Stepping into the shower, and applying gel to her shoulders, Elodie wondered why they were giving away so many things. It was odd. Could they be buying friendship? She knew from her work how lonely and desperate old people can become, and the two sisters were in their eighties.

“Don’t let them scare you”, had said a laughing Emmy Walling. How appropriate was that! At any rate their reconnoître in Mrs Proctor’s Magic Teashop had ended rather flatly, despite the delayed but vibrant arrival of Shannon and Matthew Right.

He of course had been fantastic. It seemed he could converse with anyone about anything. He was handsome and fit. Both were going horse riding in the Southern Highlands on Saturday. Matthew, the erstwhile or otherwise lawyer, had gained a keen interest in hobby farming, and had just purchased a larger property near Bundanoon.

“So,” surmised Elodie, sensing and rinsing waffs of jojoba and passionfruit from her breasts, “This weekend Matthew and Shannon will be riding real horses,” and once again became sceptical of the mechanical ones prophesied for her by Mrs Proctor.

She let the water’s warmth stream down her face and neck, recalling that when she had finally left town last night, her mind had been in turmoil, and it was indeed a welcome relief seeing the retreating neon-lit cityscape in her rear vision mirror as she passed over the Anzac Bridge, and pushed her way through traffic along Victoria Road.

But the beginning of the Easter long weekend trip had been murderous. The road was busy. Impatient drivers were passing her, weaving through all three lanes, flashing their headlights, one even making an unseemly gesture, so that she was glad to escape up the ramp off the main road in the wake of a local bus, though at the turn it mounted the kerb, and belched a bombful of smoke that enshrouded the car.

Now, adjusting the exhilarating streams of hot water, Elodie zealously soaked her shoulders, recalling that yesterday, in the Beamer, under the stars, and a cloud of soot and carbon monoxide, she had wanted to scream, but instead, coughed and spluttered, piercing her way into the darkening night, and finally arriving at the entrance leading into Belle Isle. There her momentary respite had been shattered by an enormously luminous For Sale sign, which must have been erected that very day. It had the usual spin such as: ‘manicured lawns’, and ‘spacious living areas’, plus a list comprising five large bedrooms, two bathrooms, a study, summer kitchen, tennis court, in-ground pool, and an ‘adjoining stone cottage’ that would ‘suit the in-laws’.