‘I suppose so.’

‘She’s just a bit distracted by the baby. That’s the thing with us women. We fall in love with our babies and maybe we don’t pay quite as much “attention” to our husbands as we normally would.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean I wasn’t getting enough–’

‘I know you didn’t, darling. Don’t you worry. Grace certainly does not have postnatal depression.’

34

‘Callum told me he was worried Grace has postnatal depression. He’s such a sweet boy.’

‘I don’t believe in postnatal depression. Of course you feel depressed after you have a baby! Who wouldn’t? It’s when you realise how much damned work they are and that you’re stuck with them forever! I cried solidly for the first six weeks after Laura was born. I thought my life had ended. Your father just pretended not to notice. I remember my teardrops sizzling in the pan while I cooked his chops.’

‘That’s not normal, Mum! You probably had postnatal depression.’

‘Rubbish! I was just tired. Anyway, I like a good cry. Grace is fine. She’s always been a tough cookie, that one. Never cries. Postnatal depression! Pfff! Look at those pretty cards she sent out!’

‘Yes, that’s what I said. Still, I’ll keep an eye on her. Maybe she would like to come jogging with me. I’m taking up jogging. Why are you laughing? It’s not funny! Well, it’s certainly not that funny. I’m getting you a glass of water. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mum!’

35

It’s the second weekend since Sophie moved into Connie’s house and she’s out on the back balcony watering Connie’s herb collection that has been thriving for over forty years, and which Sophie is pretty sure she’ll manage to kill off within the next two weeks. Already the parsley looks sad and wilted.

She rests her elbows on the balcony and breathes in deeply, the sun on her face. The island is just close enough to the ocean so that there is always a hint of summer holiday in the air.

Yep, even the air she breathes is different. Over the last week her life has been transformed.

Instead of waking each morning to the muted roar of traffic, she is woken by a symphony of chiming bellbirds. (‘I expect you’ll be in the market for a sniper gun soon,’ said a guy at work, causing Sophie to throw a floppy disk at his head.) Instead of eating a muesli bar while she blow-dries her hair and then pelting to the bus stop and squashing herself onto a misery-packed city bus, she eats a leisurely nutritious breakfast on the balcony, looking beatifically out at the river. Then she climbs into Connie’s dinghy, starts the outboard engine with a deft flick of her wrist (she loves that part, she is so pleased with herself when it roars into life, like an obedient pet) and putt-putts capably across a shimmering vista of water, past silently majestic sandstone cliffs and rolling bushland. She doesn’t care that it takes an hour and fifty minutes to get to work each day. It’s like starting each day with an aromatherapy massage.

Instead of coming home to fumble in her handbag for her security-door key under a flickering light, then climbing four flights of stairs breathing in other people’s dinner smells, she walks up a paved footpath fragrant with honeysuckle, from her own private jetty, and opens a tiny green wooden cupboard helpfully marked ‘Key’. When she flings open her door each night the house seems delighted to see her. Her sterile, stuffy old apartment had never shown the slightest interest when she got home from work.

But best of all, for the first time in her life, she feels like she’s part of a big, quirky family. Enigma, the island’s most accomplished fisherwoman, has taken her fishing at sunset and shed tears when Sophie caught a respectable bream with a hook she’d baited herself. Rose has asked her if she would like to come one day next week for an early morning swim. Margie has turned out to be another closet reality-TV addict and has been around to watch Survivor with her, clutching Sophie’s arm and gasping when someone unexpected was voted off. Even Ron turned up on her doorstep late one night to ask her opinion about whether a bottle of wine he’d received from a client was corked or just awful. (‘Both,’ said Sophie, after one sniff.)

And, most importantly, there are Grace, Callum and the baby. Since their lunch, Sophie has been around to dinner twice and watched a video with them. It’s true that she seems to be getting to know Callum better than Grace, but that’s because Grace keeps going to bed early, or just vanishing for ages at a time, leaving them to chat. Sophie even went along with Callum to a concert when Grace couldn’t go at the last minute.

There is nothing untoward going on, of course. It’s just an innocent platonic new friendship with a really nice guy. She doesn’t know why she needs to keep telling herself this because it’s perfectly true. Besides which, she really likes Grace. She’s a bit distant, but Sophie will break through eventually, and they’ll all be friends.

Nothing is going to go wrong. It’s one of the happiest times of her life. She resolutely ignores that whiny, pessimistic voice telling her she must be heading for a fall.

At work, in meetings, watching people talk, Sophie can’t help but smugly imagine their dull suburban homes and soulless city apartments. She lives on an island. She can start an outboard motor. She owns a brand-new pair of gum boots! She feels different. Outdoorish. A touch tomboyish. Glowing with fresh air.

‘Actually, you do smell different,’ says Claire when she comes to visit that afternoon, pulling at her sleeve and sniffing at Sophie’s shirt. ‘Sort of mouldy. Old-ladyish.’

‘I expect I smell fragrantly earthy. Rivery. May I remind you that over the next few days I have “engagements” with not one but two very eligible, good-looking men?’

‘Yes, that’s true.’ Claire gives Sophie a suspicious look.

‘What does that mean?’ asks Sophie. ‘You’re my only friend who isn’t mad with excitement about these two guys. You just get this really annoying expression as if you know something I don’t.’

‘All I know is that when you talk about a certain neighbour, who is supposedly happily married to somebody else, you get a very interesting expression on your face. It’s Callum this and Callum that. Whereas when you talk about your two eligible men, you look a bit ho-hum. I still can’t believe you postponed your date with Ian the sexy-sounding solicitor so you could go to that concert with Callum stupid-name Tidyman.’