The problem was that the very thought of talking about it out loud, to Michael or even more so to a doctor, seemed to cause a perceptible quickening of her heart. She imagined trying to describe that horrible pain across her chest and involuntarily pressed her hand to her collarbone. God, it had been awful.

If she told Michael about it, he’d insist that she see a doctor. He would react with immediate, loving, husbandly concern. “Let’s rule out the physical reasons first,” he’d say. And then he’d go on and on about reducing stress in her life and delegating more and not taking on so much and hiring more staff and getting more sleep and a cleaner—and it would make her feel really, really stressed.

That was the problem with a perfect husband. A lesser man might laugh and say something like, “Well, you’re a bit of a head case, aren’t you!” and that was exactly the sort of unsupportive reaction she needed.

A little contempt might make it dwindle away. It would be like laughing at the scary bits in a horror movie.

She looked at Michael and thought about saying, “I’m going to tell you something and I want you to be unsupportive, O.K.?” He was sitting back in his chair, munching his biscuit and double-clicking in that casually authoritative way he had with computers, as if the laptop was an extension of his own body. Computers and other electrical equipment seemed to shrink when Michael was around, becoming malleable and obedient in his large hands. It was a pity he couldn’t do the same with every problem. Tap a few keys, frown in an interested way. “Mmmm, let’s give this a go, then,” and hey presto, confidence about the functionality of your personality rebooted and restored.

She would tell him another day.

Or perhaps she wouldn’t tell him at all.

She went back to the twenty-three unanswered e-mails that had just filled her computer screen. She could see the words “problem,” “urgent,” and “help!” featuring heavily in the subject headings.

“You’re not still worrying,” Michael looked over at her, “about Maddie missing her bath.”

“I’m not that anal.”

“She’s testing her boundaries.”

“Yes, and finding they can be knocked over with ease.”

“The solution is a sibling.”

“Pffff. She’s got too many Kettle chromosomes. Anyway, of course we’re going to have another baby one day. Just not right now.”

“For some reason I have a problem with Cat’s life having such a major impact on my life.”

“Well, that is life. People impact on each other. Siblings impact on each other.”

“Not mine.”

“Yours are weird.”

“Oh, please. From the mouth of a Kettle. Now that’s the kettle calling the pot black.” Michael chuckled contentedly at his own wit.

“Oh, very good, yes, good one, darling.”

Lyn applauded lavishly with one hand on the tabletop while using the other one to continue scrolling through her e-mail. She hadn’t really been concentrating on the conversation due to a distractingly intriguing e-mail that had just arrived from an address she didn’t recognize.

Hi Lyn,

Well, it has been a long time, hasn’t it? Too long. I think about you a lot and the other day I happened to see an article about a business called the “Gourmet Brekkie Bus.” There was your face smiling back at me. I couldn’t believe it. It seems to me that I might have played a small part in the success of…

With a pleasant buzz of anticipation—could it be?—she was scrolling to the end of the e-mail to see if the sender was who she thought when the phone rang.

“Hello?” Lyn snatched up the portable phone from the table in front of her and kept looking at her computer screen.

There was silence for a second, a muffled sound, and then, “Lyn.”

It was Cat. Her voice was wrong.

Lyn stood up, pressing her hand against her other ear.

“What’s the matter? What is it?”

“Well. One thing is that I’ve had an accident.”

“A car accident? Are you O.K.?”

“Oh! Yes, I’m O.K. Although one little problem. The thing is…The thing is I’m probably over the limit. I had maybe four glasses. Five glasses. Maybe one was a glass of water? Yes, rehydrate, like Gemma says. But. Yes. Too many glasses. And this guy’s wife, this stupid, stupid bitch, she wants to call the police. I said it’s not necessary, we can just exchange details. But she’s such a f**king…I think they’re calling now.”

“Where are you?” Lyn was running toward her bedroom as she spoke.

“Me? Oh, I’m on the Pacific Highway. Down the road from the Greenwood.”

“What are you wearing?”

“What?”

“Cat—what—are—you—wearing?” She unzipped her shorts and wriggled out of them. Michael had followed her into the bedroom, carrying his chocolate biscuit.

“Jeans and a T-shirt. But look I have to tell you—”

“What color T-shirt?”

“Black. Lyn. What I’m calling to tell you…I need to tell you that Dan is leaving me. Yes. For that girl. He loves her. He doesn’t love me.”

“I’m coming now. Just stay where you are. Don’t talk to anybody.”

She hung up, threw the phone on the bed, and pulled jeans and a black T-shirt from her wardrobe.

“What’s going on?” Michael absentmindedly stuffed the rest of his biscuit in his mouth.

“Cat’s been in an accident. I’m going there.”

“O.K., and why are you changing your clothes?”

“She’s over the limit. She thinks the police are coming.”

“So…?” Suddenly he understood. “Oh, Lyn, don’t be so stupid. You can’t get her out of this.”

She finished zipping up her jeans and pulled the elastic from her hair and ran her fingers through it, I-don’t-care-what-you-think Cat-style.

“Probably not. It’s worth a try.”

“No, it’s not worth a try. You’re being ridiculous.”

His paternal, pompous tone was really irritating her. She ignored him and grabbed the car keys from the dressing table.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I’ll tell Kara.”