I wandered around for a while in the hypnotist’s front garden.

I picked a daisy and stuck it behind my ear, as if I was that sort of girl, the sort who knows she will look whimsical and pretty with a flower stuck behind her ear. It was like I thought the daisy could transform the whole situation, make me cute and endearing, as if this was a funny little love triangle, as if Ellen and I were two girls at a party trying to get the attention of the same boy. Then I walked onto Ellen’s front porch and caught sight of my own reflection in the glass panel next to her front door. I looked middle-aged and seedy. I took the flower out and crushed it in the palm of my hand, and then I knocked, quite loudly, on the front door, even though I knew she wasn’t home. I knocked again, angrily. I seemed to be making some sort of a point. I’m here!

Then I shrugged as if we’d had an appointment and she’d let me down. I stepped off the porch and noticed a path running straight down the side of the house and onto the beach.

I went down it and took my shoes off and walked barefoot on the cold sand.

Imagine that. Walk out your back door and you’re on the beach.

I wonder if she appreciates it. She doesn’t seem like a particularly sporty type. I can’t imagine her sweating or puffing. I guess she sits cross-legged and meditates and chants. Or she does yoga. Salutes the sun and all that crap.

The beach was deserted and silent, except for the lap of the waves and the occasional squawk of a seagull; still too early for the joggers and power walkers and dog walkers. It was high tide and the pearly sky seemed to hang very low.

Without stopping to think about it, I took off all my clothes and ran out into the ocean and dived straight under a wave.

The water was so shockingly cold it made all the air rush out of my lungs. When I came back up, I screamed out loud, and dived under again and again. I opened my eyes each time I went under and saw swirling eddies of sand and shafts of filmy light.

Forget him.

Let him go.

Be free of him.

The words came into my head, crystal clear, each time I went under, as if mermaids were whispering messages in my ear.

Afterward, as I walked naked along the beach toward my clothes, with the early morning sun gently caressing my shoulders, I decided to have coffee and read the paper at one of the cafés. Suddenly I felt a strange feeling that I hadn’t felt in a long time, and it took me a few minutes to work out that it was happiness. Plain, simple happiness. I’d forgotten how much I liked swimming in the sea. It’s been ages. The weather had to be scorching and the water had to be practically tepid for Patrick to swim. “You wuss!” I used to yell at him from the water, and he’d lift a hand in ironic acknowledgment without even looking up from the paper.

His mother told me once that he’d always been funny about water temperature. She had to write him notes to get him out of school carnivals. When he was in the shower, his brother used to throw cups of cold water over him and he’d scream like a girl. “Big girl’s blouse,” his dad would say.

I wondered if the hypnotist has met his parents yet. His mum was fond of me. One Christmas, after she’d drunk too much punch, she told me that I was like a daughter to her.

I might listen to the mermaids and have a night off from Patrick and the hypnotist. I might go to that work party tonight after all. I might wear the red dress I keep putting off wearing.

And on the way there, I might drop by on Patrick’s mum. Just to say hi. I could show her that I’ve moved on.

“So you’re a hypnotist, Ellen,” said Patrick’s mother. “I must admit I’ve never met a hypnotist before.”

“She’s a hypnotherapist, Mum,” Patrick corrected her.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” His mother looked stricken.

“It’s all right!” both Patrick and Ellen rushed to reassure her.

Maureen Scott was an off-the-shelf mum and grandma. She had the nondescript, colorless hairstyle, the softly sagging face, the formless figure, the pastel-colored, elastic-waisted clothes.

“My mum is a lot older than yours,” Patrick had said when they were driving over. “She’s a different generation.”

“How old is she?” Ellen had asked.

“She’s turning seventy this year.”

Ellen’s mother was sixty-six, only four years younger, but Ellen hadn’t pointed it out and now she was glad; Maureen did seem as if she was at least twenty years older than Anne. Whereas Ellen’s mother was all sharp lines and angles, Maureen seemed without definition. She could imagine Maureen as one of Anne’s patients. Anne would be brisk and condescending, and tell her to take calcium to avoid osteoporosis and have regular mammograms, as if these old lady problems were a long way in front of her.

“So a hyp-no-therapist,” repeated Maureen carefully. “Now I’m just so interested to hear more about this, Ellen.” She passed Ellen a tray with a picture of the Sydney Harbour Bridge containing a dish of French onion dip and rows of Jatz biscuits.

“We’ll have to watch ourselves,” said Patrick’s dad. “She might hypnotize us over dinner.” He clapped his hands and chuckled.

George looked disconcertingly, comically, similar to Patrick. Ellen had to stop herself from staring. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a parent and child who looked so alike. If Patrick hadn’t been in the same room, she might have suspected he was playing a joke on her and pretending to be an old man with a not especially convincing disguise. George’s hair was white instead of brown but seemed to be cut in an identical style, and Patrick’s eyes looked out at her from a more wrinkled face. Everything was the same: the shape of his nose, the jawline, the set of the shoulders, even the way they sat in their chairs cradling glasses of beer in big hands, their legs stuck out straight in front of them.

“They’re actually clones,” said Patrick’s brother in her ear, as he reached down beside her to place a coaster in front of her. The coaster had a picture of Ayers Rock on it.

Patrick’s younger brother, Simon, was small and dark, with a neatly trimmed goatee like a fashion designer. He was only twenty-four, and looked to Ellen like he should have been taking drugs in a nightclub instead of passing around drinks in this redbrick bungalow with the crucifix hanging above the television that was silently playing a game show and the china cabinets stuffed with knickknacks and collector plates.