Tom answers the questions about his mum and Anabel, and when she asks after his father, he tells her the truth and says he has no idea where he is. Then she invites him in and he wants to say yes, so that he can see his family’s kitchen from her living room. But he can’t stand the idea of seeing another Tom sitting at the table. Another Anabel resting her face in her hands, elbows on the table, grinning. Another Jacinta and Dominic doing the sums about whether they could afford a new fridge. People spoke within the walls of their home. His parents genuinely liked each other. They liked their kids. Love’s easy. It kind of comes with the territory. But liking is another story.

“When Jacinta and Dominic come home, Tom?” Mrs. Liu asks, tears in her eyes. “People in your house,” she continues, leaning forward to whisper. “Dirty. Very dirty.”

That was another thing his father didn’t take into account when he allowed everything to fall apart. That neighbors like Mrs. Liu were left lonely, living next door to dirty people.

They talk for a while. Small talk, really. It reminds him of his father coming out here every night to water the plants, back before the water restrictions. “He’s always had a thing for old women,” his mother would joke. She’d call him the patron saint of the lonely. He could sit outside and spend hours chatting with anyone who just wanted to talk. “Even five minutes of your time can make someone’s day,” he’d tell Tom and Anabel.

Tom was beginning to understand the five minutes a lot more these days.

Later, when he’s back at Georgie’s, he finds her in the kitchen making a cup of tea. He thinks of those nights after Joe died, when Nanni Grace and Pop Bill returned to Albury, which was hours and hours away. In his own home, he remembers how his mum would sit on his bed at night, encouraging him to talk about how he was feeling, and the way Anabel would huddle onto his father’s lap and whisper for him not to be sad. He remembers the murmuring from his parents’ bedroom, always the murmuring. But had they forgotten about Georgie alone in this house? Were her friends there for her? Did they sleep alongside her? Is that how Sam came back into her life? Tom needs to know. Who kept one of their own from the mind-numbing solitude during those nights of hell? And because he can’t stand it any longer, because sometimes he thinks everything inside him will crack, he walks to where Georgie has her back to him at the sink and wraps his arm around her and they stand there for a long while, their bodies shuddering from the exhaustion of this dry retching of emotion.

When Georgie approaches the Union, her nephew’s standing outside, having a smoke during his break. He looks lonely out here on his own. When he sees her, he stubs out his cigarette and gives her a hug, but already there’s an irritated look on his face.

“Don’t complain about the food.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” she says. “Why would I complain about the food? I love the fact that Stani’s finally introduced it.”

“I’m warning you.”

When she follows him inside, her eyes go straight up to the blackboard menu and then back at him, with irritation.

“Why introduce food if he’s only going to offer two plates?”

“Georgie, don’t.”

“I’m just saying . . .”

“Go for the T-bone. You’ll love it.”

He’s pushing her — no, actually he’s shoving her — toward the table near the door, and then Francesca Spinelli is there saying, “Georgie!”

Georgie tries to move around Tom and fails. It’s like he’s blocking her, but Francesca manages to push him aside.

“Oh. My. God. You’re pregnant!”

For a moment, Georgie is stunned. Tom’s muttering while Francesca is grinning from ear to ear. “You look gooooorgeous.”

There’s hugging all around, and before Georgie can stop herself, before she even wants to, she’s talking trimesters and morning sickness and the joy of her growing bust size and how she’s carrying it all at the front, which could mean a boy, and she’s saying aloud every single thing she was frightened to even feel. To this girl who used to hang out in her attic with her friends and Tom, playing music and arguing and calling him a dickbrain and every other suffix or prefix you could stick dick to. And there it was. A memory of a time when Tom was at his happiest and the girls were the key.

Francesca kisses her with the promise of returning on her break and then she’s gone and Georgie sits at the table, the greatest of relief overcoming her. As if she’s been holding her breath for so long.

She’s having a baby. Months or days don’t count anymore. It’s all about weeks now. Twenty weeks. Too late to change her mind. Too early to feel safe, but close enough.

“How bloody rude was that?” Tom says with disgust, staring at the bar where Francesca’s serving. “I mean, what if you had a fat gut and a bigger arse because you’d put on weight?”

“Oh, what a silver-tongued devil my nephew’s turned out to be.”

Lucia and her sister, Bernadette, are twenty-five minutes late. “Don’t be critical,” Lucia protests.

Georgie shrugs. “I would never get away with being twenty-five minutes late,” she says.

“Kids . . .”

“Give you an excuse to be late.”

“You have no idea. . . .”

“And it also gives you permission to say the words, ‘you have no idea,’” Bernadette says. “She was supposed to pick me up half an hour earlier.”

Lucia looks disgruntled, but then she spots the blackboard. “Since when have they had food here?”

“Six months. But only two choices.”

Tom comes out of the kitchen, and Georgie beckons him over again. He leans over to kiss Lucia and Bernadette.

“Why is there no vegetarian dish?” Georgie asks.

He shrugs. “I think the boss wants to do things slowly.”

Georgie sees Stani, and her hand goes up in a beckoning wave before Tom grabs it.

“Don’t call him over and tell him off about the menu,” he warns.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Tom. It’s ridiculous that there’s no vegetarian dish.”

“More ridiculous that you’re not a vegetarian. Sam’s been cooking protein all week.”

This seems to interest Lucia and her sister, who exchange a quick look that doesn’t go unnoticed by Georgie.

When he walks away, Lucia stares after him. “I don’t remember him looking that much like Dom. It’s freaky. How’s he doing?”

“Him or Dom?”

“Both.”

Georgie shrugs. “They all need to be together. They’ve never been good without one another.”

Lucia’s doing that probing stare thing. It’s part of her arsenal. Wearing Georgie down emotionally with an empathetic stare and then trying to sort out her life.

“So Sam’s cooking for you?”

Georgie doesn’t respond.

“No one’s being critical, Georgie.”

“Well, that pisses me off,” Georgie says angrily. “Seven years ago it was all fire and brimstone and everyone telling me to forget about him, and now . . . now I should give it a go. Would you, Lucia? Would you take Abe back?”

Lucia doesn’t respond for a long while and then sighs. “I don’t know what I’d do, Georgie. Probably what you did. Lose my mind a bit. Be angry forever. But things aren’t exactly the way you put it.”

No one ever dares say the words to Georgie, but she knows they want to. That it wasn’t behind her back. They were having a break, called by her. Because back then Sam was a bear with a sore head for so long, the time came when she said, “I want you to go, Sam. I want you to just work out what you want, because sometimes I don’t think it’s me.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” he had said with a sigh, getting into bed.

But she insisted on it. There was no talk of it being long-term or forever. In her heart she felt she was giving him the room he needed to work out whatever it was that was weighing him down. There was never any talk of them going out with others. Of having drinks on Friday night after work and sleeping with a colleague. Of starting a relationship, a five-minute relationship, that meant absolutely nothing to him. There was never any talk of Georgie finding out through the inner-west gossip network about the affair, or three months later finding out about the pregnancy. People said Sam’s hair went straight to gray after that bit of information, but nothing beat what it did to Georgie.