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him.’
    She opened her mouth wide, trying for shocked and hurt, but there was a sly look in her eye and I knew I’d hit the mark.

chapter four
    C hloe and I headed off to the writers’ festival in my pale blue ’67 Ford Futura. It was good to be driving The Beast again, zebra-patterned seat covers, dangling mirror ball and all, much more fun than the boring, innocuous Laser I used for work. I’d even added a new sticker to the bumper that read, in Western-style script, Country Music Is Not a Crime .
    It was another hot day and I was wearing my usual summer uniform of faded, ripped hipster jeans and a top with the sleeves cut off. My ‘Damn Right I’m a Cowgirl’ t-shirt was in the wash so I’d gone with ‘Save Water—Drink More Champagne’.
    Chloe, however, was a different story. A hint of competition and she’d pulled out the big guns. Platinum hair boofed at the roots and curled at the ends, two hours of makeup including individually applied false eyelashes, a double session at the solarium and even a new dress: a pink gingham baby-doll number cut so low you didn’t notice the belly because you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the cleavage. As usual she was tripping along on high heels, but in deference to the location had gone for cork platforms to minimise her chance of getting bogged.
    Yarra Bend was a huge swathe of parkland on the northern edge of the inner city right next to Clifton Hill, made up of grass ovals, bushy slopes and scenic bike paths. A broad, muddy stretch of the Yarra River twisted through it, lined with ghost gums and overhanging willows.
    I squeezed The Beast into a car park and we made our way across a sports field towards a cluster of canvas marquees. Melbourne folk loved festivals; there was about a dozen taking place at any given moment, and the ground was packed with people and dogs and kids. I smelled barbecued meat and heard amplified voices and the occasional burst of laughter and applause.
    I resolved to get out of the office more and into, like, nature and shit. Sean was back in less than twenty-four hours and, if everything went well, we could do stuff like this all the time. Like normal people. Speaking of normal, all the ordinary citizens were staring at Chloe like she’d just beamed down from the mother ship, but that was okay. She’d always been a rampant exhibitionist and got seriously perturbed when folks didn’t gawk. The one time she passed a building site and no one whistled she’d turned feral and screamed abuse at the construction workers.
    Nick’s session wasn’t scheduled to start for twenty-five minutes so we headed straight for the bar tent to take advantage of our VIP passes. Lord knew I was going to need some liquid encouragement if I had to sit still for an hour while three middle-aged blokes nattered on about the writing process, and also I had a feeling we’d find Nick there. I was right. He was at a white plastic table in a corner, sitting with Curtis Malone and two women I didn’t recognise. I waved, Chloe pretended she hadn’t seen Curtis, and we headed to the bar where she flirted with the waiter, waving around her laminated card, declaring it was her ‘back-door’ pass and that she was with the band.
    Nick pulled across a couple of chairs as we approached with our champagnes, and when I introduced him to Chloe I witnessed a massive triumph of will as he managed to keep his eyes on her face.
    ‘It’s so great to meet you, Nick,’ she said, jiggling as she talked, laying it on thick for Curtis’ benefit. ‘Simone’s told me all about you and I love your books.’
    Nick raised his eyebrows and looked pleased. ‘You’ve read them?’
    ‘No, but I saw them on TV! Cameron Davies was so hot as Zack.’
    Nick gave me a look and all I could do was shrug. He pointed to a woman on his left with shoulder-length, flicked-out blonde hair streaked with silver. ‘Simone and Chloe, meet Liz. She’s not only my publisher, she’s also my twin