She’d woken with another of her appalling headaches. It had finally eased but she was still looking wan, despite her smile. Pretty clothes were the least he could give her.

‘Can you drive me to the golf club now? I don’t want to be late,’ she said, anxious. She’d been looking forward to this week for months. Abby’s pre-wedding parties. Abby’s wedding itself.

‘My car is at your disposal,’ he said and pulled on his policeman’s cap, tipping it like a chauffeur. She smiled.

‘Tell me again why you’re not coming.’

At least that was easy. ‘It’s girls only. I’d look a bit silly in a skirt.’

Sarah giggled, but her smile was fleeting. ‘If it wasn’t only girls, would you want to come?’

Sometimes she did this, shooting him serious, insightful questions, right when he didn’t need them.

‘Abby’s mother doesn’t like me,’ he said, deciding to be honest. ‘It makes things uncomfortable.’

‘Because of the accident?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Raff,’ she said and walked over and hugged him. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘There’s not a lot we can do about it, Sares,’ he told her and kissed her and put her away from him. ‘Except be happy ourselves. Which we are. How can we help but be happy when you’re wearing a bright pink and yellow and purple and blue skirt-and your purple boots have tassels?’

‘Do you like them?’ she said, giggling and twirling.

‘I love them.’

He was making Sarah happy, he thought as they headed to the golf club to Abby’s pre-wedding party. At least he could do that.

No one else?

No one else.


Philip was sailing. He’d gone out with his supermarket-planning mates. Even now he was cruising round Banksia Bay, discussing the pros and cons of investment opportunities.

How did you tell a guy you’d made the biggest mistake of your life when he was out at sea?

How did you go calmly to your pre-wedding party when you’d made a decision like this?

How did you call it off-when you hadn’t told your fiancé first?

All those wedding gifts, coming her way. She’d be expected to unwrap them. Aargh.

But by now the gifts would already be in cars heading towards the golf club. It didn’t make any difference if she said, Don’t give them to me today, or if on Monday she re-wrapped them and sent them all back.

That’d be her penance. Sending gifts back.

That and a whole lot else.

She drove towards the golf club slowly. Very slowly. Kleppy lay beside her and even he seemed subdued. She turned into the car park. She sat and stared out through the windscreen, seeing nothing.

Someone tapped on her window. She raised her head and dredged up a smile. Sarah was peering in at her, looking worried.

‘What’s wrong? You look sad. Do you have another headache? Oh, Abby, and on your party day.’

Raff was right behind his sister. In civvies. Faded jeans and black T-shirt, stretched a bit too tight.

‘No, I… I just didn’t want to be the first to arrive.’ She climbed from the car and sent Raff what she hoped was a bright smile, a smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

‘Collywobbles?’ he asked and it was just what she needed. It was the sort of word that made a woman gird her loins and stiffen her spine and send him a look that was pure defiance.

‘Why on earth would I have collywobbles?’

‘I’d have collywobbles if I was marrying Philip.’

‘Go jump.’

‘Philip’s really handsome,’ Sarah said. ‘Almost as handsome as Lionel.’

‘Lionel?’ They said it in unison, distracted. They looked at each other. Looked back at Sarah.

‘Lionel’s cute,’ Sarah said. ‘So’s your dress, Abby. I love the Elvises.’

‘So do I,’ Abby said, thinking she had one vote at least. She loved this dress-a tiny bustier, a full-circle skirt covered with Elvises-black and white print with crimson tulle underneath to make it flare. It was a party dress. A celebration dress.

What was she celebrating?

‘And you’ve made Kleppy a matching bow.’ Sarah scooped up the little dog and hugged him. ‘He’s adorable. He’s even more adorable than Lionel.’

‘Who’s Lionel?’ Abby asked.

‘Kleppy’s friend,’ Sarah said simply. ‘Ooh, there’s Margy.’ Abby’s next door neighbour was pulling up on the far side of the car park, a dumpy little woman whose looks belied the fact that she ran the most efficient disability services organisation in the State. ‘Hi, Margy. Can I sit next to you?’ And she dived off, carrying Kleppy, leaving Abby and Raff together.

‘Lionel?’ she said, because that seemed the safest way to go.

‘There’s Lionel who was Isaac’s gardener,’ Raff said, frowning. ‘I didn’t realise he and Sarah knew each other, but Sarah gets around more than I think. Okay, have a great hen’s party. I’ll pick Sarah up at four.’

‘Raff?’

‘Yes?’ He sounded testy.

She’d said his name. She needed to add something on the back of it. Something sensible.

But how to say what she needed to say? How to think about saying what she needed to say? How to get over the impossibility of even thinking about thinking about…?

Maybe she should stop thinking. Her head was about to fall off.

People were arriving all around them. Her friends. Her mother’s friends. Every woman in this little community who’d come into contact with her over the years seemed to be getting out of cars, carrying gifts into the golf club.

How many women had her mother invited?

How many gifts would she need to return?

‘Abigail?’ That was her mother calling. She was standing on the terrace, shielding her eyes from the sun, trying to see who her daughter was talking to. ‘Your guests are here. You should be receiving them.’

‘There you go,’ Raff said and eased himself back into his car. ‘By the way, I’m with Sarah. That’s a cute dress. Really cute. You should try wearing that in court some time.’

‘Raff?’ She didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want…

‘See you later,’ he said.

He drove away. She stood there in her Elvis dress, staring after him like a dummy.

‘Abigail.’ Her mother’s voice was sharp. ‘What are you thinking? You’re being discourteous to our guests. And what on earth are you wearing?’

A cute dress, she thought, as she headed up to her mother, to her waiting guests.

Abigail, what are you thinking?


What was he thinking?

Nothing. He’d better not think anything because if he did there was a chasm yawning and it was so big he couldn’t see the bottom.

He needed some work. He needed a few kids to do something stupid so he could lay down the law, vent a bit of spleen, feel in control.

Abby in an Elvis dress.

Abby, who was marrying Philip.

Any minute now the steering wheel was going to break.

‘Raff?’ His radio crackled into life and he grabbed it as if it were a lifeline.

It was Keith. ‘Yeah?’

‘There’s a bit of trouble down on the wharf. Couple of kids chucking craypots into the water, and Joe Paxton’s threatening to do ’em damage. I’m stuck up on the ridge ’cos John Anderson’s locked himself out. Can you deal?’

‘Absolutely,’ Raff said, feeling a whole heap better.

Trouble, he could deal with.

Just not how he was feeling about Abby.


The afternoon was interminable. She smiled and smiled, and thought she should have run. What was she thinking, letting this afternoon go ahead? Just because she needed to tell Philip first.

‘You’ll make such a lovely couple. A credit to the town.’ That was Mrs Alderson, one of her mother’s bridge partners. ‘We’re so looking forward to next Saturday.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and then realised that Mrs Alderson was carrying a rather long shoulder bag and something had peeped from the edge and Kleppy had just…just…

He was heading under the table, to the full length of his lead, looking satisfied.

She stooped to retrieve it. It was a romance novel, a brand she recognised. A really… Goodness, what was that on the front? She snatched it from her dog and handed it back, apologising.

Margot Alderson turned beet-red and stuffed it back into her bag.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing with that dog,’ she snapped. ‘He’s trouble. If you must get yourself a dog, get a nice one. I have a friend who breeds pekes.’

Kleppy looked up at her from under the table and wagged his tail. He’d done what he wanted. He’d had his snatch and he’d given it to his mistress.

‘I kinda like Kleppy,’ Abby said. ‘And you know…I don’t even mind a bit of trouble.’

Her mother’s friend departed, still indignant. Abby stared after her, thinking-of all things-about the cover of the romance novel. The cover showed a truly fabulous hero, bare from the waist up.

I don’t mind pecs, either, she added silently. Or a bit of hot romance.


He had two kids in the cells waiting for their parents to come and collect them. ‘Take your time,’ he’d told them. ‘It’ll do ’em good to sweat.

Which meant he was stuck at the station, babysitting two drunken adolescents. Forced to do nothing but think.

Abby.

A man could go quietly nuts.

It wasn’t fair to interfere more than he already had.

He wasn’t feeling fair.

‘If I was a Neanderthal I’d go find me a club and a cave,’ he muttered.

He wasn’t. He was Banksia Bay’s cop and Abby was a modern non-Neanderthal woman who knew her own mind. He had to respect it.

‘I miss the old days,’ he said morosely. ‘It’d be so much easier to go set up a cave.’


It was over. The last gift was in her father’s van, being taken home to their spare room, Abby’s old bedroom, pink, pretty.

‘I wish you’d come home for your last week,’ her mother said, hugging her. ‘It’s where you belong.’

Abby said no, as she always said no. They left, leaving Abby sitting on the terrace with Kleppy.