camouflage, and knobbled, amputated branches, stood in front of a second-storey sash window, which was open, the slight breeze up there sucking the filmy curtain in and out, in and out. Geraniums, fluorescent splats of red paint, clustered in the window box. As in a puppet show, a pair of hands appeared on the window ledge, the room behind them darkness. She couldn’t take her eyes off the gripping fingers, the zigzagged light on the raised glass, the bright flowers. What was that, a couple in the afternoon, fucking.
In the welcome shade of the house Dorothy made some calls then spread out on her bed by the open window and slept for most of the afternoon. Hank and Ruth were still sightseeing when she woke, and showered, and put the chickens on to roast and made the salad and rice. She was lighting candles on the outdoor table when Andrew came through the back door, arms raised above his head, cracking his shoulders.
Dorothy shook out the match between her fingers and walked slowly towards her husband. His bristled cheek felt unfamiliar to her lips. ‘Will you be home for dinner?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve invited half the neighbourhood. I don’t know what I’ve done. Is it the last thing you feel like?’
‘Go for it.’ Andrew tugged at one end of the wrought-iron bench seat, which made a harsh scraping noise along the patio. ‘What are you wearing?’
Dorothy smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. ‘I found it in the back of the cupboard. Too young for me?’
Halfway through dinner she leaned back in her chair and felt as though a flower, a peony or hibiscus, was blossoming inside her. The wine maybe, or the toke on Andrew’s cigarette that she leaned over for, feeling his fingers against her lips as she quickly sucked, the hot prickle of the smoke on her tongue. How amazing to see her sister in the glow from the tea lights, powerful in her way, purring into Jim Wang’s neck. Music played from the speakers that Ruth had shifted to stand in the French doors. Down the other end of the table Hank and his screenwriter friend were deep in conversation. It amazed Dot that people had these lifestyles, that you could own a holiday house a twelve-hour flight away from home, but she supposed it shouldn’t. Hank smoked like a demon – like an American photographer. The screenwriter’s wife was pregnant, and had eaten none of the cheeses that Hank and Ruth brought back from the market, and Dorothy shook the bread basket at her. ‘Everything’s pasteurised. But I understand. No point taking chances. Have some bread, you must be starving.’
The girl thanked her and almost shoved the roll into her mouth, just as Dennis asked her a question, his illness making it look as though he really cared for each word and struggled to find it precisely, ideas brimming in him before the body would allow them out. Dorothy carved and plated chicken for Dennis, Ruth, Hank, Hank’s friend, Hank’s friend’s wife, Terry from the bookshop, the Hansens, the Wangs, Mareta and her teenage daughter, Andrew and herself.
‘If I wasn’t here,’ said Destiny, the teenager, ‘you’d be thirteen at the table.’
‘Do you think that’s dangerous?’ Ruth laughed.
‘All teenagers believe in that BS,’ said Mareta. ‘I’ve had a houseful of Ouija boards and spirits and creepy little rune-y relic-y things all summer. I’m over it.’
‘Don’t say over it,’ Destiny said.
‘Whatever.’
Hank nodded his head towards his friend’s wife. ‘What about her? She’s pregnant, does that count as another person?’
Pontoon lights hung in the trees behind the table. The golden-whiteness shining from them made the sky look darker than it really was, and the stars couldn’t be seen. Night-blooming jasmine opened its perfume onto the courtyard. There was a pause in the music, between tracks. Andrew was telling Ruth an anecdote, a piece of history Dot had heard a gazillion times before, and Ruth was laughing. The scent of the flowers was so elusive, there one moment and then gone. Dorothy gestured to her husband, twiddling her fingers to ask for another rolled cigarette. The compromises and frustration and loss were worth it, she thought, her eyes meeting his – if they could only stay in this.
A new song started and Mareta pushed her chair back and held her hands out to Terry and he bowed his head, rose from his chair and they started dancing. ‘Shame, Mum,’ Destiny called, but as Dorothy crossed the courtyard to