That was a new one. Surely their profoundly practical mother had never worried about anything like that?

“Why did you tell that journalist Gemma was a teacher?” Maxine came back into the room and handed over a glass of water and a tablet.

“I think she might still do some casual teaching every now and then,” said Lyn, putting the speech aside. “How was I meant to describe her?”

“Yes, well, that’s certainly a point,” said Maxine. “Odds-body! Jack of all trades! I called her the other day and she casually mentioned she was off to do stilt walking for some promotion at Fox Studios. Gemma, I said, are you actually capable of walking on stilts?”

“She wasn’t,” said Lyn. “She told me she kept toppling over. But apparently the kids in the audience all thought it was hilarious.”

“Hilarious indeed. Gemma is a drifter. I read in the paper today about that murderer in Melbourne. They called him a drifter. I thought to myself, that’s how people would describe Gemma! My own daughter! A drifter!”

“She doesn’t drift far. At least she only drifts around Sydney.”

“I’ll grant you that.” Maxine, who was sitting on the sofa in front of Lyn, suddenly took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her knees in a strangely awkward gesture. “Yes, well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. A little issue.”

“Have you really?” Her mother wasn’t in the habit of meaning to say things; she generally just said them. “What is it?”

At that moment, Lyn’s mobile began to ring and vibrate on the coffee table. She glanced at the name on the screen. “Speak of the drifter. I’ll let her go to voicemail.”

“No, answer it. I’ll talk to you about it another time. You’re in a rush anyway.” Maxine stood up briskly and removed the glass of water from Lyn’s hand.

“Tell Gemma to water that poor man’s flowers,” she ordered cryptically, and went tapping off again down the hallway, calling out, “Just what are you up to now, Maddie?”

“Cat Crisis!” announced Gemma happily. “Guess where she is!”

“I give up, where?”

“Well, all right then, I’ll tell you. She’s sitting in her car outside the woman’s place!”

“What woman?”

“What woman, she says. The woman! The woman dastardly Dan had sex with! Cat is stalking her. I think Cat is perfectly capable of boiling a rabbit, don’t you? Or a puppy. Even a kitten.”

“Can you please be serious for once in your life?” said Lyn. “What’s she doing there?”

“Wait till you hear how she found her! She was like an undercover detective.”

“Gemma.”

“I am being serious. Deadly serious. We have to stop her! She says she just wants to see what the woman looks like, but that sounds a bit passive for Cat, don’t you think? She’s probably planning to throw acid at her, something to horribly disfigure her. Can we drive there together? My air conditioning isn’t working.”

“I’ve got a meeting,” Lyn looked at her watch, “in half an hour.”

“I’ll see you soon. I’ll wait out front.”

“Gemma!”

“Can’t talk, going to sneeze!” Gemma hung up mid-sneeze.

Lyn put down the phone and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, while she tried to remember where Gemma was living at the moment.

She thought of her meeting at the bakery. The rich fragrance that would envelop her, the respect that would greet her, the pleasure of dealing with efficient, professional, calm, normal people.

She called out to Maxine, “You’d better give me two more of those antihistamines.”

She’d forgotten all about her mother’s “little issue.”

CHAPTER 3

“You stood me up.”

“Did I?”

“Was it because somebody died?”

“Oh, I hope not.”

Waking up was Gemma’s least favorite thing. She resisted it daily. Even when she was woken up by a phone call, like now, she continued to fight consciousness by keeping her eyes squeezed shut, her breathing deep, and not concentrating too hard.

If she was lucky, the conversation would be short and she could slip straight back into lovely sleep.

“I was actually sort of hoping somebody did die. Somebody not that important. It would help my shattered ego.” The voice was rather appealingly masculine but she had no idea who he was, or what he was talking about, and sleep was still a possibility.

“Yes, I see,” she slurred politely.

“Did you get a better offer?”

“Umm.” She breathed deeper and burrowed farther under her quilt.

“Are you still in bed? Big night last night?”

“Shh,” said Gemma. “Stop talking. Sleep time. It’s Saturday.”

But there was something twitching urgently and irritatingly at the very outer corner of her consciousness.

“Exactly. It’s Saturday. Last night was Friday night. I waited. And waited. Everyone in the restaurant felt sorry for me. I got free garlic bread.”

“Who is this?” Like Frankenstein’s monster coming to life, Gemma suddenly sat bolt upright.

“How many of us did you stand up last night? Is this like a regular Friday night thing for you?”

“Oh my God! You’re the locksmith!”