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mauled toy duck clutched between his teeth, her own personal version of a rose-bearing suitor. Bending to rub his ears and his back, she went through the usual routine of greeting: thrice repeating her queries as to who was the good boy, admiring the duck and making a token swipe to take it away, always a crowd pleaser.  She herded dog and duck back through the small carpeted hall to the living room, which they liked to call “open plan” but which was really a throwback to fifties architecture and a kitchen so small they’d had to divide the living space to build a new one. Throwing the sketchbook and her bag down on the kitchen counter, she dropped onto the smaller couch, a superbly uncomfortable brocade relic from Melissa’s student flatting days. Jeeves abandoned his coy courtship with the duck, jumped up beside her and leaned.
     
    “Honeys, I’m home,” Sophy said, and yawned hugely.
     
    From the plushy depths of the better sofa they’d bought two years ago, the one that had resulted in their eating cheese and vegemite sandwiches for dinner for the better part of a month, Melissa smiled at her.
     
    “The heroine of the hour returns,” she teased. “How are you feeling?”
     
    “And tell us,” said the lazy sprawl of lean muscle and impish grin at her side, holding up the morning paper. “Is it true that you single-handedly took on five masked assailants before succumbing to a grand mal seizure? Because considering that the closest I’ve seen you come to mortal combat is when that bee went down your dress at Christmas, I’m impressed. Truly.”
     
    Sophy yanked the cushion from behind her back, threw it at Dale’s head and quirked a brow at Melissa.
     
    “I thought you got rid of this pest months ago,” she said, grinning.
     
    “He can’t resist me,” her cousin replied, deadpan. She picked up the discarded cushion and smoothed it. Melissa lived by the gospel of the pick up, smooth, straighten, dust, wipe and polish. Sophy lived by a system of scrawled post-it notes to remind her to change the sheets and clean the bathroom once a week. She usually remembered to do the washing when she woke up and couldn’t find any clean underwear. They had so far managed to live together for four years without excessive homicidal impulses on either side.
     
    “I do feel her fatal fascination,” Dale agreed. “Or my radiator is shot and I need a lift to work.” His levity fell into an uncharacteristically solemn expression. “Seriously, though, Soph, you are okay?”
     
    “Seriously, I’m fine,” Sophy returned. “It’s always horrible when it gets that bad, but it turned out to be more embarrassing than anything.”
     
    “I don’t know,” said Melissa lightly, picking up her coffee mug. “I saw the footage on the news when I got home from the hospital last night. The hot security guy must have been a bit of a consolation.”
     
    Sophy choked on the finger of toast she’d just snitched from her cousin’s plate.
     
    “What?” she managed around a cough, licking a smear of margarine from her thumb. Jeeves leaned closer.
     
    “The sandy-haired cutie who looked like Tom Hiddleston.” Melissa made a noise of approval. “I totally would.”
     
    “Uh, ex-boyfriend. Right here,” Dale said dryly, and both women ignored him.
     
    “Oh. Right.” Sophy forced a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
     
    Casting around quickly for a new subject, she noticed that her cousin’s wavy blonde hair had gained four or five pink streaks since she’d left the hospital the previous evening.
     
    “Nice to see you were so prostrated with anxiety that you managed to dye your hair,” she said, snorting.
     
    “Done out of love, poppet, done out of love,” Melissa drawled unrepentantly. “Were you all right getting a lift home with Lisa this morning? I could have come and got you.”
     
    “No, it was fine. Lisa lives out by the medical centre anyway and she was heading in for a class at nine.” Sophy