‘It’s not exactly a convenient location,’ continues Hans when the wine is poured. ‘They don’t allow cars on the island, do they? How would you get to work?’

‘There’s a ferry,’ explains Sophie. ‘The families all have their own motor boats and they keep their cars in a padlocked parking area on the mainland. So I’ll take my boat across, hop in my car, drive to the station and catch the train into the city.’

She tries hard to look casual, so her father won’t guess how enchanted she is by this idea, but her mother spoils it by clasping her hands and saying out loud everything that Sophie is secretly thinking. ‘How wonderful! I can just see it! The sun shining on the water! Your own little boat chugging across the river while you wave hello to other islanders!’

‘That will all seem very romantic right up until the first day it rains,’ says Hans. ‘Or you’re running late for work. Or you’re coming home late at night.’

Her mother says, ‘Oh no, darling. I don’t think she could drive her little boat late at night! I don’t think boats have headlights, do they?’

Hans gives her an exasperated look. ‘Well, she can’t stay home every night, can she?’

‘She could come and stay with us if she’s out late.’

‘That’s hardly practical.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Because she might want to–you know–she might have a–she might like–she could–bugger it, you know what I’m trying to say!’

‘Oh, well, she could stay at his place!’ says Gretel blithely and then frowns. ‘If he seems nice. And clean.’

‘Mum. Dad. I’m very grateful that you’re both so concerned about my sex life but I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ says Sophie. These assumptions by Aunt Connie that she has ‘dozens of beaux’, and by her parents that she actually has sex on a regular basis, are both flattering and depressing.

There is a disturbance at the table next to them. The younger woman stands up suddenly, with a face she is trying hard not to let crumple, and walks off quickly to the ladies.

‘Told you so,’ whispers Gretel, looking sympathetic and triumphant. ‘I wonder if I should go after her?’

‘I might not even get the house,’ continues Sophie. ‘Veronika rang me up and told me she’s going to fight me all the way to the highest court in the land.’

Her father snorts. ‘I’ve checked up on it. I really don’t think she has a chance. One, she’s not even related to this woman. Connie doesn’t have any living relatives, does she?’

‘Yes, she does,’ says Gretel. ‘The younger sister who was with her when they found the baby. The face-painting lady. Remember, we met her when we took Sophie to the island when she was young. What was her name?’

‘Rose,’ says Sophie.

Hans says, ‘Well, even if Rose wanted to contest it she’d need to prove that Connie wasn’t of sound mind, or that she was somehow manipulated. It’s clear from her letter that wasn’t the case. She just took a liking to you. Anyway, this is all premature until you hear from the lawyers and what the will actually says.’

‘But I don’t know,’ says Sophie. ‘Is it morally right for me to take the house?’

‘Of course it is,’ says her mother. ‘Now I’ve heard that letter I’ve decided it would be morally wrong not to take it! Connie wanted you to have it.’

‘If you think you could be happy living there, then you should,’ says Hans. ‘It’s a windfall, darling, that’s all. No need to feel guilty about windfalls.’

‘I’m going to check on that poor girl,’ says Gretel.

The next day, Sophie models possible outfits to wear to Aunt Connie’s funeral, while her friend Claire lies on Sophie’s bed eating a gigantic bag of salt and vinegar chips.

Claire can eat and eat and eat and still retain a malnourished look. She looks a bit like a junkie, a skinny young rock chick, although she’s actually a forty-two-year-old physiotherapist.

‘Is the funeral on the island?’ she asks, as Sophie stands in front of her wardrobe flicking through hangers.

‘No. The island is tiny,’ says Sophie. ‘It’s Sydney’s smallest suburb. Only six houses. Haven’t you ever been there?’

‘Nope.’

‘You’ve never done the tour of the Alice and Jack house?’

‘How could I if I’ve never been there?’

‘Right. Well, when I live there you can come and visit me. We’ll do the tour together. I’ll make you cinnamon toast.’

At the thought of living in that house, walking out onto that balcony in her PJs and having a cup of tea in the morning sun, watching the reflections of the gum trees in the river, Sophie feels an intense shot of pleasure. It will be bliss. It is like the life she’s always wanted without ever knowing it–and this lovely old woman has just handed it to her–‘here, take this life’–a glittering gift, like something in a fairytale.

‘There’s a kookaburra that comes and sits on the balcony every night,’ she tells Claire as she pulls a shirt over her head and zips up a skirt.

‘I know,’ says Claire. ‘You told me. Sounds thrilling. That outfit is far too insipid.’

Sophie looks down at her grey skirt and white shirt. ‘I think insipid might be exactly the right look. I’m not even sure if I should go. It’s not as if I would have gone if she hadn’t left me the house, but it seems ungrateful not to be there now. So I sort of want to be there and not be there at the same time. Plus there will be Thomas and his wife, and Veronika, and all the family who I haven’t seen since the break-up. Oh God, it’s going to be excruciating.’

Claire says, ‘Wear the black dress you wore when you snogged that fat guy at Melissa’s christening.’

‘He wasn’t fat. He was stocky. Anyway, I don’t want to wear black,’ says Sophie. ‘People will think I’m pretending to be sad when they all know I didn’t really know her.’

She shoves Claire’s hand aside so she can reach in the bag for some chips.

‘Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,’ says Claire. At Sophie’s request she is counting the number of chips Sophie eats, with orders to stop her at twenty.