was reserved with his smiles and had a generally serious energy to him, but I sensed I was seeing a version of him that was different to what Al had described in recent times. Maybe he’d lost sight of the wonder in the world, but it didn’t take a genius to recognise that he could see it again now. It was right there sitting on his lap and he was captivated.

When I was done, I walked towards the door and awkwardly cleared my throat, hesitant to interrupt.

‘Ready when you are.’

I heard the giggling behind me as Nikisha presumably pulled Sol to his feet and followed me out.

‘Are we just going the usual way? Do you need to go somewhere in particular, Sol?’

‘Just drop me with Nikisha. I’ll walk from there. Thanks.’

They both got in the back seat and I shook my head. ‘Making me feel like a real taxi driver here, guys. Can we not have any making out? That’s one step beyond my job description.’

I watched them share a glance in the rear-view mirror.

‘I mean it,’ I warned.

Nikisha giggled. ‘Fine. So, whose bed did you end up in on Saturday then, miss?’

‘My bed, by myself, thank you, Nikisha. Not that it’s any of your business. I won’t go so far as asking you the same question.’ I caught her eye in the mirror and she gave a self-satisfied smirk. Best move on. ‘Did you enjoy the concert, Sol?’

‘Yeah,’ he said with sincerity. ‘They were nuts.’

We chatted pleasantly for the remaining short drive until I pulled up in Nikisha’s usual spot.

‘Sure you don’t want me to take you anywhere?’ I asked just before Sol followed Nikisha out.

‘I’m fine. But thanks.’

‘Hey, Sol …’ I twisted around in my seat and he paused.

‘Yes?’

‘Look. I heard things got a bit tricky with your mum and dad after the weekend. And now your dad’s gone for a while … Not my business of course, but if you need anything, consider me a neutral bystander, okay?’ I gestured to myself with genuine self-deprecation. ‘I may be old, but I remember being young.’

He gave a small smile. ‘I appreciate that.’

‘And come back. You’re a great dancer. See you next week?’

‘Okay. Thanks for the lift.’

‘Antarctica?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bullshit,’ Millie deadpanned. She had tracked me down and determined that I was fine and dandy, despite my cunning plague decoy story. ‘I guess that’s where all the boys end up when you’re tired of them, huh?’

‘No. He just went to Antarctica.’

I was munching on nachos with Millie while Blossom did finger painting on my dining table with sour cream and Wattle sprinkled corn chips throughout the house. Forest was absorbed in Asterix and Obelix and Pete was singing along to Triple J while brandishing a drill and various other building-type tools on the balcony and getting what appeared to be feck all done.

‘So, what’s your plan now?’ She was wide eyed, like my life was the next best thing to Sex and the City.

‘No plan.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘I don’t think he’s really ready for a relationship. Neither am I. Whatever.’ I yawned and stretched up. ‘So, is Blossom doing swimming lessons at Kingston or Collegiate this year? What do you reckon? Wednesdays? Fridays? Keeping your options open? Can’t quite decide?’

Millie glared at me. They talked about this sort of crap all the time. Why couldn’t I get away with it?

‘And remind me why you didn’t have sex?’

‘Millicent!’ I exclaimed, clapping my hands over Blossom’s ears. ‘Children in attendance!’

She rolled her eyes. ‘She doesn’t know what it means. Tell me. Why didn’t you?’

‘Sex is when the willie goes in the vulva and—’ Blossom started with associated hand explanations.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Millie and I interjected simultaneously before hastily talking over each other.

‘Yeah, so we’re thinking Friday afternoons at Kingston would be a bit tight after school—’

‘So maybe you’ll go Collegiate? Slip it in on a Thursday before ballet?’

‘You said slip it in.’

‘You said tight,’ I retorted and we both erupted in well-rehearsed teenage hysteria.

When we finally got ourselves back under control, Millie leant forward and whispered, ‘Was he flaccid? Performance anxiety? Sometimes the hot ones have it the worst.’

‘No! Jesus. We didn’t even get to second base.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Though from the experience on the other side of his trousers, I’m fairly confident flaccid was not the situation we were dealing with. Ahem. Moving on.’

Pete leant against the door frame by the balcony, earmuffs still on, and yelled, ‘You and Fonzie shacked up yet? Hammered the nail home, so to speak?’

I threw a grape at him. I missed wildly, but he gave a generous cower, which I appreciated.

‘He’s gone to Antarctica.’

Pete nodded, retrieving the grape and chewing on it thoughtfully. ‘Fair enough. He does love going down to the old Ice Land. He’s got it for you bad, though. When he gets back, it’ll be on like Donkey Kong.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t think so. He’s got all sorts of complicated shit happening. He doesn’t need me adding more chaos to the circus. Which is fine. I’m not bothered anyway.’

‘Nah.’ Pete shook his head firmly. ‘Blokes aren’t like that. Only chicks let old baggage get in the way of a good time. He probably just wanted to abseil down a crevasse and wrestle a woolly mammoth. He’ll be back for you, Sunny. You’ll see.’

I must have improved my aim, because the second grape got him square in the eye.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The following weeks drifted into one another with a faint sense of ache.

Days at the gallery stretched and I found myself realising with more clarity than ever that my time there was wasted. The art world was giving little to me, and I was giving little to it. I was recognising also that my inability to really grasp what the art was about was driving my negativity towards it and preventing me from giving it the respect it deserved. As I found myself increasingly understanding how meaningful dancing was in my life, I saw too that fine art had a similar effect on a whole other group of people. Maybe I would always be too simple to really get it myself—but appreciating the powerful, positive impact art could have, made me lose the satisfaction I had always experienced in ripping it to shreds with pisstakes.

I was open with Delia and Frederick about my thoughts and they were generous in return. It was understood I was officially looking for alternative employment.

I was seeing Mama at least twice weekly, and while it was far from arm-locking closeness and shared hilarity, we had undoubtedly come a long way from where we had been. And for that, I was grateful.

While I didn’t feel the same sense of urgency to overcome it, the gap between my father and myself had also been weighing on me. But as weeks passed, I discovered that the altered perspective I’d developed of Mama was also changing the way in which I interacted with Papa, and he with me. The loosening of my defensiveness and the ability to see my parents as fallible humans trying their best gave way to something resembling affection.

Mama had finished work and was softer in her general demeanour. Whether she had at long last found peace in herself, or was just too frail and devoid of energy to bother with uptightness, the change in her level of stress was remarkable and contagious. For the first time in as long as I could remember, we could sit in one another’s company in contented stillness. Staring over the water in our own thoughts. Reading books beside each other on the couch. And as she settled into this new energy, I found myself increasingly appreciating its worth. I learnt our relationship did not just need words to mend; in fact, it seemed the observation of ease underneath conversation was almost more powerful in bridging the gap between us than anything either of us could say. The time with Mama felt meaningful and deep on some critical level.

But the lightness to my week came from dancing with Tori and teaching my class. Tori had me wrapped around her little finger; I was so enjoying the rehearsals, she could virtually do with me what she wanted. I realised that my body was like an instrument I’d put down for a while, but it didn’t take long to feel like I’d never stopped dancing. For all her bossiness, Tori was an excellent teacher. She was confident and just this side of demanding, pushing me to do things I wouldn’t have otherwise done and helping me rediscover the realms of my capabilities.

A routine soon established itself where we’d rehearse together in the hot evening studio on the Eastern Shore, then cross the road to the marina and drink gin and tonic, watching the seagulls on the crusted pontoon while the sun went down. It felt youthful and carefree and full of promise, like being a teenager again.

One evening, the trickiest section of choreography, which we’d been working at for weeks, finally clicked, our bodies syncing with a tightness that felt almost transcendent. Afterwards, we dissolved in shrieks and hugs of euphoria. The connection between us grew quickly, and even though we were all completely different people, living different lives, there was something incredibly powerful in the way we came together in dance that had me feeling a closeness and a deep appreciation for every one of them.

I’d also developed a thorough fondness for all of the students in my class. Even Smelly Darren and Stoned Mikey playing up only made me chuckle and scuff their heads in mock annoyance. And perhaps it was just the familiarity that had grown in the class, but I sensed a strength and sort of vitality emerging in them. After all the hours spent together, they’d knitted themselves into something almost like family, and though the banter continued in full swing, there was an undercurrent of care rather than true narkiness. While they might never have admitted to it, it was obvious their attitude to the whole thing had shifted, and so had mine. The Wayward Youths arrived with readiness and punctuality rather than the slothful tardiness of the earlier days, and I no longer regarded dance classes as a tedious way to earn money but something I enjoyed so much I would probably have done it for free.

There were moments when they would all work together with such determination and awareness of one another that I would almost feel tearful at the beauty of it. Maybe it would last three seconds, maybe it would last most of a dance number, but witnessing that motley bunch of humans (as we all were) rising out of their egos, out of themselves, and participating in an experience driven by music, and emotion, and relationship to one another, was almost enough to feel like we were part of something holy. It was beyond humbling and made my heart swell with a kind of love. Seeing it afresh reminded me of what it was that had drawn me into dance in the first place—that liberating feeling of being stripped of the trappings of what I felt defined me. And that I was rediscovering it with Tori and the girls alongside my students gave me a sense of authenticity and a richer connection to them.

Somehow in the dance teaching I’d done previously, either I hadn’t been able to see it, or the students hadn’t been able to lose themselves to it in the same way. Now, for the first time perhaps in my whole working life, I was participating in something I felt was meaningful, powerful and possibly life-changing for these young people.

Sol and Nikisha remained inseparable and somehow matched one another in their striking presence and command of their bodies. Within a handful of rehearsals, it seemed as though Sol had been part of the group from day one. His understated, charismatic presence reminded me of Al, and in the same way, he held the attention and respect of everyone around him without ever appearing to demand it. His offerings of words, comments or suggestions were rare but always held with a sort of reverence by his peers—and me as well. And while it was hard to equate the engaged and passionate young man I was seeing emerge with the sad and despondent boy Al had described, there was a suggestion of depth and layering that alluded to a darker time which now only seemed to enrich his character.

I thought of Al a lot over those weeks, and if anything, the time he was away only magnified his presence in my mind. The strangest thing was how much I noticed his absence. It wasn’t as though we’d really seen each other all that frequently before he left, but the knowledge that he was gone made me feel bereft in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It was only then that I realised the little simmering thrill I’d had at each venture out in the streets, each knock on the door, each ping of my phone. I had been alight with the possibility of Al. And now I was not. The emptiness was striking and seemed to tug at me constantly.

But, to my surprise, the initial hurt and frustration I’d felt following his departure were soon replaced by affection and a general appreciation. Whether he had romantic potential or not, it was hard not to see the goodness in him; the kindness, the playfulness, the mysteriousness. I thought of him when I weeded my garden on the hot December days and observed the bees hovering around the flowers, wondering what sort of honey they were busy making. I thought of him when I looked at the Derwent River, which somehow seemed to represent both the calmness and the wildness he contained, how he could be both grounded and ever free. I thought about him when I watched Sol, feeling a jumble of emotions that included wonder at the lovely son Al had had a part in creating, and sadness that he wasn’t there to witness the beauty of his unfolding. On many occasions, I would pass through my front door and become momentarily overcome by the recollections of his body against mine, pressing me to the wall, and the brief ecstasy of his uninhibited desire. I wondered what might have happened if I had answered his calls over the days that had followed. What more might he have said? Nothing, perhaps. But a part of me did regret how my pride had got in the way of ever knowing.

In my efforts towards repairing my relationship with Mama and Papa, and examining the part I’d had to play in the wedge that had developed between us, I’d come to realise how corrosive pride could be. How responding to perceived rejection or experiences of hurt with hardness and cynicism on the pretence of self-preservation actually inhibited understanding of others and only worsened the experience for everyone. It was perhaps this past experience that encouraged me to let go of my pride when I felt it interfering, and what I soon discovered emerged instead was compassion and appreciation for people. Yes, we were all flawed, we were all guilty and we were all tenderly human.

There was something very raw and unguarded in me over those weeks of Al’s absence, and as the cloud of my cynicism lifted, I was finally able to see the beauty that had been around me all along.

Chapter Thirty

Like every Australian family, we had always celebrated Christmas on December 25th—my parents firmly disregarding their German traditions. But this year, for the first time, Mama had declared a few weeks out that she hated the hot, midday feeding frenzy of the Australian Christmas and wanted to celebrate on the evening of the 24th, like they had when she was growing up. There was little in the whole Christmas experience that I held onto with any particular devotion—the larger portion of my memories had been strained family dos where we were forced to spend far too long in one another’s company and inevitably ended up having arguments about consumerism and greed and the superficiality of society. It was impressive, really, how reliably we could draw conflict out of topics on which we actually had the same views. Needless to say, when Mama suggested an alternative approach to this year’s celebration, none of us had any objections.

I was ready and waiting for Tommy to pick me up for said celebration when I noticed a new email from an Alfonso De Jong.

Hello

I was overcome with jitters and butterflies (or bees, if you like). Should I read it now? Or wait till later? My self-control was flighty at the best of times and I was about to open the email when I heard the knock on the door that heralded Tommy’s arrival.

I grunted and clicked the phone screen to black, gathering my cardboard box with its odd collection of gifts, throwing my cardigan over my arm and heading to the door.

When I saw Tommy standing there on the porch in his formal slacks and striped dress shirt, it was almost enough to make me forget about the unread email.

‘Tommy,’ I said a little shakily. ‘You look lovely.’

He smiled sadly back. ‘You do too. I guess it’s the year to dress for the occasion.’ I saw the glistening in his eyes just before he pulled me in for a firm hug and the emotion rose in my throat.

I piled into the back seat between the kids, complimenting Edward’s cute waistcoat and Lilly’s floral dress. I held each of their little hands on the drive and felt a wobbly love flowing out of me and enveloping them. We didn’t say much, but I sensed we all felt the gravity of the event through the tender smiles and meaningful squeezes.

When we arrived at my parents’ house, there were fairy lights strung up around the door, which was open, gentle music filtering out. I had never arrived to such a welcoming entrance at my childhood home. Lilly rang the doorbell as we walked through and Papa came to greet us. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes easily wet. His hug was richer than I ever remembered. There were lots of tight mouths, understanding nodding and ‘Merry Christmases’ loaded with meaning, as we struggled to hold on to the welling of emotion.

We moved into the kitchen–living area, where Mama was in her new standard position on the couch—hair brushed, makeup on, frail body under her cashmere blanket—waiting. There was a pause before she appraised us with a slightly mocking contempt.

‘I see you’ve all gone to town, dressing up this year,’ she said, her voice dripping with lighthearted irony. ‘You’d think it was my last Christmas or something.’

‘Oh, Mama.’ Tommy rushed to her side and there followed a succession of affectionate greetings from the rest of us.

Papa was more tender than I had ever known him to be as he moved around the kitchen following Mama’s occasional instructions, and I noticed how his eyes landed frequently on her, almost absentmindedly assessing her wellbeing. While the long daylight hours of our southern hemisphere December detracted slightly from the magical darkness of the German Christmas Mama described, there was enough to appreciate what it might have been like. A select number of closed curtains darkened the interior, allowing the lights on the Christmas tree to shine off old, handcrafted wooden decorations—as well as the relics of Tommy’s and my woeful, yet treasured, childhood additions—and cast silhouettes on the ceiling above. Candlesticks I never knew existed had appeared in our living area, bringing a soft sort of enchantment and pre-emptive nostalgia to the evening.

We gathered around Mama and the tree beside her and exchanged gifts. In many ways, it might have been the hardest year to choose a gift for Mama—the necessities of someone with months or weeks to live were not vast, and there was little to inspire a sense of celebration in things like a soft cushion to help manage bed sores. But surprisingly, in the time I’d spent with Mama over the preceding weeks, I had come to have a better understanding of who she was. There were gift ideas in all her little offhand comments, her dry humour, her observations, her silences.

I remembered the way she had paused on a slow walk down the street a few weeks back and touched the flower hanging over the fence of a hakea tree. ‘Look at that,’ she’d said with a chuckle, almost to herself. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Prickly, fiery beauty. Like it hasn’t worked out what a flower is supposed to look like. I love it.’

I’d hung back a moment as she wandered on, my eyes fixed on the ball of red at the flower’s heart, its yellow-white spikes protruding proudly like a pin cushion, but soft and yielding when touched. It was exquisitely beautiful. Something tugged at me, recognising the echo of Mama in its complex characteristics and I found that I kept returning to the idea of giving her a hakea tree.

I’d tied a bow around the pot, but it was otherwise unwrapped.

‘This is for you, Mama,’ I said when there was a pause in the gifting. ‘Maybe we can plant it in the backyard together. I remember how you said you liked the hakea.’

I watched her face as she touched the young leaves on the tree. ‘I do. Prickly, fiery beauty.’

She looked up and I wondered if she had seen the likeness of the flower in me, as I had done in her. Or perhaps in the relationship between both of us.

‘Thank you, Sara.’ She squeezed my hand and added with a cheeky smile, ‘I thought I’d be happy with my ashes put in the compost. But on second thought, around this tree would be lovely. Thank you.’

At the end of the evening, when Tommy and the kids were attempting to sing along to ‘O Tannenbaum’ between bursts of self-conscious laughter, I nestled in at the end of the couch beside Mama. I was feeling particularly wobbly, which I suspected must have been augmented by the red wine.

‘Do you ever feel like you’re watching your own life like it’s a movie, Mama? Like it’s the montage part where everyone is in slow motion and the sad music is playing and you’re not sure if it makes you want to smile or cry?’ I looked from Tommy and the kids to my mother and saw the glistening in her eyes that I knew mirrored mine.

‘And it’s through a lens that makes it all a little more beautiful than it ever seemed before,’ she replied softly. ‘Sometimes I feel I’m already watching my life without me.’

I reached for her hand and felt a tear roll down my face. ‘Are you scared?’

She held my eye and nodded ever so slightly, and I remembered the little girl in the new shoes and felt my face start to crumple.

‘It’s okay, Sara,’ she whispered and pulled me towards her. She hugged me, then, and held me. And I held her back.

The little girl in the new shoes.

My mother.

Chapter Thirty-One

By the time Tommy dropped me back home, the kids were asleep on either side of me and my heart felt warm and content.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I said as I hugged Emma and Tommy in turn. ‘Love you both. See you tomorrow.’ We had agreed on a casual lunch and planting the hakea on Christmas Day and I was genuinely looking forward to it.

As I showered and my mind wandered back over the day, I remembered with a jolt the unread email from Al. I hastily dragged my fingers through my tangled curls and finished my shower, dried, moisturised, combed, donned my favourite silk dressing gown and settled on my bed to take full advantage of this moment. I paused before opening the email—the little killjoy voice in my mind always on standby to anticipate an anticlimax. It’s probably just an errand he needs—a missing utility bill, perhaps? Maybe he forgot to put the bung in his sailing boat and someone reported that it had sunk. Or he didn’t take the rubbish out before he left and is worried about the mouldy cabbage oozing all over the cabin floor. Yep. That’ll be it. No need for excitement whatsoever.

I opened the email when my heart rate had settled somewhere back towards normal. It increased again when I saw the length of the email—the instructions of the errand were either quite complicated or he had something else to say …

Hello

24 December 5:23 pm

Dear Sunny Surprise,

Turns out being at sea and watching the penguins potter around the ice makes me think of you …

So I stalked you through your helpful friend Delia at the gallery. She tells me you are well and also mentioned in no more subtle words that I had better be a nice guy or she will post naked photos of me on Facebook and make tomato and bacon meatballs out of my testicles. I am suitably nervous to get on the wrong side of her.

A few things about Antarctica is that it is cold, extremely windy and there are quite firm rules around how and where to relieve oneself—pee flags, in fact. Also, no bees. And most sadly, although the days are extremely sunny, there’s a significant absence of anything Sunny.

So I’ve been thinking of you.

I wonder how your mum is going? And how you are going with how your mum is going?

I also wonder about my abrupt departure and if you are bothered. Or indifferent. I’d never want to bother you of course, but I hope you’re not indifferent. Not that I’m asking as that would be very forward. But I’m wondering …

I’m wondering as well about the pee flags and if you would find them as amusing as I do. I think you would, because you have a lovely sense of humour and when you laugh, it makes me think of sunny days and sunny surprises. So when I see the pee flags, I think of you.

And I wonder how your students are going with the dancing? And if Pete has replaced the balcony yet? Perhaps I’ll mention here that after I left your house that Saturday night, I knocked for about ten minutes to no avail and was seriously contemplating a Romeo-type balcony clamber, but had genuine concerns for my spinal integrity if I were to climb the balcony, as well as realistic appreciation of the shortcomings I might have when compared to Romeo if I did manage to appear at the top. Needless to say, I am interested in when the balcony is in a more robust state of affairs in case I am once again at a loss as to how to gain entry into your quarters.

And tomorrow is Christmas. I am considering going all out and suggesting we drizzle a little of our lime cordial over a cup of ice to make a snow cone.

And once again I will think of you.

Merry Christmas, Sunny Surprise. I blame the festive season and the lack of fat old men on motorbikes wearing Santa costumes for my sudden rush of sentimental overshare. Also, Greg, the grimy builder, shared his secret stash of whisky with me this afternoon, which hasn’t helped.

I am missing you.

‘Alan’

I cupped my hand over my mouth and read the email again. I laughed even more the second time and felt even more elated the third time.

I didn’t trust myself to write anything back just yet, so I put my phone down, rolled onto my back and held on to the feeling of the most bittersweet and beautiful Christmas Eve I could ever remember.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Most of my life, I’d woken up on Christmas morning with a vague sense of emptiness and melancholy. I was aware that there were two camps of Christmas attitude: those who loved it and went wild over its fanfare and gooeyness, and those who despised it and would happily sleep through the whole day and pretend it hadn’t happened. As I lay in bed, gently waking to the sound of mid-morning birds, I was struck by the peace I felt. In years gone by, the day of Christmas had drawn attention to a giant hole of longing and absence of connection within me, but I now realised that hole wasn’t quite so big anymore. It was almost satisfied. It was buzzing, in fact. And for the first time, I was able to recognise what the hole had been about in the first place. It was about love. Not just romantic love, but love of all shapes and sizes.

My phone held a message from Millie—sent at 7:23 am—and a photo of Blossom passed out asleep on a pile of recycled Christmas-themed wrapping paper.

Millie: Merry shitting Christmas. I’m fucked. Never have children. Wake time had a four in front of it this morning. Pits-ville. We had breakfast three hours ago, but come for pancakes when you’re up and distract me from my hell of a head. Love you.

I chuckled and my little brimming chest brimmed higher. I sent a large heart emoji and promised I’d be there soon. Then, still lying in my bed, I pulled out my laptop and opened the email from Al and clicked reply.

Re: hello

25 December 8:42 am

Well hello Al,

Merry Christmas to you too.

Thank you for your email. It was very unexpected and made me laugh and made me happy.

It was tempting not to reply because you did go ahead and disappear on me. And not that you’re asking, but YES, that did bother me. So I considered holding a big fat grudge against you, but I couldn’t maintain it for very long in the end. Besides, I felt the need to reply to enquire about my association with pee flags. I did find it quite amusing, but that’s not the point. Why me and pee flags? What about me and a sunset over an iceberg, or me and a spectacular display of coloured lights in the Aurora Australis?

I’ve never thought too much about Antarctica, to tell you the truth. Everyone always says how much they want to go there. I don’t. Can’t think of anything worse than freezing my arse off in the middle of nowhere and having to pee on flags. But since you’re there, I’m quite curious. What does it look like? Do you eat penguin for dinner? Pete mentioned about woolly mammoths. Are there any down there? Really, the only thing I know about Antarctica is that people go down on a red boat. And the only interesting bit I ever heard was that everyone gets off with one another and it’s a bit like scientists on band camp. Is that true?

Now that I’m thinking about Antarctica, though, I want to ask why do you keep going there? I mean apart from the science, which you seem to enjoy, and the oddity of the whole thing. But is there something else? You mentioned that night on the boat that those people who go there year after year are running from something. Are you running from something? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’m just curious, I guess.

Things here are … hard, but it’s also been a special time with my mum and my family. I still grapple with the fact that it’s only in the face of her dying that we’ve been able to establish some sort of relationship, but at least we’re getting there. I’ve gotten to know her better than I ever did before and I’m glad for that.

Now, since you got in touch, I feel it’s only fair for me to drop a bit of a bombshell on you. I’m not sure if you’ve heard from Sol lately? Or if he’s updated you on his life? Just in case he hasn’t, I’m going to tell you a secret. He is IN LOVE. Fact. Undeniable. Oh, and he dances. He’s brilliant. Front and centre in my class now. I slipped a little Family Planning flyer in Nikisha’s bag the other day as well as a handful of condoms, but I’m afraid that’s about as much as I can do as far as preventing your imminent progression to grandfather status. Exciting.

Anyway. Thanks again for your email. It was really truly nice to hear from you. You should definitely spend more time with Greg and his whisky.

Sunny

Re: Re: hello

25 December 4:23 pm

To: Sunny Moritz

Dear Sunny,

You replied! I almost didn’t bother with internet time for today. I was sure I would only be disappointed by opening my emails to find an advertisement for anti-hair-loss cream or some such, which I felt would be a slightly disappointing Christmas treat. That and a narky message from Tatiana, which I did get. (‘Alfonso, no one is missing you. Regards, Tatiana.’) Sol is unreliable on communication at the best of times, but he did send a one-liner wishing me merry Christmas with a smiley face emoji at the end, which was the most upbeat form of expression I have experienced from him in years and NOW I KNOW WHY. Holy fucking Jesus. I am elated. I am astounded. I am terrified. Who is this girl? Is she crazy? Is she going to destroy him?

All this and an email from you. I’ve not had this much emotional excitement since the woolly mammoth chased me round Casey Station the day we arrived.

The bit about Sol dancing—you’re making that up, right? You’re making it all up to cheer me up on Christmas Day, aren’t you?

I’m so happy for you that things have been easier with your mum. It’s a credit to you for making the effort to connect with her.

I’m amused you’re not interested in Antarctica. Your honesty is refreshing. In answer to your questions, no, we don’t eat penguin. I think there are rules against that kind of thing. But the woolly mammoth I slayed on that first day has fed the whole Australian team for weeks now. When we’re hungry, we just go and rip off a portion and eat it fresh. Sometimes it makes me feel so manly, I just stand there and flex my muscles like Goliath. Or David. Whichever one is tougher.

I think the bit about scientists on band camp is fairly accurate. Though it’s not just the scientists. We had to make our own dinner last week because the cook had been sprung making out with the plumber by her boyfriend and then the cook was so ashamed she hid in her dormitory for twenty-four hours.

What am I running from? I must say that question winded me a little, but also hit onto something that’s been a mess in my head ever since I got here. I need to formulate my answer on that. But I do want to tell you, Sunny. Because it has a lot to do with what a dick I was the last time I saw you. And aspirations of how I might do things differently if I had my time again …

Let’s just say that particular question is filed under ‘Project Alan’ on my high priority list.

Well. I better wrap up before I say anything else too revealing. Like how I wonder what it would be like if you did want to go to Antarctica and if we happened to be here at the same time if maybe the band-camp thing would be tempting after all. Oh crikey, I think there’s another woolly mammoth. Got to go!

Merry Christmas. You and Sol’s smiley face made my day.

Al

ps: I do think of you when I see the sun preparing to set. But it never sets, so I just keep thinking of you.

Re: Re: Re: hello

26 December 9:36 am

Hi Alan,

I’m finding myself more intrigued about this Antarctica place. Don’t get me wrong, I still definitely don’t want to go there. So, about the cook. What’s her boyfriend like? Maybe he was emotionally unavailable and she just felt really lonely. Mama said that’s why lots of people have affairs. Mama had an affair, by the way. She told me. We’re totally that close now. Anyway, it’s made me try not to be too judgy before I know all the details. And who did the cook end up choosing? Is she back with the boyfriend? Or has he found someone of his own at band camp? Ooh, is it a boy? #scandal

I’m impressed about the woolly mammoth. Wow. And not surprised you feel compelled to strike manly poses and channel the legends. Though if my philosophy studies still stand in good stead, I do believe you’d be hoping to be David. Goliath ended up with a rock in his head.

I’m totally not lying about Sol and Nikisha. He’s the loveliest kid, Al. Truly. I wish you could see him. He’s a great dancer. Absolutely devoted to Nikisha. And everyone in the class thinks he’s totally king.

Did Tatiana really send you a one-liner saying ‘no one is missing you’? That’s hardcore. I miss you, for what it’s worth.

No rush telling me about your results on ‘Project Alan’—except I’m dying to know, so tell me ASAP.

How lovely that the sun never sets there. Sounds magical. Even if it is the arse end of the world.

Sunny

ps: Good luck with the mammoths.

pps: Are they hairy?

Re: Re: Re: Re: hello

26 December 5:18 pm

Dear Sunny,

The woolly mammoths are VERY hairy. You have to be careful when tearing off your chunk that you don’t end up with a hairy hairball in your belly. One man last week nearly choked on his hairball and I had to wheel out my Heimlich manoeuvre. It was a success. I was awarded a gold star for bravery and a balloon for manliness.

I’m going to be really honest now. Despite my aforementioned manliness, I got a little emotional when you said that stuff about Sol. I feel like I knew him as a kid, and then he disappeared into this horrible time. And now he sounds like a man, and it’s as though I’ve never met him. Kind of tears me up that I’m not there to see it, and that I haven’t been able to help him get to where he needed to go. But way, way more than that, I feel so relieved. And so hopeful that maybe this is a shift, and maybe it will see him through to somewhere more stable. Thank you for being there for him.

We’re heading out in the field in a couple of days, so I’ll be out of touch for a few weeks. Part of me is hoping the weather shits itself so I can stay here and get your emails. But Greg the builder is the only one who is up for playing cards with me and his whisky has run out, and he is slightly mad and I think I am becoming slightly mad by osmosis.

Unfortunately, ‘Project Alan’ hasn’t put my pack over the weight limit, so I guess it’s going to be joining me for the next few weeks. I’ll be sure to keep you updated on its progress.

Tell me a Sunny Surprise. I need fuel for my upcoming Sunny Surprise famine.

Al x

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: hello

27 December 8:56 am

Dear Al,

Oh. I’m disappointed you’re off ‘in the field’. What does that mean? Are there fields? Snow flowers? I’d always thought it was just boring old ice. And when you go to said field, what do you actually do there? Measure ice particles? Dig? Make snowmen?

Hey, don’t be hard on yourself about Sol. Be proud of him. He’s doing really well. But I firmly feel that people get to things when they’re ready for them. I doubt there’s anything you could have done to help him move through this sooner, other than be that constant love and support that I’m sure you have been.

I also think that the things that really jolt us out of a funk can be random, but they come at the right time for us to notice.

A Sunny Surprise? Hmm. Let’s see. Well, I’ve been learning a lot about bees lately. Did you know that the lady bees are responsible for almost everything involved in the hive and making honey? They make the honeycomb, produce the honey, clean the other bees, nurse the bee larvae, take care of the queen, repair the hive, guard the hive, et cetera, et cetera! They outnumber the boys by one hundred to one. And what do the boys do? Have sex with the queen. That’s it. It’s a concerning representation of the division of labour between males and females and seems frankly quite unfair. I wonder if the bees will stage some kind of feminist movement in years to come? And of course it begs the question, are men just biologically programmed to be driven purely by their penises?

Hope you get this before you head out ‘in the field’. Enjoy! Pick me some flowers and keep up the manly work against all those big hairy creatures.

Sunny x

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: hello

27 December 4:08 pm

Dear Sunny,

I’d love to find you a flower, but unfortunately, it is just ‘boring old ice’. Though I secretly find it extremely fascinating.

I hear your concerns about the lady bees and the inequity in distribution of labour. And I express my regret on behalf of the male species in general. I’m trying to think of an intelligent comment in defence of what drives the behaviours of men … but now I’m blushing and thinking inappropriate thoughts. Best move on.

What am I doing here? Well, pretty much measuring ice particles, like you said. I could go into the more technical details, but I’d risk exposing what a true nerd I am. Like how excited I get about the idea of measuring atmospheric gases over hundreds of thousands of years and their implications in climate instability. And how we can do sublimation extraction of ancient air from clathrate ice for measurement of early-Pleistocene CO2 and d13C levels. Anyway! I digress.

Thank you for the kind words on Sol. I want to believe it.

I have to finish now, but thanks for making my Christmas days off SO MUCH MORE INTERESTING than they would have been if you hadn’t replied to my email. The highlight would have peaked at playing 500 with Greg, which—with highest respect and gratitude to Greg—would have broken a new record for anticlimactic Christmases.

So. Enjoy your time off. Hope all continues to go well with your mum.

I’ll be thinking of you whenever the sun doesn’t set.

Al x

Chapter Thirty-Three

New Year’s Eve was the first day I collected honey. It wasn’t a large quantity because my girls were still busy establishing themselves, but they were doing so well that research had told me it was safe to take out a frame.

The genuine delight I felt with my hands in the honeycomb, squeezing sticky, golden liquid into a bowl, was childlike in its magnitude. I felt a combination of wonder at the creatures, joy at their thriving lives, and satisfaction with myself at having learnt the basics of becoming a beekeeper.

I collected two small jars of honey and the exhilaration was almost enough to overcome the dismay I felt for the tedious evening I had ahead of me.

It was hard to say what I was less excited about: having to stay up until midnight or spending another evening in the company of the likes of Boob Out Susan, Lycra Vivian and Shameless Kita. I considered pulling out the bellyache excuse. In fact, I did give it a trial—always worth a trial—but Millie told me to pull my head out of my arse, ditch the lame excuses and make a bloody effort. And. Well. Fair enough.

The other reason my enthusiasm was less than effusive was the fact that once again, Millie and Pete had decided on a themed party. I solemnly believed the only remotely good thing about dress-up parties was the getting ready bit. After that, it’s all just awkward exchanges of ‘What did you come as?’ and ‘Can you guess what I am?’ and before you know it, you’re stuck in the inevitable conversation with your ex-PE teacher about whatever happened to such-and-such while you’re dressed as a fucking dildo.

So when Millie told me it was a superhero dress-up party, my despairing response was ‘Why?’

‘Pete came up with it.’

‘I repeat, why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know! I think he’s always fancied the idea of dressing up as Batman. I guess it’s a guy thing.’

‘Is it really?’

‘Okay, maybe it’s just a Pete thing then.’

‘I think so.’

Anyway. There I was, knocking on the door to yet another dress-up party in yet another questionable costume. There were so many downsides to getting older. Increased rogue upper lip hair. Reduced boob perkiness. Fewer uncomplicated men to play with. I really would have counted on a reduction in number of dress-up parties to have been on the plus side of the ageing equation. Apparently not.

But whatever. In the spirit of turning over new leaves and being less of a moaner and judgy bi-atch, I was in costume, mustering my most upbeat attitude, practising my eye diversion tactics for Boob Out Susan and vowing not to say the words ‘nappy pants’ to Lycra Vivian or accidentally hiss ‘I hope you get gonorrhoea’ to Shameless Kita. I was going to be a mature and wondrous lady of the utmost class.

I was meditating on all this for the duration of my knocking—which went on and on—until I remembered where I was and the fact that I’d never knocked at Millie’s door since I was about five and where the hell was my brain anyway? Probably in Antarctica.

That thought set me off on another few minutes of vacant staring at the wooden door.

‘Sunny!’

My heart sank and my lip curled involuntarily at the familiar voice startling me out of my happy daydreaming.

‘Kita,’ I said with all the energy I could muster as I moved the muscles of my face into what I thought might represent a smile.

‘What are you doing out here? Oh, you poor thing, are you nervous? Don’t worry about your costume. I’m sure lots of other people forgot as well. Come on in! How cute of you to knock!’

It really is amazing how someone can be so incredibly irritating in so few words. I watched her disappear through the doors wearing what appeared to be a bright red swimsuit and a small cape. I had no idea what she was supposed to be. I looked down at my oversized high-vis shirt (borrowed from Pete), skinny jeans and my handmade stop sign. Okay. So it wasn’t a work of art in the costume-making department. But it was no more obscure than her slut outfit. I guess she was a sex worker superhero. At least, in about five minutes, I could shed my outer layer and have regular clothes ready to go.

Anyway, I maintain that dress-up parties are the pits. And also that Lollipop Ladies are the pinnacle of superheroes. Could you imagine volunteering to stand on the road twice a day in a bright yellow getup, trying to anticipate the erratic behaviour of small children and enduring the impatience of drivers? Simultaneously the most dull and the most stressful way to pass time. The only mildly interesting part would be perving on fit young dads—though they were obviously all out of bounds and a child would probably get squished while you were eyeing off the tush of married man. Less than ideal. Superheroes, I tell you.

‘What are you doing out here?’ Millie pulled me into a silky Batwoman hug. ‘You look ridiculous. Let’s get smashed.’

I wasn’t going to believe it till I saw it, but it seemed, as promised, children had been farmed out to respective grandparents and it was actually an adults-only party. Bless all the beautiful snotty children in the world, but this was excellent news and a solid step towards easier interactions with Boob Out Susan.

I followed Millie through the crowd and exchanged the necessary pleasantries—‘Wow, great costume,’ and ‘Let me guess, let me guess—lady tradie?’ blah, blah—until my good deed had been done and I ditched the lollipop and hi-vis additions.

I was nodding along to an intriguing Boys’ Club conversation about cricket when Lycra Vivian squeezed my arm.

‘How are you, Sunny?’ she exclaimed with enthusiasm. ‘I so love that you came as a Lollipop Lady! I saw you walk in and I just thought that was the greatest idea! Aren’t they just incredible? I’m always on my bike, obviously with the kids, and the Lollipop Ladies are so considerate of cyclists and I’m always like, thanks, Pam!’ She was positively beaming.

‘Yeah, thanks, Pam!’ I beamed back. What else was I supposed to say? I was committed to maintaining my newfound adult maturity and lack of judgement and I wasn’t even going to mention anything about bum pads. ‘Great costume!’ I exclaimed.

‘Oh, thanks! Can you believe it? I found this Captain Planet onesie at the op shop and it already has breathable bike cushioning in the saddle area! I’m in love!’ At which point, she did show me her bottom and, look, the regrettable location of the bulk did suggest that she might have shat her pants.

My smile faltered momentarily, but I regained it in rapid time. ‘That’s great!’ I squealed, hands up in a who-would-believe-it gesture. ‘I’m just listening to the latest on the cricket. Have you heard?’ I turned the full force of my focus onto someone whose name might have been Edward or Donald and listened to his manly nattering. I caught something along the lines of LBW and beamer then, feeling exultant over my clever divergent tactics, I tuned abruptly out.

I remembered the last time I had been here for a gathering and how absolutely gorgeous Al had looked. I wondered how his ‘Project Alan’ was going. It was kind of weird to consider someone who seemed as polished and perfect as him to have a weakness, but I sensed there was something in his need to escape and I found my mind returning to it frequently. I wondered what he was doing that very moment, camped out on the ice. Would he still be working this late in the evening? Or would he be cooking dinner on a little stove beside his tent? I hoped he hadn’t really believed quite how ignorant I was about the Antarctic landscape with the questions of flowers and meadows. The thing one must be very careful with in feigning stupidity was that if one was in fact quite stupid (like me) people didn’t always recognise the joke. Ditto woolly mammoths. Oh, well.

I sensed an appropriate point in the conversation to retreat and go in search of a beverage. I was happily contemplating a cider or a bubbly or a mojito and, having decided on the mojito, was just turning to the fridge for more lemons when I found myself face to face with a boob.

‘Oh!’ I said in alarm, trying to avert my eyes from the giant creamy balloon and absolutely enormous corresponding nipple area that really could have been mistaken for a fried egg. ‘Sorry!’

‘Nice to see you, Sunny!’ Boob Out Susan seemed genuinely delighted, no trace of self-consciousness whatsoever. Boob still out and no child to see anywhere!

‘Hi, Susan! H-h-how are you?’ I stammered, while silently chanting, Eyes up, eyes up.

‘Oh, really good. How are you?’

It was hard not to let my gaze slip as she rummaged around the giant boob area with something that looked disturbingly like a bong. My eyes darted down momentarily and, God, I wish they hadn’t. Whatever she was up to was all kinds of wrong. I turned to the bench and tried to focus on tequila and lemon and ice.

‘Yeah, fabulous. Enjoying the summer?’ I did my best at making small talk while making every attempt not to look anywhere in her direction again. So grown-up. So mature.

She replied something about Christmas and beach trips, but I found it very hard to concentrate with the noises that were emanating from her direction—suctiony, fleshy, squelchy sort of sounds that made me feel rather dizzy. I reached for my lemon and, out of the corner of my eye, couldn’t help but notice the plastic contraption, which now seemed to be attached to the giant boob. All of a sudden, I was thinking about the time Millie and I visited her grandparents when we were kids and she gleefully took me to the bathroom cupboard and showed me the penis vacuum pump her grandfather used for his erectile dysfunction. A little bit of vomit found its way into my throat.

‘Looks a bit strange doesn’t it?’ Susan laughed and I realised I was now staring right at her boob, a look of pure shock on my face.

‘Wh-what is it?’ There was no pretending anymore, I was too discombobulated to make any pretence of preserving her modesty.

‘A breast pump, silly!’ She laughed again with affection and still that complete lack of concern about her public display of nudity. ‘You’ll learn all about it when you have kids! I’ll be done with it by then and I can loan it to you.’

‘Hahahahaha!’ I trilled, my stomach filled with squeamishness. I’d rather die.

I was still making my mojito and it would have looked odd to walk away, so there we were for the next three minutes or so, her squelching and suctioning away, producing some oozy grey liquid that looked slightly like semen, while we chatted about how hard it was to get a table at Ginger Brown these days.

She was really very friendly, Susan. I couldn’t deny her that. All the same, maturity and grown-up non-judgemental crap aside, I was exceedingly relieved to have finished making my mojito and to be heading outside for a quiet drink on the balcony.

I was busily licking the citrus off my lips and storing the whole episode in my library of Don’t Ever Have Children memories when a little red cape sauntered up beside me.

‘Nice jeans. Where’d you get them?’ Kita had joined me on the balcony.

‘Uh. Can’t remember,’ I mumbled.

She gave a little huff of irritation.

I always had this sense Kita was trying to take things that weren’t hers. Like she had no self-control. It gave me this constant feeling of being invaded.

‘So, wasn’t it last time we were here that you introduced me to Al?’

I tried not to sigh audibly. Could I just pretend I hadn’t heard her and go make another mojito? Or something else? A craving for popcorn? An irrepressible urge to dance?

I shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess it was.’

‘Such a sweet guy.’

I could hear the girly flirtation in her voice and I thought I might smack her in the head. I gave a small grunt in response and she took it as encouragement to carry on.

‘He was sexy. Is he still single, do you know?’

‘I don’t know, Kita.’ Not that it would stop you if he wasn’t.

‘Has he changed his number or something? He dropped me some bees once, but I haven’t been able to reach him since then. Maybe he lost his phone?’

I sniggered with considerable lack of subtlety. ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’

‘You’re being very cagey. Fine. I’ll ask Pete.’

‘Good plan.’ I turned to head back inside.

‘Hey, are you and Adam still dating? I always thought he looked like fun.’

‘Good luck with that.’ I paused at the doorway. ‘Oh, Kita, maybe just pull the cape down a bit. I think it might be that time of the month.’ I indicated to her bathing suit–clad bottom and the look of absolute horror that crashed over her face as she checked herself was enough to make me chortle with satisfaction as I returned to the party inside.

What could I say? Some people were just so goddamn annoying it was very hard to be mature around them.

I hadn’t expected to be looking forward to my dance class so much. I realised with an odd feeling that the Wayward Youths had come to be one of the highlights of my week, right up there with Tori’s dance rehearsals.

I watched the youths roll in and smiled fondly at the ease of their behaviour—they knew the place; they dominated the place. I felt the change in them since they’d started and how this had come to be a space in which they felt a kind of ownership, a space where they could be completely themselves. There was also a little buzz of energy, an excitement that I was familiar with—we were getting towards the pointy end of things and the notion of the upcoming performance was right there in everyone’s awareness.

I was curious to see Sol and Nikisha again. Youth romances could change as fast as Tasmanian weather and I wondered if the intensity of their relationship had blown over or if it was still progressing in full swing.

When Nikisha walked through the door five minutes late, Sol at her heels, she could have had a sign on her head flashing ‘ATTENTION! ATTENTION! DISASTER IMMINENT!’ and it would have been less obvious that something was up. She exuded turmoil.

All eyes turned to the pair of them.

‘What are you all looking at?’ Nikisha snapped and everyone immediately engaged themselves in looking elsewhere.

I wasn’t sure what to say but sensed nothing would be particularly welcome at this point.

‘Let’s make a start with the warm-up then, shall we?’

Throughout the warm-up, I continued to notice the tension in Nikisha and Sol’s attempts to pacify her. The whole group was on edge.

Then we launched into the first group number and it was all over the place. I felt a prickle of concern and, from the looks on everyone’s faces, I wasn’t alone.

‘Okay,’ I said slowly at the end of the song. ‘We’ve had a couple of weeks off. Maybe we just need to get our groove back a little.’

‘What the fuck was that?’ Nikisha practically shrieked.

‘Settle down,’ Stoned Mikey shot at her, sounding more sober than I’d ever heard him. ‘It’s all of us. Obviously.’

‘Yeah, don’t make out like you’re not ballsing it up too,’ someone else added.

‘That’s enough. Let’s try it again,’ I said with more confidence than I felt.

If anything, the second time was even more abysmal. Sections of choreography were forgotten, configurations mixed up, sequences changed. It was a disaster.

‘This is hideous!’ Nikisha yelled halfway through the song, kicking the ground in disgust.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Sol said softly, taking her arm.

She ripped her arm out of his grasp. ‘Don’t tell me it’s okay!’

I stopped the music.

‘Again from the start,’ Nikisha ordered and everyone obeyed.

It got worse the third time.

And even worse the fourth time.

‘Change of plan,’ I announced as the class seemed about to unravel entirely. ‘Let’s … uh … how about we start with a little activity to get us gelled again.’

I brought them into a circle, where we stood with our eyes closed as my mind whirled with memories of group-bonding exercises I’d done through the years and frantically tried to come across as though I had a clue how to manage this.

‘I know we’re feeling nervous, but let’s try to bring our energy into our bodies, focus on our breathing.’

Aside from Nikisha’s disgruntled mutterings, the students were going along with it. I was kind of astonished that these kids were even entertaining this sort of exercise. How far we had come from the day we started.

‘What a fucking waste of time,’ I heard Nikisha hiss—more like what I expected.

‘Nikisha. Just go with it,’ came Sol’s whispered response.

‘Breathing in over one, two, three, four, and holding for one, two, three …’ I chanted. I wondered how long I could do this to buy time? Five minutes?

‘We don’t have time for this shit.’

Evidently not.

‘Is there something you want to talk about, Nikisha?’ I asked. ‘Not anything I want to talk about with any of you,’ she spat. I sighed. ‘Well, you might need to. We all might need to if there are things that are blocking the cohesion of this group.’ I sensed I was the only one with my eyes still closed, so I opened them. Indeed, everyone was yawning and slouching and looking all over the place.

‘Ugh.’ This was hard. ‘On the floor, all of you.’

There was a general murmuring of uncertainty until we were all lying on our backs, looking up at the ceiling, toes nearly touching in the centre of the circle.

Silence settled.

‘When we try to make something as a group of people, we need to be connected to that group of people,’ I began, unsure exactly where I was heading. ‘If you end up in an accounting firm, maybe you won’t need to be much more connected than knowing who you don’t want to bump into when you arrive late on a Monday morning. When you dance together, it demands the full expression of yourself, you need to be connected on a deeper level. We need to be connected on a deeper level. And the key step in that is letting go of some of the armour we carry around in our everyday lives. The barriers we hold outside these walls need to come down a bit in this space. That will change our performance from some random choreographed sequence of movement into art. Into something that has the power to impact people—ourselves and others.

‘If we’re just jumbled up today because we’re nervous about the show in two weeks, let’s hear it. Say it. But if there are other things getting in the way of what we are trying to do, then let’s hear that too.’

I had the full attention of the group and a deep focus that felt enormous and powerful. The weight and responsibility of leadership made me nervous.

‘So, we’re going to do a little exercise to help bring some of those barriers down and help us know one another just a little bit more. You don’t have to share your deepest, darkest secrets, just something that can help bridge the spaces between us and pull us towards where we want to go.’

‘Yeah, baby,’ someone who sounded like Timmy chimed in.

‘I want each of us to say something we are grateful for and something we are finding difficult,’ I continued. ‘I’m going to start.’

I took a deep breath and hoped I was doing the right thing. I didn’t really have a clue how this was going to go.

‘I’m grateful to be doing something that feels meaningful with all of you here. I … I’m finding it difficult that, at the age of thirty-three, I’m still working out the person I want to be and the way I want to live my life.’

‘Dang.’

‘Thanks, Mikey,’ I said. ‘Maybe you’d like to go next.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘I’ll go.’ I was pretty sure that was Ellie. ‘I’m grateful for the people I’ve gotten to know here. Because home is shit these days, everyone’s angry and my parents are always fighting.’

‘Well done, Ellie,’ I said, genuinely surprised at her honesty and the fact that someone other than me was trying to take it seriously.

More surprising was someone who was either Smelly Darren or Jayden filling the gap before I had to invite anyone else to speak.

‘I’m grateful that everyone gets to hear me ask Ellie out. I’ve been finding it hard to get hold of her.’

Giggles passed around the group.

‘You’re a loser, Darren,’ Ellie retorted, but there was something playful in her voice.

‘Okay,’ I said with a touch of exasperation. ‘I guess these are good things to communicate.’

‘I’ve got one.’ That was Stoned Mikey or Eddie. ‘I’m grateful I haven’t smoked any weed in a week.’ Almost certainly Stoned Mikey. ‘And I’m finding it difficult that I haven’t smoked any weed in a week.’

‘Keep up the good work, Mikey.’ I was glad no one could see the trace of amusement on my face. This was supposed to be serious.

‘I’m getting another deal tomorrow though, so things are looking up.’

I sighed. ‘Right.’

‘Alice,’ someone said—it might have been Eddie? ‘Maybe you’d like to say you’re grateful the doctor yesterday said you’re not pregnant—’

‘Fuck off, Eddie.’

‘And you’re finding it difficult that you’ve got the clap.’

‘We might let people speak for themselves thanks, Eddie,’ I said above the ripple of laughter and whistles.

‘Fine then.’ Eddie again. ‘I’m grateful Alice isn’t pregnant. And I’m disappointed that we now both have the clap.’

‘The clap is gonorrhoea, you dipshit. We’ve got chlamydia.’

This was a terrible idea. What had I even been thinking? I was learning things I really didn’t need to know.

‘That’s … really great,’ I stammered. ‘This is going to make a massive difference to our bonding. Thanks, everyone.’

‘Um.’

The room stilled—that was unmistakably Sol.

‘I’m grateful to have found something—someone I care about so much. I’m finding it difficult to see her in pain. And I wish she’d let me in so that I can help her.’

You could have heard a pin drop. No one spoke as the silence seemed to swallow us up.

Then the distinct sound of stifled tears emerged, followed by the tiny, strangled voice of Nikisha.

‘I … I …’ A sob. ‘I’m grateful to you for caring for me, Sol. But I’m finding it hard to accept that anyone could ever …’ Another sob. ‘Could ever …’ Her final words were almost inaudible. ‘Want … me.’

I swallowed the thickness that had formed in my throat as I heard Nikisha’s emotion finally bubble over. I could hear the soothing words and the muffled voices that told me Sol was holding her.

After this, the stillness broke and I could see and hear people shuffling and sitting up. There was a general sense of emotion, elation, sadness, relief, laughter. Even some of the guys were making self-deprecating swipes at their eyes, but the truth was they were glistening and they weren’t really trying to hide it. People had their arms around their neighbours. Nikisha had at least three bodies encircling her and when she emerged from beneath them, she had an unguarded look that was breathtaking. She was half crying, half smiling in a way that seemed more honest than I’d ever seen her.

I was still scanning the room in slightly stunned awe, realising that maybe this had been okay, when Mikey’s voice rose above the hubbub.

‘Group hug, bitches!’

And like a truly clichéd breakthrough moment, I found myself deep in a pile of bodies, clutching onto one another. I couldn’t help it, I was grinning like an idiot with weepy eyes, because clichéd as it might be, it was real, it was honest, it was the kind of shit our society made no room for: allowing ourselves to show our weaknesses and to learn that we’re all just fumbling, confused, tender humans, working our way through it alongside one another.

When I finally turned on the familiar music to the first song, they fucking dominated.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I kept on wondering when I might hear from Al again. It had been three weeks and no new emails more exciting than my Tas Water bill had come through.

I tried to calculate when he’d be back based on the date he’d left and concluded it wouldn’t be for a while. And maybe they’d get stuck in the ice? Maybe there’d be an avalanche and I’d never see him again? Maybe the pee hole would collapse and he’d drown in a puddle of urine. Dismal.

I wasn’t worried exactly, but he was never far from my mind. And I kept hoping I’d get an email, but alas, I heard nothing.

It was the day of the Vera Blue/Flume concert. Delia had told me not to come in to the gallery, so I was attempting a leisurely morning, gentle stretching, going over the chorey a few times. It had been years since I’d performed and I was jittery as all hell. To make matters worse, my whole class was coming. Tori had posted something about it on Facebook and being the typical social media sleuths that young people were, someone had found it and shared it until I was being pestered by every single one of my students for a ticket. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to have them seeing as many live shows as possible, so I’d managed to get them all VIP entry. Now, it felt like I’d dug my own grave.

I was about to distract myself with a bit of weeding to calm my nerves when Tommy called. I assumed it was a further venue change to tomorrow’s family lunch. In classic Hobart style, the forecast for the early January day was eleven degrees with chance of hail—not ideal for a picnic at Waterworks.

‘Weather looks like arse tomorrow, doesn’t it?’

‘Sunny, where are you? We’re taking Mama to hospital.’

‘What?’ My heart rate skyrocketed instantly. I fumbled around, taking my gardening gloves off to grip the phone properly. ‘What’s going on?’

‘She’s not well. She’s got chest pain and is really short of breath. I think she’s probably got a pleural effusion.’

The words washed over me without making any sense, but his tone was grave.

‘And that’s not good, I assume?’

‘No. It’s not good,’ he said. ‘Can you meet us at the hospital?’

‘Of course.’

I established the required details, washed my hands and ran out to my car. I had a fleeting thought about the concert, which was probably no longer on today’s agenda, but concluded I’d worry about it later.

When I got to the hospital, they had already been taken into the Emergency Department. Mama was lying on a hospital bed, her breathing shallow and rapid. Her colour wasn’t right. She looked somehow all wrong. Papa and Tommy looked nearly as pale from the shock. A nurse was attaching cords and blood pressure cuffs and marking numbers. I tried to gauge the severity of the situation by the nurse’s body language, but she was all calm, unreadable efficiency. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in hospitals and everything looked scary and smelt horrible. I watched the staff moving around so purposefully and knowledgeably and I was in awe that anyone would choose to work in this environment. Just sitting there made me feel sick.

A young man in scrubs introduced himself as Nick and I gathered, from the assertive way in which he spoke about weird things I’d never heard of, that he was a doctor. Tommy asked sensible questions while I made general goldfish-type gaping motions and tried not to think panicky thoughts about what was going to happen to Mama.

I held her hand and she didn’t seem to mind. It felt so small and weak in mine. Some distant memory was sparked of holding her hand when I was little, when it had felt sturdy, dependable and comforting.

When Nick left, I turned to Tommy expectantly, not having understood a word of what the doctor had told us. Mama’s eyes were closed, like she was trying to conserve her energy, but the slight squeeze of her hand told me she was awake.

‘In a little while, they’re going to move Mama into the resuscitation area,’ Tommy began gently and my stomach seized up in dread. He must have seen the look pass over my face and put a soothing hand on my shoulder. ‘They need to drain the fluid from the lung so Mama can breathe more comfortably. Once she’s stable, we’ll be moved to a quieter area on the ward. We’ll be asked to leave for that time and will be able to see her again once they’ve finished.’

‘Is it dangerous?’ I whispered, hoping Mama wouldn’t hear. I thought I might vomit.

‘It’s a common procedure,’ he said, evading my question. ‘It shouldn’t hurt her.’

The next few hours seemed like a blur. We went to a café while Mama was taken for the procedure. None of us knew what to say.

At one point, Tommy seemed to light up momentarily when he asked, ‘Don’t you have that concert tonight?’

I waved a hand. ‘I won’t go. It’s nothing. I’ll tell Tori now.’

A frown passed over Papa’s face. ‘I think you should, Sara. It’s important for you.’

I didn’t know how to respond, startled by his sensitivity to me.

‘Don’t cancel just yet,’ Tommy agreed. ‘It might be fine. Most likely it’ll go well and she’ll feel a lot better. Most likely this isn’t … you know.’

I knew what he meant. I should be ready for it, because I did know the reality was that it might all happen very quickly. But I didn’t feel anywhere close to ready.

I still didn’t phone Tori. Each time it crossed my mind, I would justify that I’d been distracted, not because a part of me was still hoping it might happen. It felt too frivolous to acknowledge that.

Time was warping all over the place, and after what felt like three days but was actually only two hours, we were called back to the hospital.

Mama had a drain coming out of her chest, which I did my best not to look at, but otherwise appeared a lot better than before. The colour was back in her cheeks. Her breathing had steadied and she was able to talk to us without seeming like she might pass out at any moment.

I followed when she was moved to a bed on the ward, where she had nurses checking on her regularly, but the energy wasn’t as relentless as in the Emergency Department with its incessant beeping of monitors, loudspeaker announcements and random yelping of children. When she fell asleep, Papa went home to grab some things for her, and Tommy stepped out to make a few work calls. I stayed in the chair beside her, watching her sleeping face, all the muscles lax and thin beneath her skin. She looked so incredibly vulnerable, I almost felt I should look away.

I knew she was slipping. That there wouldn’t be many more moments to be with her like this, and I felt the need to store every second.

After a time, her eyes opened languidly. She gave a small smile when she saw me, her head still resting on the pillow.

‘Don’t get cancer, Sara,’ she mumbled with a lopsided half-smile. ‘Get something else. Something slightly more glamorous.’

I only realised there were tears in my eyes when they spilled down my cheeks.

‘You’re a kind heart, sitting with me. Seeing me in all my glory of tubes and catheters.’ She tried to laugh, but it came out more a low-fuelled grunt.

‘How do you feel now? Are you in pain?’ I whispered, my voice all squeezed and useless.

She gave an infinitesimal shake of her head. ‘Just weak. Tired.’

I nodded, my chest tight.

‘Aren’t you doing your dancing tonight? We were going to come, but I’m not sure if I’ll really be up to it—’

I instinctively touched her hair in a way I never would have before. ‘Oh, Mama. Of course you won’t go. I won’t go. It’s not a big deal.’

She lifted her head from the bed a fraction and tapped the back of my hand like the softest reprimand. ‘Quatsch, Sara. Don’t talk rubbish. You won’t be wasting your days sitting next to me. I’ll tell the nurses you’re locked out. You’re doing that dance.’ Her voice lacked all strength, but was somehow as commanding as ever.

I tried to shrug. ‘No, it’s just dancing. It’s … fine.’

‘Can I tell you something?’

I looked up. She paused, as though giving her words a sort of weightiness.

‘Don’t ever let yourself feel that what you are doing isn’t worthy. Okay?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Anything. Anything you believe in. Anything you are passionate about.’ She frowned. ‘I used to make art, you know. Before I studied psychiatry, I was very engrossed in it. I could lose myself in it for hours.’

‘Really? And what happened?’ I tried to imagine her as an artist. It was hard, but it was also somehow, in some deeply buried way … fitting.

‘I felt guilty about it. I felt it was trivial, indulgent. Not worthwhile. And I held the shame of my German history and I felt an obligation to do something proper. Something to help fix it and help fix people. Maybe it was my parents’ disapproval, or my own internal anguish, but I came to the conclusion that my art wasn’t worthy enough an occupation to overcome all the history I was a part of. So I stopped. And I chose something that seemed more credible. More important.’

She closed her eyes for a weary moment and I wondered if she might go back to sleep, but she opened them again and continued.

‘There are moments when I look back and I wonder what I have really brought to the world. How many lives I have really changed. And there are moments when I wonder if it really was so much more noble and meaningful time spent than if I had followed my heart.’

She met my eye again. I swallowed.

‘You must do what you love, Sara. There is meaning in what you love. You can bring joy and passion to other people by living your life with joy and passion. The rest of it is speculation, really. A great big hypothesis.’

I tried to digest what she was telling me. Was this approval?

‘But,’ I stammered, ‘I thought you didn’t ever think I was doing anything proper?’

She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nothing is proper, or otherwise.’ She seemed to consider her words. ‘It’s taken me a long time to realise the breadth of ways in which we can make meaning in our lives. And I suspect I had a part to play in making you feel as though your dancing wasn’t enough. I think it triggered my own uncertainties about the things I loved that I had buried. But it is enough if you love it. It doesn’t matter what it is, Sara. So long as it is meaningful to you.’

I was completely floored by her words.

‘Go, Sara. Go dance.’

‘No.’ I shook my head and looked into my lap, trying to control the waterfall of sadness that suddenly threatened to pour out of my body. ‘I want to be here, Mama.’ My voice was barely a whisper. ‘I want to be the daughter I should be for you.’

She pulled my chin up with her hand, her touch gentle now and her eyes searching. ‘I have been very grateful for the efforts you have made over these last few months. Very, very much, in fact.’

I felt like we were saying goodbye and I didn’t know if I could handle it.

‘But—’ her eyes on me were softer than I had ever felt them, ‘—what I want is not for you to be “a good daughter”. I want for you to be yourself, and to find happiness in that. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. You and Tommy. I know we haven’t always had the easiest of relationships, but that doesn’t mean we failed. Either of us.’ She stroked the tear away from my cheek. ‘I want your happiness. If you can know that, then we have achieved everything we needed to.’

I couldn’t speak for emotion in my throat.

Mama took my hand in both of hers and squeezed it with a strength that was unexpected and deeply reassuring.

‘I’m not going to go ahead and die just yet. Go dance. For you, Sara. And for me.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

There were less instinctive things than preparing to dance in front of several thousand people wearing a costume that essentially made you look naked. But then, I’d done a lot of things through my years in performing arts that in all other circumstances would not exactly be classified as standard. The key was to focus on my role rather than the people who were there watching me. When I was performing, I could lose myself in being someone else, and there was something disguising and protective in that.

All the same, it was hard to completely forget the fact that I hadn’t performed in ages (not since the hideous Santa’s Helper ordeal a year ago) and that my foray back onto the stage would be witnessed by every single member of my dance class.

I did the relevant posing in front of the dressing-room mirrors for Tori’s selfies, touched up my makeup ten thousand times, checked my virtually naked arse for blemishes on the fabric, ensured my stick-on bra was entirely seamless, sprayed my hair with another layer of glue—the never-ending fussing and final touches that inevitably filled any spare time no matter how early you’d started getting ready for a show. Despite the nerves, or maybe on account of them, there was no buzz like the dressing-room buzz before a performance, and I felt like I was a teenager again—without all the shitty bits.

My butterflies went into overdrive when we heard the song before ours start. Through the speaker in our dressing room came: ‘This is a stage call for all dancers. This is a stage call for all dancers.’

We stood in the wings, clutching one another’s hands in anticipation, and I was conscious of the depth of friendship with the girls by my side in this shared experience.

‘Thank you for making me do this,’ I whispered to Tori. ‘I think.’

‘Ha. You look totally amazing. You’re going to smash it.’

‘You too.’

As the lights went black, we scurried onto the stage and positioned ourselves, frozen behind the screen. It was an entirely translucent piece of material but offered a sense of concealment that was welcome as a starting point.

The ambient sounds of Vera Blue’s ‘Settle’ began and we held our positions. The intention was that as the lighting changed, our silhouetted figures would become visible like statues and then, as the shimmering colours landed and rippled over the screen, the beginnings of our movement would be almost like an illusion—hard to distinguish from the flickering of light.

The sense of focus that enveloped me was all consuming, as I remembered it always had been, and the jittery nerves I’d felt before the show homed in on some ultra-awareness and engagement in the present moment. This was mindfulness in the form of dance.

When the song ended, the applause was deafening—as one would expect after a performance like Vera Blue’s—but to be part of the onstage contingent was electrifying.

The screen lifted as we held our pose for the beginning of the second song. My focus was momentarily interrupted by a very loud, very piercing wolf whistle followed by the distinctly inebriated voices of Smelly Darren and Stoned Mikey.

‘Sunny fucking Moritz!’

I did my best to keep my features in control and maintain my stillness, but my stomach gave a brief jostle of awareness—Oh yes, that’s right. I am standing in front of several thousand people wearing a nude bodysuit.

As ‘Mermaid Avenue’ began, a memory of the last time I’d seen Al surfaced in my mind, accompanied by a visceral tug of longing for him. It lasted only a moment before my attention was pulled deeply back into the present, to the movement, the music and my relationships with the other girls. Vera’s voice soared in a way that trumped the recording and rose stronger and more emotively than in any of the rehearsals we’d done. In turn, my own mind seemed to disappear and I lost myself entirely in the feeling of my body, a channel of expression, an avenue to my soul. I knew the choreography so well that it didn’t need to pass through the judgement of my consciousness or the scrutiny of my self-doubt. It flowed like my body had a leader more powerful than me, seeming to bypass my own brain.

I was elation, I was pain, I was tenderness, I was desire.

I was human.

Before the final song, when Flume joined Vera Blue on stage, the magnitude of where I was and who I was with occurred to me again briefly. Those sorts of thoughts could quickly bring the voice of uncertainty back to my performance and remind me that the next section of choreography was complex. I was grateful when the music started and I could push the intrusive brain messages aside and be guided once again by how my body responded to the sound.

Tori’s approach to ‘Never Be Like You’ was highly contemporary and oscillated between mirroring the jolting qualities of the track and then leaning into the juxtaposition with drawn-out sections of fluidity. Finally, we were in the break at the end, the intensity mounting, the movements and configurations complex, with the tight turns and the back-to-back sequences, my breath fast and my heart pounding, until the concluding flinging move to a standstill when the song abruptly stopped and the roaring of the crowd returned me to the moment.

My chest was still heaving with adrenalin and exertion and euphoria while we held our position and the noises of appreciation continued.

The lights fell to black and we took our cue to disappear.

‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!’ we hissed, clutching each other in elation when we were safely off stage.

‘That was insane!’

‘Holy shit, there were a lot of people out there!’

I was so completely wired. I’d forgotten how intense that post-show buzz could be.

The next hour or so was a blur of exhilaration, debriefing moments and starstruck conversations with the musicians. Millie and Pete called me out to the stage door for congratulatory hugs and, much to my surprise, my whole class were there with kind words: ‘Fucking nailed it, miss!’

As I packed my gear away in the dressing room afterwards, and Tori and the girls excitedly discussed how they were getting to the after-party, I felt the beginnings of a comedown and sensed my exhaustion from the whole day was going to be particularly dense. I didn’t have the energy for the party—it had been a hugely emotional day and I was ready to crash. I’d already put on my blue cocktail dress and didn’t have the motivation to do much work in makeup removal, so I was feeling somewhat overdressed as I stepped into my car to drive home.

‘If you change your mind, you know where to find us.’

‘Thanks, Tor,’ I said through the car window. ‘I’m sorry to bail. Have an awesome night.’

Just as I was about to start the car, my phone rang.

Tommy.

‘You were so great, Sunny. Well done.’

‘Thank you for coming. Have you heard from Mama?’

‘I spoke to Papa just now. She’s good. She’s been asleep for the last few hours, but she’s settled and no symptoms to suggest a re-accumulation of fluid. He said she was so pleased you were doing the show.’ I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘So have you got some rockstar party to go to now?’

‘I should, but I’m exhausted. I’m going home.’

‘Fair enough. It’s been a big day. Sleep well, Sunny.’

When I pulled up in my drive, I turned off the ignition and rested my head back in the seat, closing my eyes and feeling the weight of exhaustion. It was tempting just to let myself fall asleep right there.

Reluctantly, I roused myself enough to pick up my handbag and shoes and make my way barefoot along the path to my door. As I walked, I was absentmindedly finding the right key and only at the very last moment did I noticed the figure sitting in the dark on my front step.

‘Oh my God!’ I clutched my chest in shock. With a mixture of astonishment and confusion, I registered who it was as he stood up to greet me.

‘Sunny Surprise.’

‘Al! Holy giant shitting cow! You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!’ I didn’t hesitate as I threw my arms around him and clung desperately to his chest, the shock still coursing through my veins.

‘Sorry,’ I heard him breathe into my hair.

‘Where the hell did you come from?’ I said, pulling back after a moment to regard him properly.

He just looked at me, his eyes gentle, that little lift at the corner of his mouth teasing in the way that had always made me gooey.

‘You look nice,’ he said pleasantly, like it was the most normal thing in the world to have found ourselves here, facing one another, at the dark hour of eleven pm, outside my door, when for all intents and purposes he was supposed to be sliding around in the land of the ice. ‘Nice night?’

‘Probably not the night you think,’ I said, hoping he wasn’t under the impression I’d just been on some hot date. ‘When did you get back?’ I took a step back as though I needed to somehow view him to fully grasp the fact that he was here.

‘This morning.’

I felt his eyes take me all in, from my face, to my chest, to the silky fabric of my dress, to my bare legs, and my bare feet and then rewind, in a completely undisguised appraisal.

‘You really do look completely drop-dead gorgeous,’ he said matter-of-factly, and my insides went wobbly.

I swallowed. My brain seemed to have disappeared and I had no idea what to say next.

‘I was just going inside,’ I mumbled, motioning vaguely to the door.

He nodded, that smile playing on his lips again.

I fumbled with the keys, my hands feeling like they belonged to someone else. After a moment of complete ineptitude, Al’s large hand snaked around me and covered my own, making it feel small and delicate. I let him steady my trembling fingers and purposefully turn the lock and push the door inwards. I stood there, overwhelmed by the sensation of his body behind me, his hand still on mine as it dropped to my side.

‘Thank you,’ I managed, my voice hoarse.

Neither of us moved.

‘Would you …’ I swallowed. ‘Would you … like to come in, Al?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ His low murmur seemed to vibrate directly from his chest into mine.

‘Okay then.’

I didn’t move.

Then I felt his other hand find the prominence of my hip. His touch through the thin fabric of my dress was so vivid it felt as though I was completely naked. My breath caught at the pressure of his fingers on my side.

‘In we go then, Sunny Surprise.’ His voice was light and held a hint of amusement. It was enough to help me find the air again and the control of my voice. I stepped forward, then turned to face him, hands on my hips in attempted reproach.

‘You’ve come right out of the blue here, Al. Give a girl a break for feeling a little flustered now, hmm?’

He smiled and lifted his hands in surrender. ‘Of course. I’m just an old friend enquiring about the state of your bees.’

I snorted and turned to the kitchen before I let myself revert to a gibbering mess at the sight of his smiling face and the dancing sparkle in his eyes.

I downed a glass of water, hoping it might restore some sense of mind. ‘Can I get you a drink? Water? Wine? Goat beer?’ I quirked an eyebrow at him and his eyes widened in alarm.

‘I sure hope not. How about that tea that tastes like a rainbow?’

I laughed and made us tea, letting the sound of the kettle fill the already loaded space between us. While I waited, I turned on one of my well-loved playlists to further help fill the space. I stole glances at him periodically as he moved about the room, cocking his head at book titles on my shelf, studying the black-and-white dance photographs on the walls. His hands were in the pockets of his navy pants, his black T-shirt hinting at his pecs and biceps and the slim sturdiness of his waist. Absence made the heart grow fonder and all, but honestly, he was diabolically sexy. I had to busy myself with rearranging cups on the counter just to force myself to stop staring. I was nervous.

‘Tea’s ready,’ I said, setting the tray on the coffee table and tucking my feet beneath me on the couch.

‘Is this you?’ He was still studying the photo, which was a profile shot of a famous ballerina, mid-air, her hair obscuring her face, the fine fabric of her skirt dancing around her bare, waif-like limbs.

‘Oh my God, no way.’

‘It could be,’ he murmured and settled beside me, the leg closest to me bent on the couch so his body angled towards mine.

‘How was your day?’ he asked, resting his head on his hand, propped up by his arm on the back of the couch.

‘Hang on a moment. You’ve disappeared and now you’ve reappeared. I’m so thrown by you I feel like I’ve got whiplash. What’s going on?’

‘I worked out “Project Alan” and thought I should come back and tell the loveliest girl.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ My voice came out a little hoarse. ‘Just like that, huh? Instruct the big red boat to up and leave mid trip?’

‘The weather was bad. Changed our plans and had to come back early. And you told me you wanted to hear the outcome of “Project Alan” ASAP. So. Here I am. But enough about me. How was your day?’

I eyed him, but he seemed determined not to give anything further away just yet. I moved to copy his position with my arm on the back of the couch, our elbows just touching.

‘Well. Since you ask. Rather intense, actually.’

I told him about Mama and the hospital and my fears of what was to come. He listened, his body close to mine, my leg wedging itself beneath his, sinking further towards each other. I didn’t try to stop the tears that spilled out of my eyes, and when he rested his hand on mine, it felt like it was always meant to be there.

‘Anyway. Then I had this dance concert tonight. I can’t believe I even went, really. It seems so trivial with everything that’s going on.’

‘It wasn’t trivial.’

I gave a snort. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea here, Al. I may have photographs of famous dancers on my walls, but make no mistake about the degree of my own abilities. We were just backup dancers in a concert.’

‘I am fully aware of the degree of your abilities,’ he said without a trace of irony. ‘You were amazing.’

I sat bolt upright, like I was in one of those dreams where I’d just discovered I was completely naked. Which was fitting, I guess—nude body suit and all. ‘Don’t tell me you were there?’

‘I would have come and said hello afterwards, but I was afraid I’d do something highly inappropriate like rip that jumpsuit thing off in front of everyone. Would have been quite unseemly.’

I felt myself blush under the intensity of his gaze. He was teasing me. But I wasn’t falling for it.

‘Did you see Sol?’

‘Yeah.’ His voice turned soft. ‘I went with him. He’s like a different person, Sunny. It’s incredible.’

‘You should see him dance. You’ll be totally blown away.’

‘I can’t wait.’

We were both silent for a moment, Haux’s ‘Calico’ filtering through the speaker.

He met my gaze and held it, then said thoughtfully, ‘This song always makes me feel happy and sad at the same time.’

‘Me too.’

I let myself sink into his gaze and a tingle of nerves washed over me.

‘So what did you come up with, then? With “Project Alan”?’

His eyes didn’t leave mine. I could almost feel them reaching into the heart of me, somewhere deeper than I’d known was even there.

When he spoke, it was with a gentleness beyond anything I’d ever heard. ‘I realised that I’ve spent too many years running from normal life. And for the first time, when I got there, all I wanted to do was run back.’

‘Oh.’

‘I think the idea of wanting someone, needing someone enough to make me give myself completely over, has terrified me. Maybe I’m scared they’ll disappear. Like my parents did. And actually, before I met you, I hadn’t ever let anyone close enough to even consider it. Even Tatiana I could never really let in. And last time I saw you, I freaked out like I always do and what with everything Sol has been through this last year, I didn’t want to complicate things for him, or for you. I … was confused. And it felt easiest just to disappear.’

I saw him swallow. My own voice had somehow been stolen.

‘But. I’d like to do that differently. If I could.’

‘Oh.’

His eyes continued to search mine with something I recognised as fragility, exposure.

‘And how are you feeling now?’ he asked, encircling my hand so our fingers entwined.

‘I feel a million things,’ I whispered, my eyes flicking down to our hands and then back. ‘I feel like a one-woman circus. Excited about dancing again. Sad about Mama and dread for what’s to come. I feel confused about the last time you were here. And I feel happy to see you. But scared.’ I swallowed and looked back at our hands. ‘I feel scared by how happy I am to see you.’

His hand reached out to my chin and lifted it gently so my gaze met his. The blur in my eyes overflowed and his thumb brushed the tears that had escaped down my cheek.

‘Beautiful, beautiful Sunny Surprise,’ he whispered, emotion glistening in his own eyes.

I felt myself swirling into him, like I could completely lose myself there.

In the moment when I knew he was about to kiss me, I was sure there was nothing on earth that I wanted more. His eyes were on my mouth, and when his thumb skimmed the sensitive skin of my parted lips, I shuddered with the intensity of it.

When finally his mouth met mine, it was the softest, most meltingly tender sensation I had ever experienced. It felt like we hardly moved for an eternity, transfixed in the beauty and delicacy of his kiss against mine.

An involuntary murmur escaped from somewhere in my throat and as if suddenly unleashed, I felt the guttural sound of his own need from deep inside him. I rose up on my knees, my arms coming around his neck as he pulled me to him, guiding my legs around his torso until we were entirely entwined.

I paused, my lips still against his, almost afraid he might want to stop. When I felt the softness of his tongue find the inside of my upper lip, a shot of desire coursed through me, extinguishing any final frontal cortex input.

I was a goner.

My body seemed to become a vessel of awareness as he held me, small and feminine, in his hungry embrace. I became aware of the hardness growing beneath me, ill-disguised by the thick cotton of his pants, and pushing with increasing intensity right there, where I wanted it. I could feel the fabric of my underwear was wet, thin and slippery—a virtually non-existent barrier between him and me.

The strap of my dress fell off my shoulder, exposing the top of my breast, which his mouth found with a high-pitched, voice-in-the-breaking moan that made us laugh against one another.

When he pulled the other strap off, enough for the dress to slide down to my middle, he sat back and looked up at me where I was straddled over him.

‘You are a fucking masterpiece, Sunny Moritz,’ he breathed, shaking his head in smiling disbelief.

I returned his smile as I let him watch me before I gently peeled off the fabric of his T-shirt to reveal his flat, solid stomach, the perfect curves of his pecs and the shoulders that truly were statueworthy. I wanted to return the compliment, but my voice was locked up in emotion and sensation and a shyness that was new.

I twisted his fingers in mine by our sides and we just stared at one another.

When the searing intensity in my groin was too much to ignore, I gave the smallest of hip circles and, with a sharp intake of breath, his hands clawed at my bottom and his stomach flexed against me as he stretched up and kissed me fiercely. My gasp of ecstasy was lost in his mouth, but suddenly it was all crazed, greedy desperation.

His hand found its way up my thigh, beneath my dress and ran along the hem of my knickers, lingering on the hollow beside my hip bone before circling torturously slowly around to the front where I was pressed against him.

I lifted myself up ever so slightly, needing his touch, deeper, and when his fingers slid beneath me and found my wet, swollen core, I could only whimper in tormented longing.

Sometimes my brain was so well functioning during sex I was able to think about whether I was going to put on a load of washing afterwards. This was not one of those times. But in a sudden moment of surprising higher-brain input, I had the foresight to think: Sex. Condoms. I even managed to use my vocal cords in a formulated pattern.

‘Bed,’ I croaked in hoarse desperation.

‘Mmm.’

To my astonishment, he moved forward on the couch, his hands firmly on my bottom, and stood without so much as a peep of effort. I buried my face into his neck as he walked, my legs twisted around his middle, and let myself be carried, so entirely carried by him, like he was my keeper and I was his.

I felt the kick of the door opening. When we reached the bed, he laid me down effortlessly and carefully, as though I was feather light. His strong hands arranged me like a doll, bringing my head up to the pillow, before propping his body on his forearms so his bare shoulders bulged with flexion.

My dress was still bunched somewhere around my middle. He rocked back onto his knees, my legs disappearing beneath him, and I watched his intake of air as he looked at me and delicately lifted the hem of my dress.

‘May I?’ he whispered.

I could only nod, my throat dry, raspy.

I lifted my arms above my head and felt the silky fabric pull over the skin of my belly, my ribcage, my breasts, my throat and all the way over my head and arms.

He discarded the soft garment and sat back, his eyes seeming to drink me up in a way that made me feel unexpectedly bold and fearless.

I watched his eyes close and his Adam’s apple bob. When he looked at me again, his gaze was dark and intense.

‘You are … You are …’

His eyes travelled down my body and stopped at his hands on my waist. He remained kneeling above me and it felt so wildly audacious to be there like that, under his enraptured gaze. His focus moved lower, his thumbs tracing the rise and fall of my hip bones, over the blue lace trim of my underwear. My legs seemed to move of their own accord, widening ever so slightly, inviting him. I watched him watch me as his thumb continued to explore, finding the hollow at my inner thigh, which gave way to the smooth and plump tissue of my core. I was literally dripping with desire, and as his thumb moved the fabric aside and brushed my wet centre, I could only throw my head back in ecstasy, biting the skin of my forearm to stop myself from crying out. His thumb continued, thick and delicious, all the way to the top, where the epicentre of sensation made me shudder.

‘You’re like silk,’ he whispered. ‘Perfect. So perfect.’

He lifted himself to a kneeling position and pulled at the top of my knickers as he eased them down all the way. Then he worked his way up again, landing kisses in reverse order from my toes, higher and higher until he was right there, placing a gentle kiss on the rise of my pubic bone.

I was beside myself in bliss.

‘Alan.’ I clutched for him, tugging him towards me so his mouth found mine again and my hands circled the waistband of his trousers.

I felt the light chuckle from his throat. ‘I’ll have to get used to being called Alan in bed.’

‘Yeah, you will.’ I freed the button that begged to burst. Once the space allowed, my hand reached for him and his body trembled as I found him, so hard, I groaned in anticipation. I wanted him like nothing else.

I kicked at his trousers and underwear with frenzied urgency—nothing of the delicate patience he had demonstrated with me, my fingers fumbling as I rolled the condom over his beautiful length.

He paused above me and my pelvis arched towards him.

‘Sunny,’ he whispered and I forced myself to be still and open my eyes to his tender gaze. ‘You are heaven.’

He kissed me then, and with his lips gentle on mine, he hovered, ready to fill me. My body was shaking, but I let him lead, because he was perfect and I trusted him entirely, like he knew the manual to my body—like he’d written the manual to my body. And as he slowly pushed himself inside me, I felt myself being filled, tissue swelling to capacity and beyond, and pressure and pleasure filling to the brim. And somehow he kept coming deeper, and I kept bringing him deeper, bliss redefined itself into something other-worldly such that I could barely breathe.

When he was all the way in, I finally exhaled against him and he clutched me like he might never let me go. We might have stayed like that for a second, or an eternity—stretched and filled and perfect.

And then he tilted ever so slightly and the grind of friction sent fireworks of bliss all through me. My breathing quickened and my hips found a rhythm with his, harder and deeper and bigger until there was nowhere else to go but everywhere. He was with me entirely as the ache reached breaking point and my body exploded around him and for him, and his own shuddering filled every part of my being and all else that I had ever known disappeared in tiny fragments of insignificance.

Chapter Thirty-Six

‘So, what do you think? If carrots come up, best not to say anything?’

‘Ha ha,’ I deadpanned. ‘They won’t.’

‘What about the colour orange? Shall I just change the subject pronto?’

‘You’re hilarious.’

‘What if I accidentally say crunch and you blush? It’ll be so obvious. Just give me a double blink and I’ll start talking about fishing around the Iron Pot—’

In one fluid movement, I hoisted my body up to straddle Al’s and muffled his voice with my hand. His eyes glinted with mischief.

‘Can we please go back to the previous game? I tell you how annoying you are and you tell me your favourite things about me? I’ll start.’ I tapped my mouth contemplatively. ‘Let’s see. Oh yes. Your ice fascination. You are a total weirdo and I bet in high school you had no friends.’ My voice rose in laughter as he tickled my bare waist.

‘Thank you. It’s true, unfortunately. Probably because I kept wanting to talk about constraining ice crystal fabric orientation—’

‘—using 4-phase polarised radar? I know. Now stop or you’ll be in trouble again. Your ice talk is so weird and so fucking hot. Back to your favourite things about me.’

‘Okay. My favourite things about you … when you’re embarrassed and you do that little thing with your shoulder and you start blushing just like you will when I accidentally say carrot—’

I pressed my hands over his gleeful smile again.

‘A better one!’ I demanded.

‘Ah, fine. Erm … oh, yes. The reindeer jumper. You looked so damn cute and ridiculous I had to stop myself scooping you up the moment I laid eyes on you.’

‘You’re teasing me!’ I laughed before attempting a pout. The idea of him imagining scooping me up had a little stir growing where I sat astride him.

‘No, truly. I really did find it oddly alluring. Could you put it on now, do you think?’

‘Go back to the nice ones! Like my sparkling eyes and captivating personality—’ I broke into laughter again as his hands continued to tease and tickle.

‘Sunny, you have sparkling eyes and a captivating personality—’

‘Good start.’

‘But I’m curious about why you chose something as innocuous as carrots? I mean, come on now, couldn’t you have at least gone for Mars Bars or potato cakes or something slightly more concerning—’

I rendered him speechless by smothering his face with a pillow and doing the typewriter on his chest. He humoured me for a short time before freeing himself and encircling me with his strong arms, bringing my body flat to his, my head resting in the perfect nook of his neck. He held me tight and kissed the top of my head.

‘We’d be here all day if I told you all my favourite things about you,’ he murmured, his voice resonating through his chest into my ear. I almost purred in pleasure.

‘Just one more thing,’ I whispered, only slightly bothered by how cringeworthy my blatant request for a compliment was.

I felt the deep rumble of his laughter. ‘Okay. I love how playful you are. You’re like a kitten, all soft and smooth, cheeky and naughty. And I love how very yourself you are. Feisty and contemptuous with that glimmer of fragility shining through, more obvious than you probably realise. It’s completely irresistible.’

I glowed beneath his words, basking in the strange experience of feeling someone’s pure appreciation for me that took any feeling of self-consciousness away.

‘And forgive me for seeming superficial—but I am just a mere man—it hasn’t escaped my attention that you are the sexiest creature I’ve ever seen outside my imagination. Or even inside my imagination. You’ve had me in knots for months now, Sunny Surprise.’

My smile broadened into his chest.

‘Well. That’s quite nice then, isn’t it?’ I whispered.

‘Yes. Quite nice.’

His grip around me tightened and I clutched him back.

I hadn’t intended for things to heat up again so soon but he was like a drug, and when his hand locked over the jut of my hip bone I found myself slipping again. After all, I too had dreamed about this for months.

An escaped moan was all it took to invite his fingers to draw along the dip of my naked waist to my centre, which was already swelling in anticipation.

If the first time had felt tentative, precious and reverential in its delight, I was soon learning that with Al, our potential was limitless and our exploration of one another was going to be a journey all of its own.

He was confident and competent, and had a wildness within him that disarmed me completely. And as I let myself trust in his affection for me, I found myself letting go more than I ever had before. With Al, it was the meeting point of tenderness, connection and uninhibited desire.

‘That’s so nice,’ I murmured into his neck, my fingers tracing down his broad chest and the firm ridges of his stomach until I found where he was already hard and ready.

I felt his groan of appreciation, and was startled by how the sound of his pleasure could wind me up so quickly such that I bucked into where he touched me, his fingers slipping easily between my wet folds.

‘You’re perfect.’ His tongue was in my mouth and already his words were fevered, his breathing heightened.

With a subtle shifting, he had me on my back, his fingers still deeply inside me. I felt my tissues twitch around him, hot and aching with the intensity of it. When his mouth took my nipple, the simultaneous sensations were almost enough to make my vision swim. He kept murmuring praise, like ‘you’re wonderful’ and ‘you’re so maddeningly delicious’, almost to himself and I had never felt more of an erotic creature.

When his kisses traced all the way down my body to where his fingers thrummed inside me, I didn’t know if my nerve endings could possibly take any more excitation. I was making needy, whimpering noises. I was arching and writhing in his grasp. I was a mess.

But he was groaning with such visceral longing himself that I just let myself go with it, and then his tongue was right on my opening, sweeping to my clit, and I literally cried out in ecstasy. I was so close to coming right then—I had never felt less in control. He was building me up somewhere high and magnificent, almost terrifying in its brilliance, but he was holding me and kissing me through it. His breath was soft and soothing on my flesh.

The need to have him inside me was overwhelming, the length of him to clench around and break apart over.

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘Al.’

He was so immersed, he needed asking a second time before his kisses traced reverently back up my body. And like a master, his lips didn’t stop working as he reached for the foil wrapper.

‘You send me crazy,’ he whispered into my ear and I found a high-pitched laugh escaping my throat.

‘I send you crazy? Jesus, Alan, I am losing my fucking mind here.’

I felt his warm chuckle in my ear, like a waterfall of love and beauty from the most incredible man I had ever known. It seemed to wrap itself right around my heart.

He shifted my legs expertly so he could enter me from behind, one arm beneath me and clutching my hip bone, the other hand splayed on my belly, his finger circling my clit in heavenly rings like I was a cello and he was playing me. And just like an instrument, I felt like I might start making music at any moment, such was the miracle of it all.

‘Can I?’ His mouth was right at my ear, his tone ever so cheeky, his hardness poised right at my opening, insistent and desperately teasing.

‘Yes, goddamn it!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘You’re torture!’

‘I want to hear you ask me.’

I could hear his smile. He was pure naughtiness, this man. And I was broken for it. I loved that he could be this way—affectionate, bold and mercilessly sexy.

‘Al—please. Please fuck me.’

I felt his whole body growl like a lion. Like an unhinged animal, and the display of his want sent me completely insane.

And when he finally pushed into me I was so taut—so impossibly high on the delight of him—there was nowhere else to go. He was so deep this way, almost too much, had it not been so needed. And all the while his fingers were still stroking me, slippery with my hunger for him. Messy and beautiful.

It only took the second advance, the second glide of him filling me right up to the brim and I was coming apart.

My sounds were unfiltered, raw and delirious, and somehow it had already built him up to the edge too, because I heard his cries tangle with mine as he held himself deeply inside me, the pulse of his release shuddering within me as I came all around him. Broken by him. Steadied by him. Like the shimmer of lights in the Aurora Australis. Like a gold-spilling volcano in Antarctica. Like the beating of a bird’s wings in flight. We were soaring in one another’s bodies, creating our very own miracle.

And I was sure I’d never experienced anything as blissful in my whole entire life.

It was sometime before either of us could formulate coherent words again. We were a jumble of euphoria, laughter, kisses and tenderness.

But eventually we came back to reality and the world that lay outside our bedroom.

‘So, you’re visiting your mum today?’ he asked, brushing a lock of hair across my brow.

‘Mmm-hmm.’

My mind started whirling with questions. I circled his belly button with my thumb, twisting the thoughts around my brain, working out how vulnerable I was willing to make myself. But after the journey we’d just been on, holding any part of myself back seemed absurd.

‘Would you … like to come with me? To visit her?’ I ventured.

He pulled me closer, and his voice was gentle. ‘I would have asked if you hadn’t.’

‘I’m not, you know, wanting to get all heavy on you with a premature meet-the-parent type thing, but if you ever did want to, well, meet the parents, there’s probably not a whole heap of time …’ My stammering speech trailed off and I heard the soft exhale of his smile.

I gave him a well-deserved nipple cripple and he yelped satisfyingly.

‘Or maybe you’ve got a hot date planned and can just piss right off and do that.’

‘I don’t.’ He laughed, attempting to protect himself from my vicious thumb and forefinger. ‘I won’t. Ever. Unless it’s you.’

When his laughter had settled, he pulled me up to look at him. ‘I would love to meet the parents, Sunny. I’d have asked you to meet my parents the first day I’d met you if I hadn’t thought you might be scared off by my forwardness. And obviously, the lack of alive parents and all. That would have been double weird.’

‘You really are a very strange man, Alan.’

‘Mmm.’ He twisted his mouth worriedly. ‘Workable do you think, or a write-off?’

‘A total write-off. Perfect for me.’

‘Fabulous. Let’s go meet the parents then.’

I was a bundle of nerves as we waited in the elevator to reach the oncology ward. I kept biting at my lip and picking at my cuticle and taking deep, calming breaths. Al didn’t try to fill my silence, but he took my hand and squeezed it reassuringly, bringing my jitters down a welcome fraction.

I’d called Papa and let him know that I was bringing a friend in to see them. He didn’t question me on it, but it felt wildly obvious the significance the word ‘friend’ held, and I was as selfconscious as the year I developed boobs and wore a bikini for the first time in front of my parents, everyone highly aware of the enormity of the event but no one daring to acknowledge it.

When the lift had nearly reached our floor, Al squeezed my hand again.

‘I won’t say carrot or orange,’ he whispered. ‘Or anything odd at all.’

I laughed, grateful for his lightness.

‘Unless it seems like the moment calls for it of course,’ he added with a glint in his eye.

The doors opened onto the ward and he followed me to Mama’s room.

I was relieved to see Mama awake, sitting upright, with a sharpness in her eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.

‘Hi, Mama.’ I leant in to kiss her cheek. ‘Al this is my papa, Johann, and mama, Stephanie.’ Al shook Papa’s hand and they all smiled and behaved with appropriate politeness and apparent ease. I was the only one who didn’t have much to say, but it didn’t seem to matter. Al took the seat beside Papa and I perched on the bed and they roamed various topics without any obvious sense of interrogation of Al, or awkward discussions about decreasing life expectancy.

‘How was the dancing, Sara? I heard it was wonderful,’ Mama said, clasping my arm as though just remembering.

‘I loved it.’ I smiled. ‘I’m glad you made me do it.’

‘She was amazing,’ Al said and I felt myself colour in pleasure.

‘She’s a wonderful dancer.’ Mama nodded earnestly, then fixed her gaze on Al. ‘Don’t let her stop.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ Papa told Al. ‘I need to do a few things now. But with any luck, the doctor tells us we can bring her home tomorrow.’

I was at once surprised and nervous. Hopefully, this was good news.

After Papa left, we chatted with Mama for a few more minutes before Al said, ‘Well. I’ll leave you two to have some mother–daughter time now.’

‘That’s okay,’ I said. I turned to Mama. ‘We’ll see each other tomorrow, won’t we? I’ll come in the morning.’

She nodded.

‘Oh, well. In that case, I might have a moment with Stephanie myself.’

I raised my eyebrows in alarm, and when I glanced at Mama, she was doing the same, though her expression was curious.

‘All right then. I’ll leave you to it.’

I went out the door and busied myself with trying to read notices about prostate checks, breast screenings and bereavement counsellors, wondering what an earth Al and my mother could be discussing.

When the door opened, Al walked through with an unreadable smile.

I frowned. ‘What did you say to her?’

‘Nothing.’

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he gave nothing away.

‘I’ll just say bye.’

Mama had a satisfied smile when I came back in the room.

I glanced behind me to check Al was out of earshot. ‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing.’

It was clear I wasn’t going to have any luck here. It made me smile.

I watched her, drinking her in, the sight of her eyes glinting, full of cunning, full of mischief, full of life.

It was like trying to hold water in my hands.

‘See you soon, Mama.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

‘Talk to me, Sunny.’

I rolled my eyes. She was like a caricature of the assertive, pain-in-the-arse businesswoman. Shame I liked her so. ‘I am talking to you, Gina.’

‘Is everything ready for Saturday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here’s the thing.’ Her voice rattled abrasively through her car Bluetooth and I held my phone at a distance from my ear. ‘Tas Arts looked through all the attendances you sent—you’ve got a hundred per cent retention rate with ninety-five per cent rehearsal show-ups. That’s extremely high for this … cohort, shall we say. Unless you made it all up, which would be more believable. Whatever. They’ve advised me that they essentially have a shit ton of money they are willing to throw at this avenue if the concert in any way reflects the apparent successes so far. In other words, you would have a full-time job doing this work with hundreds of delinquents for years to come. And I get my cut, so everyone is a winner. Except probably the delinquents, if they prove to be as underwhelming as I’m anticipating.’

I gazed out my windscreen. I was parked outside the studio and a few of my dear youths were waiting near the locked door in preparation for our last rehearsal. I felt a bubble of defensiveness for them.

‘I don’t think you’ll be underwhelmed, Gina.’

‘That’s nice. Call coming through—gotta go!’

‘One thing.’

‘What?’

‘You make a single disrespectful comment and I’ll tell them all to moon the Tas Arts mob. Got that?’

‘Ugh,’ she grunted. ‘Fair play.’

The line went dead and I smiled in satisfaction.

When I unlocked the door for our final rehearsal before the dress run at the theatre, the whole class was there. There was a buzz of excitement among them, nervous chitter-chatter and good-natured banter. Our ‘team bonding’ exercises, which everyone continued to give me shit about, had been a hugely positive experience, bringing down the remaining barriers between them and strengthening the dancing enormously. Nikisha was the person whose manner had changed the most dramatically—I hadn’t realised just quite how much she concealed herself until her armour had finally started to come off. She allowed herself to smile and be teased and seemed in general so much more at ease than I’d ever seen her. As I watched their interactions before we started our class, I experienced a wave of nostalgia. I would miss them, their quirks, their grit.

‘Got dust in your eyes there, miss?’

Stoned Mikey startled me from my vacant staring and I busied myself with music selection, waving off their mocking sniggers.

‘Ha ha. Get on with it then, you motley bunch.’

As they established themselves in the perfect starting configuration and waited expectantly, I felt a surge of pride.

They were going to blow everyone away. I knew it.

‘Fuck. I think the jeans were better, weren’t they?’

I was nervously doing my fifth or sixth outfit change for the evening of the concert while Al luxuriated on my bed in his perfectly appropriate outfit of pants and shirt, watching with an amused smile, hands behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.

‘You’re right. Take it all off and try the first outfit again.’

‘Really?’ I turned to him, alarmed. I’d kind of hoped the wrap dress was the right choice.

‘Yep. Hundred per cent. Let’s do this systematically. If you could just strip back down to the underwear and we’ll work through all the outfits again,’ he said earnestly. ‘Or maybe we should try different underwear. Maybe that’s where the problem lies. Why don’t you try the blue lace ones and then maybe some red ones and something in silk if you have it—ow!’ He shielded his laughing face behind an arm to avoid the pillow hitting him in the head.

‘I’m serious!’ I whined, hands on my hips, back in my underwear, having initially fallen for his bullshit. ‘This is hard!’

He cocked his head at me, thoughtfully. ‘I mean, you could just go like that.’

I lifted another pillow and raised it threateningly.

‘Okay, okay! The dress. Gorgeous. Professional. Capable. Perfect.’

‘Fine then.’

‘But the red underwear would be a really nice touch if you wanted to try—’

It was lucky I had so many pillows on hand.

When I’d finally settled on my outfit and was fixing up my hair and makeup for the umpteenth time, I watched him approach me in the mirror and wrap his arms around my middle.

‘You look wonderful. They’re going to be wonderful. Let yourself enjoy this.’

With his face nestled above my shoulder, and the way his body so perfectly encircled mine, I let myself exhale into the comfort of his hold.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay,’ I breathed, closing my eyes and feeling my anxiety levels settle a fraction.

‘Now, just one thing I thought I should mention so you don’t get a surprise tonight.’

‘What?’ My eyes snapped open and glared at his. I didn’t like the idea of surprises.

‘Well … I’m not sure if Sol mentioned it, but … erm …’

‘Spit it out!’

‘Tatiana is coming tonight.’

‘What!?’

He grimaced. ‘Surprise?’

‘Oh my God.’ I was starting to hyperventilate, hands flapping. ‘What if she hates me? What if she throws spitballs at me?’

He turned me to him, treating me to one of his most endearing crooked smiles.

‘She won’t.’

‘But what if she does? Why is she even coming? Aren’t you guys total enemies?’

He brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. ‘Tatiana is like a grass fire: all drama, no substance. Anyway, she’s gotten bored of being angry with me, it would seem. And apparently, she’s met someone and fallen passionately in love and, I quote, “has finally discovered what it feels like to be with a worthwhile human being”. And she’s ecstatic about Sol and how well he seems. She maintains that I am the scum of the earth but needs me to co-parent so she can go on her dates and is imploring me to “finally show some maturity in modern parenting. It’s not the nineteen-fifties, Alfonso.”’

I chuckled at his increasingly female intonation. ‘Yeah, sounds like you really need to get with the times, Alfonso.’

He smiled and squeezed me to him. ‘Trust me, she’ll be fine. She’ll be too busy glowing in self-gratification, as though she taught Sol to dance hip-hop herself, to notice anyone else.’

I pressed myself to his chest and tried to let his assurance and humour melt away my worries.

When I pulled back and looked into his eyes, they were nothing short of adoring and the ball of confidence inside me grew stronger and brighter.

‘Let’s do this.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Hobart College auditorium was packed. Each time I stuck my head out the stage door, there seemed to be more and more people filling what had already looked like a full house. I moved between the male and female dressing rooms backstage where the students were excitedly chatting, fixing hair and makeup, stretching, adjusting outfits—standard-issue dressing-room behaviour. I’d long ago accepted that the only colour I could get all of them to wear was black and while every girl wanted to show her midriff and every boy wanted to show half his arse, at least the colour scheme was cohesive. But above all, they were totally pumped. Even if they ended up dancing like one-legged frogs, their enthusiasm would probably still save the situation.

‘How’s everyone feeling?’ I asked when I’d grouped them together in the girls’ dressing room for a pre-show pep talk.

I was awarded with various iterations of affirmation from ‘fuckin’ bonza’ to ‘excited as horny jack jumper’ and the like.

‘Thank you, Eddie. Lovely sentiments, Mikey. So, there’s a lot of people out there, okay? Just remember, when those lights come up and you first see that glow of faces out there in the darkness, imagine it’s just the twinkling city lights—you’re in your rehearsal room, or wherever you feel you can be you, and dance like you know you can.’ They listened to me intently, fists clenched in anticipation, nervously jittering. ‘The choreography is all there in your brain now, you don’t need to think about it, just let it flow out of you. I’ve seen you do this so many times and you’ve got it. You’re beautiful. You’re strong and you’re a fantastic team.’

Jayden dropped to his knees, wheeled out his air guitar and started falsetto singing Amy Shark’s ‘Only Wanna Be With You’.

‘Thanks, Jayden.’

‘Word.’

‘So, are you all ready to do this?’ I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

There were a few more air guitars and ‘yeah baby’s and the grinding of invisible objects, as well as something that looked like spanking the horse they were riding. I got the general gist of enthusiasm.

‘Last thing.’ I raised my voice above their bubbly yelping and neighing. ‘Thank you for doing this. And for taking me seriously and putting so much of yourselves into this. I didn’t really know what I was doing when we started out, but you’ve blown me away. All of you.’

I let myself be smothered by their sweetly over-perfumed bodies as a chorus of voices engulfed me.

‘What do we think of Sunny?’

‘She’s all right!’

I was almost too nervous to let myself go and sit in the auditorium to watch. Maybe they’d forget their starting positions? Maybe I’d need to prompt them from side stage? But they’d nailed the dress rehearsal yesterday and I wanted to see them in all their glory from out the front.

There were two other performances ahead of ours, with students in similar situations having also been offered arts alternatives to standard community-based reform programs. There was an eight-piece band playing loud and expressive music, which I didn’t really get into, but appreciated the vigorous headbanging of its lead man and enjoyed the absent-minded but good-natured triangle work of the dude with the mullet.

Then there was a highly abstract and provocative play about a wayward girl who found herself in a four-way love affair involving a female friend, a police officer and a drug dealer, the overall moral of which was slightly elusive when she ended up with the police officer in an apparent celebration of a very concerning power imbalance. All the same, I loved watching the kids engaged in what they were doing, taking pride in it and seeming to step out of themselves for the experience. To me, that was where the power in the performing arts lay. The audience around me was appreciative and generous, everyone seemingly wanting to champion the students, which made me relieved—I suspected we would be spared from the ‘Single Clap in the Echoing Room’ phenomenon that was every performer’s—and teacher’s—greatest fear.

Finally, the stage went black and I knew it was our turn.

I sat in my seat near the side, praying they would all be standing in the right places and that the sleepy-looking techy would get the sequence of songs right.

I let go of my breath when the intro music of ‘Cosby Sweater’ came through the speakers. And continued to exhale when the red backlight illuminated the poised bodies of the boys in their perfect starting configuration. I hoped I was the only one to notice Eddie scratch his arse—maybe I hadn’t explained clearly enough how well we could see them in this bit. On second thoughts, maybe he knew exactly what he was doing and was making the most of the opportunity. I suspected the latter and smiled in the darkness as the ripple of amusement passed through the crowd. From my position, I could see various important faces, everyone’s eyes glued to the stage.

My smile grew as I saw how the boys threw themselves into the dance with complete conviction and lack of self-consciousness. We’d hit that sweet spot of simplicity and impactful moments so that while the choreography was not particularly sophisticated, when they did it with such personality and felt the beat in their bones, it looked completely awesome.

When I glanced over at Pete and Millie, they were sending me enthusiastic fist pumps. I could see Al a few rows back and to the side, his face split in a grin, enthralled. There was much nodding from the crowd and encouraging whoops and whistles that made the whole room feel alive. It didn’t matter when the choreography wandered because the boys’ energy was what held such impact. By halfway through the song, the boys had moved from competently entertaining to fully fledged legends, owning their dance, their faces expressive and engaged, and injecting themselves deeply in every opportunity with well-timed head bangs and arse jabs that hadn’t been choreographed. There were even appropriately placed crowd participation invitations, such that, by the end of the song, they’d herded the whole audience into unified arm swinging. The whole effect was brilliant. The applause was wild, and when I looked at Al, he was holding up a devil’s horns hand gesture and mouthing, Fuck yeah!, his face a picture of astonishment.

I was like a proud mother.

The lights went black and the boys scattered. The heavy beats of Halsey’s ‘Without Me’ came through, and when the spotlight landed on the stage, Nikisha was posed in the middle of the circle of girls like a goddam hero. I had confidence in the abilities of the girls, I just hoped they could enjoy it as much as the boys obviously had. I could see they were more nervous, but honestly, Nikisha was so incredibly eye-catching that it didn’t matter too much what anyone else was doing. She was the human embodiment of tormented young beauty and she made the performance a dream. I glowed in satisfaction when I saw Gina’s face—a look of genuine shock and wonder. As though feeling me watching her, she looked at me and mouthed, Who the hell is that?

Finally, it was the group number.

The familiar hook of Bliss n Eso’s ‘Moments’ filled the room, and I had such a wave of tenderness and nostalgia for my dear Wayward Youths, a lump formed in my throat. When the simple choreography began, it was so well timed it gave me goosebumps. I watched the way they made eye contact with one another, the exchange of subtle smiles. I watched the respect, the love and the depth of connection they shared and felt impossibly moved.

Seeing their dance was like witnessing a journey. I felt like their whole lives had been poured into that three and a half minutes, their faces written with joy, with fear, with despair, with passion, with truth, with hope. Every single one of them came alive in that dance with such ferocity it had me bringing my hand to my mouth and tears pouring down my cheeks. Afterwards, they would once again face the complexities of their lives and maybe nothing much would change. But for that brief period of time, they had been freed from it all. They had harnessed their power, and that power was bigger than any of the circumstances around them they couldn’t control.

My sense of awe was reflected all around me by the audience. I saw Al with his knuckle in his mouth, his face twisted, and I recognised the magnitude of emotion that was brimming within him. I saw Mama, sitting between Papa and Tommy, all of them wet-faced with feeling. We all knew we were witnessing something pure and beautiful.

When the song ended, the explosion from the audience was cataclysmic. I roared through my hands and my tears, and when I realised I had stood up, I saw everyone had. I watched my Wayward Youths with pride as they stood on the stage together, beaming. They seemed to completely forget about the bow part and after a moment just started throwing their arms in the air and around one another in delighted screams.

I was so lost in euphoria at their success I didn’t notice that Al had made his way to me. I heard the crack in his voice when he said my name and pulled me into his arms. I held him fiercely, grateful for somewhere to pour my own emotions as his body shook.

His voice, thick and tear filled, was like the ultimate testament of success. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

And if I hadn’t been able to fully see it before, I knew then without any trace of doubt that I had finally been part of something good.

Something meaningful.

Something that I really believed in.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mama died a few minutes before two pm on a nondescript January afternoon in Hobart, sixty-two years after she was born in that Munich hospital, where the doctors whisked her away from her mother, who’d begged to be conscious for her birth but wasn’t. Her tiny body was wrapped and placed in a crib before she was finally allowed into the fragile and awestruck embrace of her mother some hours later.

In her last ragged moments of life, she was held within the hands of Papa, Tommy and me. Her final breaths were watched with the rapture and love that her first ones had not been.

Somewhere else, Millie stopped with Blossom to watch a digger at work.

And Al helped Sol learn to drive in an empty carpark.

The banal and monumental moments of this odd and beautiful, inconsequential and impossibly precious life.

One week later, I sat with Al’s hand holding mine in the front row of the small chapel while we listened to Eva Cassidy’s ‘Time After Time’ and watched the photo montage that held the traces of my mother’s life.

A woman I had only really come to understand so recently. A woman I had finally realised had loved me always.

As I had her.

Epilogue

Twelve Months Later

‘Knock, knock.’

‘Yes?’ I asked, testing the heat of my curling wand on my palm.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?’ Millie called.

I heard his familiar laugh behind the door. ‘I don’t need any more luck. I’m marrying Sunny.’

I smiled.

‘I need a moment alone with her, though.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Millie sighed, rolling her eyes at me in the mirror, and stood up from her position among the makeup. ‘A lastminute shag, I s’pose. I’m outta here.’

She slipped through the door and Al appeared in her place. My breath caught at the sight of him in his charcoal slacks and pressed white dress shirt, his stubble perfect, his sandy hair trimmed, accentuating the strong features of his jaw and neck. After all this time, he still made me heady.

He stood there as speechless as I was, his head tilting, his gaze melting, before finally saying, ‘Sunny.’

I smiled under his appreciative eyes and smoothed the soft fabric of my simple ivory dress self-consciously.

‘I haven’t done my hair and makeup.’

‘You are beyond beautiful,’ he whispered.

After a moment, he seemed to remember why he was there.

‘I have something for you.’

His fingers moved and I noticed the envelope he was holding. ‘Here.’ He gestured to the bed which had been moved there in the last days of my mother’s life so that I could be close to them. It wasn’t lost on me that the bed had never been moved out again, and some of my things continued to mark the room from that tender time.

When I sat down beside him, I recognised the handwriting immediately.

‘Mama…?’

‘She gave it to me a few days before she died. She said it was for your wedding day.’

‘Oh.’ My voice was barely audible, squashed already with emotion.

‘I’ll leave you to read it.’

‘No.’ I clasped his hand. ‘Stay with me.’

‘Okay.’

My hands were trembling as I took the envelope and gently prised it open. I pulled out the note and glanced up at Al’s soft eyes.

‘You read it to yourself. I’ll just be here,’ he said, wrapping his arms around me, his head on mine, as he turned towards the garden outside my childhood bedroom window, where the ceremony would soon take place beside a growing hakea tree. Through the open window I could hear the hum of summer bees, dancing on air, a sound that would always fill me with a sense of wonder and happiness.

I swallowed, the tears swelling in my vision so that Mama’s familiar scrawl on the page before me swam for a moment before I began to read.

Dear Sara,

When I lie here and think of what is to come, the biggest pain I feel is for the things I will miss seeing of your and Tommy’s and Papa’s lives. The big moments. And the little ones.

I will miss seeing the day you marry Al, which I know you will—he told me the first time I met him that he would marry you. I may be old and decrepit (or at least feel that way), but I can see what a fine man he is and how worthy of you. He has a strong character, he knows what he wants and he already loves you more than you might realise.

I will also miss the day you have your first child, which I hope one day you will. The joy of holding your child in your arms for the first time is like no other joy I had ever experienced. I had felt love before then, but until I held you, I had never known pure and unconditional love.

Life moves and tumbles around us, Sara. But the love that I felt for you when I first held you has never changed, and it never will.

There are things in my life I regret and things I might have done differently, but for you and Tommy and Papa I will be forever grateful.

My daughter, I wish you all the happiness on your wedding day and all the love in your life beyond.

Be nothing but yourself.

Mama

I turned my face into Al’s chest and let my body shake with the tears of loss and gratitude and such unexpected beauty. His arms circled me tighter and his hands found the swell of my belly beneath the satin.

‘Okay?’ His voice was soft in my hair.

I nodded and closed my eyes against him.

In that moment I felt, with perfect clarity, how my life was filled with so much that I cared about, so much that was precious and rich with potential. I held onto that breath of possibility—of keeping those we’ve lost with us, of meeting the child inside me, of living a fulfilled life with the people I loved, and of growing old with the man beside me.

There was so much possibility to hold onto, it felt almost terrifying in its fragility.

But in that moment, it was there and I had never felt anything so utterly beautiful.

‘Perfect.’

Acknowledgements

It feels hard to believe that I’m at the point of writing my acknowledgements—it must mean that some sort of dream has come true—and for that, there really are so many people to thank.

Thank you to Alexandra Nahlous who did the very first edit on this story when it was rough as a rock. Being able to work with you felt like some kind of gift and without your early encouragement, insights and generosity I honestly don’t know that I could have come to this point.

Thank you to my agent Sally Bird for the kindness, respect and curiosity that allowed you to connect with this story and find the right home for it.

Thank you to Echo (the original publisher of this book) publisher Juliet Rogers and publishing manager Diana Hill for enthusiastically bringing Dancing with Bees into your arms. It has felt cherished by you both from day one.

Thank you to the whole team involved in the Echo publishing process including Emily Banyard for managing the publicity, and Samantha Miles for production, Kylie Mason for your warmth and attention to detail in the editing process, and to Ch’aska Cuba De Reed for your marketing expertise.

Thank you to my dear early readers who reviewed the very raw version of this—Polly Alexander, Catherine Shields and Anissa Thompson—between the three of you, the best parts of this story were watered. Thank you to my later readers including Hannah Lake for insightful last-minute feedback, and for the inspired addition of an extra scene—you know the one, I dedicate it to you.

Thank you to the wonderful authors Hannah Moloney, Steph Vizard, Maya Linnell and Katie McMahon for the endorsement quotes. I admire your work so immensely and feel humbled by your generous words.

My mum and dad—you gave us the best childhood and taught us the powerful tools of dreaming freely and working hard. A combination that makes anything feel possible and something I hope I can pass on to my own children. Thank you.

This book is dedicated to my mum. Not because our relationship was strained like Sunny’s was with her mum, but because of what she taught me about love. She was brave, honest and wholehearted in the way she embraced the people in her life, and had the curiosity, determination and vulnerability to repair the relationships that had broken down. You were a truly beautiful person and I never had any doubt about the depth of your love for me.

To my three children, thank you for making space for this writing to happen. Those mornings when you were playing Lego, or reading books, or sleeping in the carrier on my chest, while I quietly tapped away at the kitchen table felt precious, harmonious and companionable. I will hold them tightly in my memory as you grow up.

My husband Andrew, God—you know me so well … and you’re still here. Thank you for all the love, and the tea, and the back scratches. Thank you for listening to this story unfold, for making me laugh so much, and for all of this precious little life that we’ve made for ourselves.

And finally, to the person who has come as far as reading this. Time is so goddamn precious, and that you have chosen to spend some of yours immersed in a world that was drawn inside my brain and is now drawn inside yours, is an utter privilege. Thank you.

About the Author

Anna Maynard turned her hand to romance novels after finishing her specialist medical exams. When she’s not writing, Maynard can be found working in an emergency department in Tasmania, where she lives with her husband and children.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Anna Maynard

Cover design by Ian Koviak

ISBN: 979-8-3372-0511-3

This edition published in 2026 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Copyright