‘Maybe it’s worth a second shot. Take along some marzipan tart. And did you mention to her that we’re quite wealthy?’

Connie was the only one to notice that the visitor had quietly taken the opportunity to slide the photo back across the table and steal a second look.

Did you see that, Jimmy? I think our Sophie has an admirer.

24

It is a misty-grey Sunday afternoon and Sophie is driving down the freeway towards Brooklyn, practising not blushing.

On the car seat next to her is a freshly baked coffee and walnut liqueur cake in a Tupperware container and a bottle of expensive sauvignon blanc in a brown paper bag.

Sophie is going to lunch with Grace and Callum on Scribbly Gum Island, and she hasn’t felt this nervous about a social event, since, well, since Aunt Connie’s funeral the week before.

And it isn’t as though she can comfort herself with the thought that Aunt Connie’s funeral hadn’t turned out to be that bad after all. It turned out to be far worse than her worst imaginings. First of all there was the humiliating incident in the taxi when she decided that Grace’s husband was the father of her future children. Sophie makes pitiful ‘ouch’ sounds each time she remembers it. She tells herself again and again that there is no need to feel embarrassed. It’s not as if she threw her arms around him, crying, ‘My love, at last I’ve found you!’ So she imagined some non-existent chemistry. So what? Big deal! Happens to everyone! It is extremely unlikely he somehow guessed she was checking her watch so she could tell their future children exactly what time it was when they met.

She reminds herself that everyone has thoughts they wouldn’t care to share with the world. Many people have quite perverse thoughts about doing things with animals or fruit, or being spanked by nurses. The difference, of course, is that their thoughts are securely locked away behind bland faces, whereas Sophie’s are always in danger of being revealed to all in a sudden flood of colour.

Generally she is quite resigned to her blushing. If minor disabilities were being distributed, she would, for example, still choose blushing over a horrendous facial twitch like her old school friend Eddie Ripple had suffered. Blushing is just her thing. It’s like having an extraordinary sneeze. ‘I’m sorry I look like a tomato,’ she says to people. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not contagious.’

But she does not want a situation to develop where she blushes each time she sees a particular person, such as Callum Tidyman. If she blushes every time she sees him, people will most definitely notice and start to comment and assume she has a sweet little crush on him. It will ruin everything. She’ll feel sick each time she walks outdoors. The last time something like this happened was when she was fifteen and developed an automatic blush every time she saw the man who lived two doors down. Mr Fisk had a large moustache, a wife and three small children. He was not at all attractive. It was just that one day when there was a neighbourhood BBQ, Sophie was appalled to find herself eating her sausage sandwich and imagining what it would be like to have sexual intercourse with Mr Fisk! Mr Fisk’s dick! Mr Fisk’s moustache scraping against her upper lip! Naturally, it made her blush, and after that, just like Pavlov’s dogs salivating when the bell rang for dinner, Sophie blushed whenever she saw Mr Fisk mowing the lawn or washing his car, or talking to her dad about the cricket. It was a tremendous relief when the Fisk family moved to Adelaide.

So, this lunch is her opportunity to put a stop to any such neurotic behaviour with Callum. She will develop a friendship with both Callum and Grace, just like Aunt Connie had asked in her letter. Sophie is excellent at making new friends. She is quietly proud of this skill. If she can just get through those first few moments blush-free, she will be fine.

Of course, the problem with Callum might be the very least of her worries, because Sophie isn’t quite sure of the purpose of this lunch. There’s something a bit odd about it.

After Aunt Connie’s funeral was over, all she could think about was getting away as fast as possible. She couldn’t believe that she had ended up being late and having to make such a public entrance, and then, horror of horrors, sitting in the front row, with the family and next to Veronika, of all people, who had twitched and muttered for the next half-hour like someone with Tourette’s syndrome. Directly behind her was Thomas, with his wife Debbie and baby Lily on her lap. Sophie could feel Debbie’s eyes drilling triumphantly into the back of her neck, as if they had been involved in a competition for Thomas and Debbie had won. At one point Lily had reached forward and grabbed a handful of Sophie’s hair. ‘Sorry,’ Debbie had whispered, sounding not at all sorry as she dislodged Lily’s pudgy hand. Had she somehow trained her baby to pull Daddy’s ex-girlfriend’s hair?

After the funeral had finally ended she had talked to Enigma and Aunt Rose on the church steps, who had asked if she was coming to the afternoon tea.

‘We haven’t seen you in so long!’ said Enigma. Sophie had seen Veronika’s grandmother crying during the funeral but now she seemed quite cheerful, reapplying bright red lipstick as she spoke. ‘We’ve missed you! You must come back with us.’

‘I’m actually going to have to get back to work now,’ apologised Sophie.

‘You mustn’t worry about Veronika, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Enigma said. ‘She’s just sulking. She’ll get over it. She wasn’t smacked enough when she was a child. Were you smacked? I’m a great believer in smacking.’

‘Oh, all the time,’ lied Sophie. In fact, her mother had never even so much as raised her voice at her without later buying her a special treat to make up for it.

‘You’re very welcome to come along, dear,’ said Rose.

‘Connie would…yes, Connie…’ Her voice drifted off and she seemed to forget she was speaking, her pale eyes looking dreamily past Sophie as she leaned heavily on her walking frame, the turquoise of her dress glimmering richly in the sun. She was like an aging fairy princess.

‘I love the colour of your dress,’ commented Sophie. Rose had always been her favourite of the three old ladies.

Rose blinked and caressed the fabric. ‘Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The fabric is quite good quality too. This is my favourite colour. Once I…well.’ Rose looked around nervously, as if she’d forgotten her lines and was waiting for the prompt.