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But then she stopped looking at her phone and the happy glow suddenly turned into a steady beat of rage, and as a result we’ve all been on edge. It has felt like something bad was going to happen for days, and by the look on Hillary’s face this morning, it now has, and it’s almost a relief. The state of my work life can match my insides, which have felt twisted and sick ever since Xavier left seven weeks ago.

Seven weeks.

We haven’t spoken at all.

This is what I wanted. I am safe. I didn’t get my heart broken. Except, clearly, I did. But it could have been worse. We were only together for a few days. He was never my boyfriend. It feels impossible now, but in several years’ time, if someone asks me about heartbreak, maybe I won’t even think of Xavier. This is what I tell myself when I am crying on the couch.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask Hillary now.

‘Jessica Wayfarer has pulled out.’

‘What?’ Jessica is one of our headliners, possibly the biggest name on the program. As well as appearing on a few panels, she’s giving a major address at the town hall on Saturday afternoon, which has sold out. She rose to fame with a bestselling memoir about navigating her husband and her son being diagnosed with cancer at the same time. (Both survived, and this is key to the book’s success I think, because otherwise it’s a completely different story.) Her new book is a novel about a woman who runs away from her life when it starts to fall apart, and she wrote it as a dark fantasy during the time when she was struggling with being a caretaker to everyone in her life.

‘She has shingles,’ Hillary says.

‘Shit.’

‘Shit indeed.’

Since the fated day when we had the three disasters in a row, we haven’t had any major authors or speakers pull out. We even managed to salvage both the poetry event (Lily Yates is appearing alone, and will discuss her plagiarism accusation in broad terms but won’t mention Felicity’s name) and the cookbook authors (they are still appearing on the panel together and so far on their promotional tour, the general public has not noticed their marital issues). We have not had to outright cancel a single festival session.

‘Do we cancel and refund?’ I say.

‘No. We’re paying for the hall and everything else, so we need to recoup the costs. We have to book someone else into that slot.’

‘Who is on our in-case-of-emergencies list?’ I say, knowing the answer is no one big. I haven’t sat down or even taken off my coat yet, and I drag it off as I’m talking.

Winter arrived early and quickly in Barwon Bay this year, and it has transformed the town in such a stark way. I wasn’t ready for it. Suddenly it’s dark and grey. The ocean is a stormy roiling mass, the shining blue of summer long gone. Grey clouds, rain and wind have transformed the beach into a wild place that needs serious preparation to be endured. If I want to walk on the beach, I need a beanie and a coat and scarf and gloves, and I need to be ready for rain and wind to hit my face with a savagery they don’t have anywhere else. The waves smash against the sand in a way that feels deliberate, overt, aggressive. If I want to actually go into the ocean—a prospect I never imagined I would keep up once Xavier left, but I have, meeting Kat for a swim three mornings a week in my wetsuit—I have to steel myself with a pep talk before I even get within a metre of the wet sand.

There are no tourists, and the streets are empty and quiet. It all feels extremely appropriate for my mood. Bleak, grey, unhospitable, alone. Perfect.

‘There’s no one,’ Hillary says now, sitting down at her desk.

Then, in a shocking move, she puts her head in her hands.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, standing up.

I’m terrified she’s crying. Embracing her bad mood is one thing, but crying? No. I cannot deal with that. Sometimes when I’m at home and crying about Xavier I imagine what Hillary would think of me, and it’s very useful in getting myself together. She is not a crier, and she abhors it in others. Goddamn it, how low has Graham dragged her? The men in this family!

She looks up and, thank god, there are no tears. She massages her temples.

‘I’m getting a migraine,’ she says.

‘I’ll get you some Panadol. Do you have anything stronger? Migraine meds?’ I haven’t known Hillary to get a migraine before.

‘No, I haven’t had a migraine in ten years,’ she says.

‘We’ll figure the session out. I’ll find someone,’ I say.

‘Someone won’t do. I need to fill the town hall for that session, or we’re in trouble.’ Her tone has a jagged edge to it she doesn’t often use with me, and I flinch.

Hillary must notice, because she sighs. ‘Look, it’s not just the festival,’ she says. ‘Things aren’t going well with Graham.’

‘I’m sorry. What did he do?’ I ask.

She continues to rub her temples. ‘I don’t want to get into it.’

He cheated again, I think.