‘Thirty,’ says Sienna.
‘That’s daylight robbery. You’re thirteen!’
‘You value me less because of my age?’
‘No, no, but …’ Roddy splutters, unable to think in the fug of heat.
‘I’m nearly fourteen anyway,’ she says irritably. ‘And it’s worth at least twenty-five an hour for me to touch your crappy car. Plus, Mum says you’re loaded.’
‘It’s not crappy. It’s a vintage Fiat 500, which is very collectible. And twenty-five is pretty steep.’ Roddy remembers his teenage dreams about owning this exact model of car, so that on his graduation day he would drive away from those school grounds he hated; away from the popular kids who laughed at his clumsiness and his weight. He used to imagine driving off to a fancy job in the city, building amortisation tables or modelling risk scenarios, or maybe trading stocks alongside shouting brokers and flashing monitors with all the beautiful people—oh, the amazing life that had awaited him. Things didn’t turn out all that differently to what he pictured—he finished his accounting degree and now manages high net worth portfolios from the comfort of his couch—but when he looks at Sienna, he can still feel the waves of angry teen confusion that had once tried to drown him too.
‘Twenty. My final offer,’ she says.
Roddy’s phone beeps again. Another text from Lottie.
When can you come? Need to talk.
What is Lottie’s rush? Worry begins to creep over him. He will call her as soon as he drops Sienna off. He starts the engine, pondering the text.
‘Well?’ says Sienna.
‘Sure. Twenty. Fine.’
Sienna picks up a letter in his centre console and examines it. ‘Is your namereallyRoderick Snodbaker?’
He nods distractedly as another text buzzes on his phone.
‘What’s your middle name, then?’
‘Eugene,’ he murmurs, reading the text.
‘Wow. That’s rough. Your parents really hated you.’
He looks at her blankly, then turns his attention back to his phone. The text is from Mary, his aunt. About Phyllida. He runs his eyes over the words, scrolling down the screen, tripping across sentences, skipping all the way to the end.
‘Fuck,’ he whispers.
‘Language!’ says Sienna. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m still a kid.’
5
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
It’s only a ten-minute walk to the bookshop, but it’s already unusually warm for a Highlands’ summer morning and I have no desire to get sweaty, which is how I justify driving to work. And anyway, you never know when the van might be needed. These days we don’t seek out much stock, but now and then a lawyer Phyllida knows will get in touch, asking her to come and assess a book collection from a deceased estate. Or a collector gets sick and needs to offload their collection in a hurry. The van is handy on those days.
These aspects of running the shop fill me with a jittery sensation; an anxiety that I haven’t felt since I was facing my end-of-year exams in second-year law school, just before I dropped out. That sense of personal incompetence and a future brimming with the type of disaster I could probably have avoided if only I had paid more attention.
I’m running late because I overslept then couldn’t work out what to wear (I landed on bold to stave off depression: faded vintage T-shirt with a beach print, swirly patterned skirt, retro sneakers, pink acrylic hoop earrings). But it’s now after ten and my mind is scrambled. I need to talk to Roddy. I’m so grateful we have both ended up moving home to the Highlands at the same time, although Roddy is living in Bowral, fifteen minutes away, suffering through summer in Donna’s backyard hotbox.
The massive influx of tree-changers since Covid has killed some of Bowral’s country-town charm, but here in Brookbank we’ve been saved by the heritage planning laws and the protected forests that prevent the village from expanding.
I park behind the row of shops between the gaol and the bookshop. The old sandstone gaol was decommissioned decades ago and now hosts specialty shops. It’s beautiful, with its yellow block walls aged with algae and its massive stone entrance flanked by curved pillars. I walk past the fourteen-foot perimeter wall and run my fingers along the dozens of birdlike pick and chisel marks made by convicts as they quarried the sandstone from the earth. It’s impressive, if you don’t think too hard about the way they must have been heaved here by starving men with iron shackles around their ankles.
I head towards the old granary, the sandstone building next to the gaol that houses the bookshop. Ian Binder, one of the real estate agents in a nearby office, falls into step with me.
‘Morning, Lottie,’ he says. He smiles a little sadly. ‘Sorry to hear about Phyllida’s stroke. How’s she doing?’
