There was a pause.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘My husband is on his way here.’

‘Ah.’

‘Apparently he and Felicity are over before it’s even begun.’

‘So I guess we are too.’ He didn’t make it sound like a question.

She could see Liam playing in the front garden. She’d told him that Will was on his way. He was racing back and forth across the yard, tipping first the hedge and then the fence, as if he was in training for some life and death event.

‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s just that, with Liam, you see, I have to at least try. At least give it a go.’ She thought of Will and Felicity sitting on the plane from Melbourne, hands gripped, faces stoic. For fuck’s sake.

‘Of course you do.’ He sounded so warm and lovely. ‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘I should never have –’

‘Please don’t regret it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Tell him if he treats you bad again, I’ll break his knees.’

‘Yes.’

‘Seriously, Tess. Don’t give him any more chances.’

‘No.’

‘And if things don’t work out. Well. You know. Keep my application on file.’

‘Connor, someone will –’

‘Don’t do that,’ he said sharply. He tried to soften his voice. ‘No worries. I told you, I’ve got chicks lining the streets for me.’

She laughed.

‘I should let you go,’ he said, ‘if this bloke of yours is on his way.’

She could hear his disappointment so clearly now. It made him sound abrupt, almost aggressive, and part of her wanted to keep him on the line, to flirt with him, to make sure that the last thing he said was gentle and sexy, and then she could be the one to put an end to the conversation, so that she could file these last few days away in her memory under the category that suited her. (What was that category? ‘Fun flings where nobody got hurt’?)

But he was entitled to be abrupt, and she’d already exploited him enough.

‘Okay. Well. Bye.’

‘Bye, Tess. Take care.’

‘Mr Whitby!’ shouted Polly.

‘Oh, my god. Mum, make her stop!’ Isabel lowered her head and hid her eyes.

‘Mr Whitby!’ screeched Polly.

‘He’s too far away to hear you,’ sighed Isabel.

‘Darling, leave him alone. He’s talking on the phone,’ said Cecilia.

‘Mr Whitby! It’s me! Hello! Hello!’

‘It’s out of his work hours,’ commented Esther. ‘He’s not obliged to talk to you.’

‘He likes talking to me!’ Polly grabbed hold of her handlebars and pedalled away from her father’s grasp, her wheels wobbling precariously along the footpath. ‘Mr Whitby!’

‘Looks like her legs have recovered.’ John-Paul massaged his lower back.

‘Poor man,’ said Cecilia. ‘Enjoying his Good Friday and he’s accosted by a student.’

‘I guess it’s an occupational hazard if he chooses to live in the same area,’ said John-Paul.

‘Mr Whitby!’ Polly gained ground. Her legs pumped. Her pink wheels spun.

‘At least she’s getting some exercise,’ said John-Paul.

‘This is so embarrassing,’ said Isabel. She hung back and kicked at someone’s fence. ‘I’m waiting here.’

Cecilia stopped and looked back at her. ‘Come on. We’re not going to let her bother him for long. Stop kicking that fence.’

‘Why are you embarrassed, Isabel?’ asked Esther. ‘Are you in love with Mr Whitby too?’

‘No, I am not! Don’t be disgusting!’ Isabel turned purple. John-Paul and Cecilia exchanged looks.

‘Why is this guy so special anyway?’ asked John-Paul. He nudged Cecilia. ‘Are you in love with him too?’

‘Mothers can’t be in love,’ said Esther. ‘They’re too old.’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Cecilia. ‘Come on, Isabel.’

She turned to look back at Polly, just as Connor Whitby stepped off the footpath and onto the road, the kite floating above him.

Polly swung her bike down a steep driveway towards the road.

‘Polly!’ Cecilia called, at the same time as John-Paul yelled, ‘Stop right there, Polly!’

chapter forty-eight

Rachel watched the man with the kite step off the kerb. Look out for traffic, matey. That’s not a pedestrian crossing.

He turned his head in her direction.

It was Connor Whitby.

He was looking right at her, but it was as though Rachel’s car was invisible, as if she didn’t exist, as if she was completely irrelevant to him, as if he could choose to inconvenience her by making her slow down if it suited him. He stepped briskly across the road, with every confidence that she would stop. His kite caught a gust of wind and spun in lazy circles.

Rachel’s foot lifted from the accelerator and hovered over the brake.

Then it slammed like a brick on the accelerator.

It didn’t happen in slow motion. It happened in an instant.

There was no car. The street was empty. And then, just like that, there was a car. A small blue car. John-Paul would say afterwards that he knew there was a car coming from behind them, but to Cecilia, it just materialised out of nowhere.

No car. Car.

The little blue car was like a bullet. Not so much because of its speed but because it seemed as if it were on some unstoppable trajectory, as if it had been shot from something.

Cecilia saw Connor Whitby run. Like a man in a movie chase scene leaping from one building to another.

A second later, Polly rode her bike directly in front of the car and vanished beneath it.

The sounds were small. A thump. A crunch. The long thin squeal of brakes.

And then silence. Ordinariness. The sound of a bird.

Cecilia didn’t feel anything except confusion. What just happened?

She heard heavy footsteps and turned to see John-Paul running. He ran straight past her. Esther was screaming. Over and over. A shocking, ugly sound. Cecilia thought, Stop it Esther.

Isabel grabbed Cecilia’s arm. ‘The car hit her!’

A chasm cracked open in her chest.

She shook Isabel’s hand free and ran.

A little girl. A little girl on a bike.

Rachel’s hands were still on the steering wheel. Her foot was still pressed hard on the brake pedal. It was compressed all the way to the floor of the car.

Slowly, painstakingly, she lifted her trembling hand from the steering wheel and wrenched on the handbrake. She placed her left hand back on the steering wheel and used her right hand to turn off the ignition. Then she cautiously lifted her foot from the brake pedal.

She looked in the rear-vision mirror. Maybe the little girl was all right.

(Except she’d felt it. The soft speed-hump beneath her wheels. She knew with perfect sick certainty what she’d done. What she’d deliberately done.)

She could see a woman running, her arms dangling oddly from her body, as if they were paralysed. It was Cecilia Fitzpatrick.

Little girl. Pink sparkly helmet. Black ponytail. Brake. Brake. Brake. Her face in profile. The girl was Polly Fitzpatrick. Gorgeous little Polly Fitzpatrick.

Rachel whimpered like a dog. Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming over and over.

‘Hello?’

‘Will?’

Liam had kept asking when his dad was arriving and Tess had felt all at once infuriated by her impassive role, waiting for Felicity and Will to make their scheduled appearances. She’d called Will on his mobile. She was going to be icy and controlled and give him his first inkling of the almighty task that lay ahead of him.

‘Tess,’ said Will. He sounded distracted and strange.

‘According to Felicity, you’re on your way over here –’

‘I am,’ interrupted Will. ‘I was. In a taxi. We had to stop. There was an accident just around the corner from your mum’s place. I saw it happen. We’re waiting for an ambulance.’ His voice broke, then became muffled. ‘It’s terrible, Tess. Little girl on a bike. About the same age as Liam. I think she’s dead.’