Alice paused, diverted by the fact that Nick had a “personal assistant.” How posh.

The girl continued, as if Alice had argued with her: “Mr. Love is actually in Portugal this week, so his PA would be the best person to help you.”

Portugal! She said, “What’s he doing in Portugal?”

“Well, it’s some sort of international conference, I think,” said the girl uncertainly. “But if I could just put you through—”

Portugal, and a personal assistant. He must have got a promotion. They’d have to have champagne!

Alice said (cunningly!), “Um, could you remind me of Mr. Love’s position with the company?”

“He’s our general manager,” said the girl in an everyone-in-the-worldknows-that tone.

Good grief.

Nick had the Motherfucking Megatron’s job.

That was more than one promotion. That was a giant superhero leap up the corporate ladder. Alice was filled with giggly pride at the thought of Nick strutting about the office, telling people what to do. Wouldn’t people just laugh at him?

“I’m putting you through to his PA now,” said the girl firmly. The phone clicked and began to ring again.

Another female voice answered smoothly. “Mr. Love’s office, this is Annabelle, how can I help you?”

“Oh,” said Alice. “This is Nick’s wife, ah, Mr. Love’s wife. I was trying to get hold of him, but, ummm . . .”

The woman’s voice turned razor sharp. “Hello, Alice. How are you today?”

“Well, actually . . .”

“As you’re aware, Nick isn’t back in Sydney until Sunday morning. Obviously if there is something that absolutely can’t wait, I can try to get a message through to him but I’d really prefer not to disturb him. His schedule is frantic.”

“Oh.” Why was this woman being so mean? She obviously knew her. What could Alice have done to make her dislike her so much?

“So, can it wait or not, Alice?” She wasn’t imagining it; this was real live hatred she was hearing. The pain in Alice’s head got worse. She wanted to say, “Hey, lady, I’m in hospital. I came here in an ambulance!”

“I wish you wouldn’t let people stomp all over you,” Elisabeth was always telling her. Sometimes, long after Alice had forgotten the incident, Elisabeth would say, “I was up all last night thinking about what that woman in the chemist’s said to you. I can’t believe you just took it—you’ve got no backbone!” Alice would drop to the floor, all jelly-like, to demonstrate her lack of backbone, and Elisabeth would say, “Oh for God’s sake.”

The problem was, Alice needed more warning when it came to being assertive. These sorts of situations were so unexpected. She needed hours to really think things through. Were they really being nasty, or was she just being sensitive? What if they’d just found out they had a terminal disease that morning and were entitled to be in a bad mood? She was about to mumble something pleading and pathetic to Nick’s PA when, against her will, her body began an unfamiliar sequence of actions. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. Her stomach muscles clenched. She spoke and didn’t recognize her own voice. It was taut and tart and decidedly snooty. “No, it can’t wait,” she said. “It is urgent. There has been an accident. Please ask Nick to call me as soon as possible.”

Alice couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d found herself doing a triple backflip.

The woman answered, “Fine, Alice, I’ll see what I can do.” Her contempt was still palpable.

“I’d appreciate it.”

Alice hung up and said, with the phone still to her ear, “Cow. Bitch. Slut.” She spat the words out of the side of her mouth, like poisonous pellets.

She swallowed. Now that was even more surprising; she sounded like a tattooed girl who quite liked the occasional catfight.

The mobile rang in her hand, making her jump.

It must be Nick, she thought, awash with relief. Once again, her fingers knew what to do. She pressed the button with the green phone symbol and said, “Nick?”

A child’s voice she’d never heard before said crossly, “Mum?”

Chapter 5

Frannie’s Letter to Phil

Dearest Phil,

I’m a little riled up today.

You’ll remember I mentioned I’d taken on the role of running the Social Committee. Well, for the last few months I’ve been arranging a Family Talent Night. It’s next Wednesday. Children, grandchildren, and so forth will be performing a variety of acts. Should be a fun night! In all honesty it will probably be excruciating, but it will be a diversion from our arthritis if nothing else.

(I was thinking today about the musical we organized together. Oklahoma! 1972? 1973? You kissed me backstage and that sly little Frank Neary caught us. The news spread like wildfire: “Mr. Peyton and Miss Jeffrey are a couple. The school principal and the maths coordinator! Ooh, scandal! It just made everything even more delicious, didn’t it?)

Anyway, today we had a new resident turn up at the Social Committee meeting. I can’t recall his name. (See? Shocking memory!) I’ll call him Mr. Mustache because that’s his most defining feature: a comically large white mustache. It gives him the look of a retired usedcar salesman. Or perhaps a seedy Santa Claus.

Anyway, Mr. Mustache was full of suggestions.

We’re serving tea, coffee, sandwiches, pikelets, and scones on the family Talent Night. Standard fare for a function at a retirement village. Mr. Mustache piped up and suggested we set up a cocktail bar. Said he once spent a year bartending on some Caribbean island and that he could make a cocktail “guaranteed to blow my socks off.” I’m not joking, Phil. This is the way he talks.

I tried to explain about liquor licenses, but he was already on to a new topic. He said he knew a young girl who wasn’t exactly a family member, but would she still be allowed to perform? Of course, I said. He said that was wonderful because she did a very entertaining “pole dancing” act. All the men slapped their knees, roaring with laughter. (You wouldn’t have laughed, would you?)

Even some of the women were laughing. Rita was laughing like a loon. She has dementia, so I guess I can excuse her—but still, you’d think she’d retain a modicum of decency!

It was the strangest thing. I felt the most absurdly embarrassing desire to burst into tears. All at once, I was straight back in my very first classroom out of teacher’s college. There was a very handsome boy in my class (I can still see where he sat—second row from the back) who was always cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Did I ever tell you about him? He made me feel so humorless and stodgy. Like an old maid. (And I was twenty years old, for heaven’s sake!)