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This Graham thing has spooked me. He thinks he’s in an epic love story, but Hillary just wants a bit of fun. Graham is my cautionary tale. I cannot be a Graham right now. I have been Graham, when I was with Caleb. I am never going to be Graham again. I need space, physical space, from Xavier. I need to get my head clear.

‘Perfect,’ she says. ‘And forget about my Graham situation. I don’t want you to worry about that.’

‘I’m not,’ I assure her.

‘It’s a slip-up. A regression. A nostalgia thing.’

‘That makes sense.’

‘A physical thing, like I said.’

‘I remember.’ I will never forget, unfortunately.

‘It’s really not serious.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes. Good. Why good, from your perspective?’

‘I just mean, whatever you want is good.’

‘I think he’s just bored. Maybe he’s getting senile. Maybe I am.’ She purses her lips.

‘We have to be strong and remember the lessons we’ve learned from the past,’ I say, only realising I said we after I said it, and hoping that Hillary doesn’t pick up on it.

‘Yes. My god. If I haven’t yet learned all the lessons I can learn about being with Graham Sullivan, then god help me.’

‘Unless he’s changed,’ I add. ‘Can people change?’

Can I change, is what I am actually thinking. Am I changed, or is it just hair dye and a new wardrobe and a new setting? Am I still destined to make the same mistakes I made in the past?

‘People can change, but most people don’t,’ Hillary says. ‘And Graham was never one to work on himself. He hasn’t changed. Here’s hoping I have.’ She shakes her head.

Here’s hoping I have too.

32

‘CHARLOTTE!’ MUM YELLS from the kitchen, when I open the front door. It’s Sunday night, and I drove here straight from the office, with a quick stop at home to get an overnight bag. Xavier and Rex both watched on, concerned, as I packed. I assured Xavier nothing was wrong. Hillary told me to take a few days off, I’m way overdue to see my parents, and they’ll come here if I don’t go there. Which is true.

‘You’re freaking me out a bit. Is this about what happened with us?’ he had asked.

I shook my head, and kissed him quickly, promising to be back soon, and that we’d pick up where we left off.

What I haven’t mentioned to either Hillary or Xavier is that it’s my birthday on Wednesday. My parents, I know, would probably show up at my house for a birthday surprise if I didn’t see them, so this really is the best option. Get the visit and the birthday celebration out of the way in one move and also, as a bonus, escape Xavier, get some space between us, let the heat out of the situation. In two days, I might not even find him attractive anymore. It might have just been a small-town thing. I need to walk around Melbourne, go to an event, get on a tram, find a place where there is a high probability of seeing attractive men (a gym, running around the Tan, a bookshop, a bar?) and I’ll see that Xavier is only extremely hot relative to his environment. He’s a small-town ten, and a big-city five. That’s what I’m telling myself. And maybe that applies to the sex too. Maybe a ten in sex in a small town is just a five here. I think back to sex with Caleb. Compared to Xavier, that was mostly a four. Occasionally, a decent six and a half or possibly a seven.

‘Hi Mum,’ I say, walking into the kitchen and kissing her cheek and then dumping my bag in my room.

The reason I don’t visit much is this room. The scene of my darkest moments. Can a room haunt you like a ghost? Because this is my ghost. The place of my grimmest thoughts and worst months after losing my job and getting dumped. The bed I couldn’t get out of, the cupboard filled with clothes I hated, the ceiling that felt like it was closing in on me, the window that looked out on a busy road. The deep shame I felt here. I was the child my parents had never had to worry about. My brothers were the ones always getting injured, making mistakes, failing uni subjects, running out of money. And, suddenly, I was home and unemployed, and they were working and living it up in Berlin.

Mum is panic-baking me a birthday cake, I can see. She is not a good baker. It was a family joke growing up—she would make Dad do our childhood birthday cakes, picking one from the Women’s Weekly classic birthday-cake book, the train, the swimming pool, the castle, the duck. Then she would feel guilty about not doing the cake herself and announce that this year, she was baking everyone’s cake, and it would always be chaotic. Today, she’s standing in the kitchen, flour on her cheek, her hair in a messy bun, frowning at a recipe on the iPad.

‘Mum, I don’t need a cake,’ I say.

‘Well, you’re getting one, darling. If it kills me, you’re getting one.’

‘Can I help?’

‘Nope, I’m halfway through. I’m on a roll,’ she says.