Now, apparently, she had experienced real grown-up grief, for a woman called Gina.

“You were there,” said Elisabeth quietly.

“Pardon? I was where?”

“You saw Gina’s accident. You were driving along behind her. It must have been terrible for you. I can’t even imagine—”

“On the corner of Rawson and King streets?” interrupted Alice.

“Yes. Do you remember?”

“Not really. I think I just remember the feeling of it. It’s happened twice now that I’ve got all panicky, nightmarish feelings when I see that corner.”

Would those feelings stop now that she knew what they meant?

She didn’t know if she wanted to remember seeing someone killed in front of her.

They drank their milk in silence for a few seconds. Alice reached up for one of the dangling strings of the balloons and pulled upon it. She watched it bob about and remembered again those pink bouquets of balloons floating angrily about in a stormy sky.

“Pink balloons,” she said to Elisabeth. “I remember pink balloons and this terrible feeling of grief. Is that something to do with Gina?”

“That was at her funeral,” said Elisabeth. “You and Michael—that’s her husband—organized for balloons to be released at the graveyard. It was very beautiful. Very sad.”

Alice tried to imagine herself talking about balloons with a bereaved man called Michael.

Michael. That was the name on that business card in her wallet. Michael Boyle—the physiotherapist from Melbourne—must be Gina’s husband. That’s why he’d written about “happier times” on the back of his business card. It was all very simple.

“Did Gina die before Nick and I separated?” asked Alice.

“Yes. I think about six months before. You’ve had a pretty hard year.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Elisabeth.

“Don’t be.” Alice looked up guiltily, worried she’d look like she was filled with self-pity. “I don’t even remember Gina. Or the divorce.”

“Well, you’re going to have to see that neurologist,” said Elisabeth, but she spoke without conviction, as if she couldn’t be bothered pushing the point.

They sat in silence for a while, except for the intermittent gurgling sounds of the fish tank.

“Am I meant to be feeding those fish?” asked Alice.

“I don’t know,” said Elisabeth. “Actually, I think they’re Tom’s responsibility. I think nobody else is allowed to have anything to do with them.”

Tom. The fair-haired little boy with the snuffly voice on the phone. She felt terrified at the thought of meeting him. He was in charge of fish. He had responsibilities and opinions. All three children would have opinions. They’d have opinions on Alice. They might not even like her that much. Maybe she was too strict. Or maybe she embarrassed them. Wore the wrong clothes when she picked them up from school. Maybe they preferred Nick. Maybe they blamed her for driving Nick away.

She said, “What are they like?”

“The fish?”

“No, the children.”

“Oh—well, they’re great.”

“But tell me about them properly. Describe their personalities.”

Elisabeth opened her mouth and shut it again. “I feel stupid telling you about your children. You know them so much better than me.”

“But I don’t even remember giving birth to them.”

“I know. It’s just so hard to believe. You look exactly like yourself. I feel like any second you’ll get your memory back and then you’ll be saying, oh please, don’t tell me about my children.”

“For heaven’s sakes,” said Alice.

“Okay, okay.” Elisabeth held up her hands. “I’ll have a go. So, Madison, well, Madison is—” She stopped and said, “Mum would do a much better job of this than me. She sees the children all the time. You should ask her.”

“But what do you mean? You know my children, don’t you? I thought, well, I thought you’d know them better than anyone. You bought me my very first present for the baby. Tiny socks.”

Elisabeth had been the first person Alice had called after she and Nick had laid out all those positive pregnancy tests on the coffee table. She’d been so excited. She’d turned up with champagne (“For Nick and me, not you!”), a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and the socks.

Elisabeth said, “Did I? I don’t remember that.” She put down her mug and picked up a framed photo from the table next to her. “I used to see the children all the time when they were little. I adored them. I still do adore them, of course. It’s just that you’re all so busy. The children have so many activities. They’ve all got swimming lessons. Olivia has ballet. Tom plays soccer and Madison plays hockey. And the birthday parties! They’re always going to someone’s birthday party. Their social lives are amazing. I remember when they were little, I always knew exactly the right thing to get them for their birthdays. They’d rip off the paper in a frenzy. Now I have to ring you, and you tell me exactly where to go and what to ask for. Or else you just buy it yourself and I give you the money. And then you make the children send me a thank-you card. Dear Auntie Libby. Thank you so much for my blah blah.”

“A thank-you card,” repeated Alice.

“Yes. I know, I know, it’s teaching them good manners and everything, but I sort of hate those thank-you cards. I always imagine the kids groaning and having to be forced into writing them. It makes me feel like an elderly aunt.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No! I can’t believe I complained about thank-you cards. I’ve become a bitter old hag. Have you noticed?”

“It sounds more like I’ve become—” Alice didn’t know how to describe the person it seemed she’d become. Insufferable?

“Anyway,” said Elisabeth dismissively. “Your children. Well, Madison is just Madison.” She smiled fondly.

Madison is just Madison. There was a whole world of memories in that sentence. If that world were lost to Alice forever, it would be unbearable.

“Mum always says, ‘Where did we get her from?’” said Elisabeth.

“Okay,” said Alice. This really wasn’t helping much.