Sitting beside Ana, on a matching wicker deckchair angled in such a way as to encourage conversation between the two people occupying them, is the wrong man.
If I told him, she wonders, would it ruin my life?
She opens her mouth and closes it again. Picks up the glass of riesling to her right and takes a sip. This moment is almost perfect. The southern New South Wales sky is fairy-floss pink and a warm breeze tickles her hairline. It’s starting to smell like summer – citronella and faraway traces of backburning. The kids are at their grandparents’ until seven. Billy, the dog, is curled up beside her, waiting for dinnertime. She lives in the house with the swimming pool and the French doors and the deck looking out onto dense bushland, just like she’d always wanted. The deck he’d built with his calloused hands. She looks down at the dark timber panels.
Him.
The foundation upon which her whole life has been built. He’d tell her that if you muck around with the foundations of anything, the structure will collapse. And you’ll have to start again. ‘Not very efficient,’ he’d mumble, before climbing into his truck to tear down a perfectly beautiful cottage to make way for a lifeless monstrosity.
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