Читать книгу Direct Action - J D Svenson - Страница 10

In the morning Cressida woke to someone banging on her door. It wouldn’t be Felipe because he had a key. Cressida yanked the windows shut against the hot air outside and squinted at the clock radio. Off. Oh for God’s sake, she thought, pulling on her cream silk dressing gown. Hadn’t someone sorted out the power yet? She padded across the floorboards to the front door and squinted through the peephole. Helena stood there, her curly brown-haired head dwarfed by enormous wraparound sunglasses.

‘Oh thank God,’ said her stepmother when Cressida opened the door, running into the flat and slamming the heavy timber behind her so hard the potplant next to it fell off the shelf. She did a lap of the loungeroom checking the windows were locked and fell on Cressida in a cloud of L’eau d’Issey. ‘The world’s ending, Cressida – you have to come home.’ She cupped her hands around Cressida’s face, her eyes wide. ‘Haven’t you heard? Terrorists. We’re under attack. Joan next door said she’d heard it was the electrical union. Quick, pack some clothing. What is your skirt doing in the hallway? Is someone else here?’ She peered out the window as if to look for terrorists running down the street, then hurried into Cressida’s bedroom and started hauling clothes out of drawers. ‘The police have said—’

‘Helena,’ Cressida cut her off. Rubbing her eyes, she began in her best low, firm voice, ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Cressida, haven’t you heard? On the radio. Terrorists have sabotaged three power stations. Three. That’s why there’s no power. We have to get out of here.’

‘What? Jesus,’ Cressida said, not sure whether to run in circles like Helena or go back to bed and pretend it wasn’t happening. Neither would be particularly helpful, she decided. Instead she carefully sat on her bed and picked up her phone, which of course was now flat, only a fancy slab of glass and plastic in her hand. She put it down and calmly flipped open her laptop. At least it was still charged. The Sydney Porsche dealership’s page was still open from yesterday, and she flicked from it to the Herald website. Then she remembered the modem would be dead. She stood up and found Helena’s handbag.

‘Your phone is still charged?’ she said, rootling.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Helena, digging through the bottom of Cressida’s wardrobe. She found a duffel bag and started throwing things into it. Cressida opened the settings function on Helena’s phone and switched on the wireless hotspot, groaning inwardly at the little blue circle while her laptop looked for the signal.

‘I’m just checking to make sure you have in fact gone mad …’

Ah. Five bars. Excellent. She clicked refresh on the page. Convulsively it loaded.

‘Ah,’ said Cressida. ‘Holy fuck.’

Terror Australis, the Sydney Morning Herald website blurted, in large white letters over a picture of flames and a close up of a firefighter in a gas mask. Overnight three major NSW power stations, servicing sixty percent of the Sydney metropolitan area, were destroyed by fire, she read. Police suspect terrorism …

‘Oh my God,’ she began. ‘This says …’

Then she realised she was about to say exactly the same thing Helena had. Maybe not the bit about the world ending, but at least the terrorist/power station part.

‘What do you think I’ve been telling you?’ Helena said, zipping the duffel. ‘Is that everything?’ She stood up, thinking. ‘I’ll go and pack some cans from your kitchen. We’ve got plenty at home, but you never know how long this is going to last …’

Cressida looked out the window, wondering why everything looked so normal. Her first thought was that at least the triathlon was off. Then she thought maybe it was odd to be thinking that at a time like this. There was something else. Then she remembered. Felipe. In seconds she was in motion, dropping her silk robe to the floor and pulling on shorts and a t-shirt, grabbing some sportswear from her bottom drawers, some undies and her hairdryer, her trenchcoat off its hanger. Oh God. The hairdryer. There was no power. She looked in the mirror. Despite all attempts to prevent it, her blowdry had been ruined by the rain, her normally buttery locks a puffy snakeskin mess. There was a wide headband on the dresser and she grabbed that, slipping it over her head and hair and tucking in the ends at the back so it looked like a turban. It would have to do.

‘Jesus, Cressida, don’t you eat canned food?’ she heard Helena exclaim from the kitchen. ‘All I can find here are dried mushrooms and diet drink powder. And about fifty kilos of carrots and celery in your fridge. What’s that?’ she asked, peering around the door jamb to the laundry where Cressida was wrestling a backpack off a high shelf.

‘My emergency pack,’ said Cressida, grunting. The heavy bag fell into her arms and she dragged it out to the kitchen like a corpse, leaning it up against a cupboard. She filled a glass from the sink.

‘No, don’t. You have to boil it. You have an emergency pack?’ said Helena, her voice holding a mixture of disbelief and approval.

Cressida unclasped the pack and pulled out a transistor radio from the top.

‘Sure. Don’t you? I think there are some purification tablets in here somewhere. What frequency’s the ABC?’ They both looked at each other as she tried the on button on the radio, sharing relief when the device burred into life. ‘Why do we have to boil it?’

‘133.5. No idea. Since when have you had an emergency pack?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, piling the vegetables from the fridge into a cloth bag as Helena watched. ‘I never thought I’d have to use it. I just liked packing it. Ah.’ She twiddled the dial on the radio and found the station, then turned the volume up. It was halfway through a bulletin warning them to stay away from train stations and shopping centres. They exchanged a look and Cressida swore and threw the tap water in the sink, then both of them ran into the hallway.

‘Can you take that?’ She pointed into her room at her laptop. ‘Wait a minute. Alessa. She was …’

‘Alessa’s fine,’ Helena said, touching Cressida’s arm. ‘She’s at home. Her plane got in yesterday afternoon. Not happy about the lack of hot water, of course, and her bags never turned up on the concourse. But other than that she’s fine.’

Alessa. Her sister, in town slumming it with the provincials. It was the obligatory fortnight in March and, as usual, or at least once the missing suitcases arrived, she would be fresh from a Singapore fashion mall in a new capsule outfit from some edgy new designer. Last time it was lots of leather and dangly earrings. Cressida looked down at her own ensemble. She’d have to change. Quickly she went to her room and shucked her shorts, slipping on instead the cream linen Leona Edmiston shift.

‘What are you doing?’ Helena said from the doorway.

‘A terrorist attack is no reason to look sloppy,’ she said, adding a pale silk scarf and her weekend pearls, yellow rather than eggshell. Quickly she applied tinted SPF and bronzer, three-second eyeliner and a dash of gloss, picked up the duffel and started herding Helena towards the door.

‘What about Dad?’

‘I know,’ Helena said and stopped, turning to her, eyes filling with tears. ‘I’ve tried ringing them all morning, but I can’t get through. I did once on the mobile and it went straight to voicemail.’ Her eyes were dark. ‘I guess they have contingencies for this sort of thing.’ Then she brightened. ‘Well. At least we know we don’t have to worry about Jerome. No need for power stations on ships.’

‘Yeah,’ Cressida snorted. Her brother had been on the Sea Shepherd for weeks. They’d have wall to wall solar, surely. Or was that hull to hull? ‘I guess not.’

When they opened the door the heat hit them like wind from a furnace, sweat stickying Cressida’s eyelids almost immediately. Helena held her handbag over her head against the sun’s blaze, took the duffel and ran towards the car. When she had popped the boot of the vast green Jag she ran back to take Cressida’s laptop.

‘Actually, Helena,’ Cressida said, lugging the backpack and the cloth bag of veggies into the boot of her Fiat, ‘we have to go via Felipe’s. I just want to check he’s okay. Hey – you’re looking a little peaky.’ She stopped and asked, ‘Are you alright?’

‘What? Oh. Yes.’ There was a pause and Helena lifted her sunglasses to wipe her eyes. ‘It’s just so awful,’ she said, looking up at Cressida. ‘I mean – what about the babies?’

‘The babies?’

‘You know. The ones in hospital. And the old people, on respirators …’

‘Oh Helena, yes,’ said Cressida, squeezing her into a hug. Children were usually first on her stepmother’s mind when anything happened. ‘Yes. I guess we don’t know what the damage is yet though.’ She tried to sound reassuring. ‘I remember Felipe once saying something about hospitals having backup generators. Anyway,’ she said, thumbing a stray tear from Helena’s cheek, ‘let’s pick up some ice on the way to your place, then we can have a cold drink.’ How long did servo ice fridges stay cold without power? ‘Then we’ll try and find a proper news bulletin.’

‘I’ve got some,’ Helena murmured, still distracted. Then her stepmother was looking up at her, small and scared.

‘Can I come with you?’

‘In my car? Of course.’

‘Oh but what about the Jag?’ she said, looking at the boot and then down the road. ‘Will it be safe here? There’s looters …’

Cressida looked uncertainly up and down the street. It was deserted, but the vast green vehicle was an eye-catching car.

‘You drive home and I’ll follow,’ she said, ‘then I’ll go and get Felipe by myself. It won’t take long.’

‘Are you mad?’ Helena said, grabbing Cressida’s hand, ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight. Besides, Leo would kill me if anything happened to you.’

Cressida doubted her father would have much of an opinion one way or the other, but knew it would hurt Helena’s feelings to say so, so she didn’t.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘How about you drive it to your place, then we both go in my car?’

‘Oh you’re so sensible, Cressida,’ Helena said, falling against her in a damp-eyed hug.

‘Come on.’ Cressida pushed her gently into the driver’s seat of the Jag. ‘Wait here while I go get mine.’

The Porsche still pending, Cressida’s current car was a two-door Fiat she had bought after seeing it at a popup at Bondi Junction Westfield. Tiny, white and bubble-shaped, the creamy red upholstery and little red badge on the boot had beguiled her pen onto the papers before the salesperson had even had to wave the brochure. The air conditioning had gone on the blink after the last service though and only worked with the fan at full blast now, but Cressida had come to enjoy sitting in its arctic gale. She tossed the bag in the back, plugged her phone into the cigarette lighter, and turned the radio on. There was a bottle of water in the footwell and she reached for it, unscrewing the top and gulping half. Warm, but good. So-o-o good. Well I’m sure the Porsche dealership will understand if I don’t turn up for my appointment, she thought, wiping her lips. Then another thought arose and she nearly spat out the mouthful. Oh God. The prostitute. The hotel room. She’d forgotten to ring them. Surely this counted as Act of God or something for the purposes of any cancellation fee. As she tailed Helena down the curve of Military Road, the burn of disappointment at last night’s deferral of the vote took up residence again in her stomach. Thank God that, other than Pip and briefly Felipe, she hadn’t told anyone about her application.

Driving down Campbell Parade was like passing through the main street of a ghost town. The usual passage of early morning joggers was absent, the beach deserted. An enormous armoured personnel carrier dominated the square outside the chicken shop, its occupants in full army fatigues directing traffic at the intersection under lights that flashed amber. Nearby, police in white overalls picked their way across broken glass outside the convenience store. It was startling to see the soldiers, as if war had arrived overnight.

Her stomach was rumbling. How was she going to keep the juice diet up now, without power for the machine? Fruit, she thought. Surely there’ll be a fruit shop open. But all three vendors along Bondi Road were shuttered. At Bondi Junction the traffic slowed to a crawl as more gloved traffic police directed cars around intersections. The same service was on every frequency on the radio, as if there had been some kind of government appropriation because of the terrorist attack, and the bulletin about avoiding high-density areas was on repeat. Then came a news bulletin that the power was expected to be out for at least a week, and her heart sank. That meant no partnership vote for at least a week. Damn. With these things, momentum was so important. More delay meant more time since her most recent achievements, making them dim in their minds. Then as she slowed for the turnoff to Carrington Street it occurred to her that the power stations might even be owned by a Hannes Swartling client. If they were, she realised, it would be all hands on deck – and none of the Partners would be the least bit interested in her little application.

The road to Bondi Junction Westfield was blocked by enormous orange bollards, and further down, a phalanx of black-clothed officers lined the street down to the shopping centre. They wore hard hats and balaclavas, their bodies a bristle of artillery and communication devices. Ahead of her she watched Helena pick her way carefully through the traffic, her small head dwarfed by the matronly stretch of the back of the car. It had been her father’s car, before, and Cressida hated that Helena still drove it. On every road trip it broke down, and seemed to need its own rest stop and milkshake in the shade every two hours. But Helena said driving it made her feel closer to Leo. The car was in fact a lot like him, Cressida thought: big and showy, but, well, hopeless when it came to the most important things. Being there, for example. She had seen photos of herself in it as a child, a small serious face against its white bench seat under the crook of her mother’s arm, her mother a smiling blonde face behind the moulded steering wheel. They’d gone everywhere in it in those days. The good days, before the investigators arrived. To the beach, the drive-in, the seaside cafes her father had loved to frequent on his rare days off from the firm. In his little straw fedora he’d lope up from a swim in the ocean, his tasselled towel slung over one shoulder, and sit and talk to the old fellows in Greek while the four of them ate fish and chips spread on the table from the shop next door. Her stepmother would do the crossword in the paper. She, Jerome, Alessa and Helena. And before that, of course, her mother. Screw the crossword, Peggy would sit right on Leo’s lap as he drank his short black, laughing and making kind fun of her husband in the heavy, rich language Cressida couldn’t understand, that embarrassed as well as intrigued her.

Ahead of her, the Jag stalled at an intersection, making cars behind her honk and drive around them both. As Cressida swung into the driveway and parked under the smooth-barked apple tree, she decided she had to tell her stepmother once and for all that the Jag had to go. Those days were gone now, and so should everything that went with them. She watched Helena push the heavy car door shut with difficulty and walk round to the passenger side of the Fiat, dabbing her face with her scarf.

‘Ai,’ said Helena, angling herself into Cressida’s passsenger seat. ‘Did they have to kill our airconditioners on the hottest day of the year? An iced tea. That’s what I need. If only I could get an iced tea.’

‘You should get rid of that car you know, Helena. It’s a liability.’

‘What? Oh. Yes. I know, I stalled it back there,’ she said, taking off her sunglasses and wiping sweat from her eyelids with her leopard-print scarf.

‘It’s an expensive piece of junk. I mean, what’s the yearly petrol consumption on that thing? Enough to take you to Europe twice a year, I imagine.’

‘Oh Cressida,’ her stepmother said, giving her a sympathetic smile as she put her sunglasses back on. ‘You know why I keep it. Imagine how your father would feel, finally getting out of gaol to find we had sold it. It’s only in a few months, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. That was a whole other thing she didn’t want to think about.

Helena sighed. ‘You know Cressida, he really …’

The front door to the house opened and her sister Alessa stepped out, wearing a pair of Helena’s swimmers and a towel.

‘Oh thank God. What took you so long?’ she said, flapping a pale manicured hand. ‘What on earth is that on your head? Come on, come on – you’re letting all the heat in.’

Cressida’s hand went self-consciously to her scalp. Oh, the headband. Quickly she pulled it off and shook out her hair, immediately regretting it when she looked in the rearview mirror. Fluffy was an understatement.

‘We’re about to go and pick up Felipe,’ Helena was explaining. Then she turned, stricken by a sudden thought. ‘Cressida, hang on – you haven’t had breakfast.’

Cressida laughed. Mother to her core.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, putting the Fiat in reverse. ‘I’ll have something when I get back. Are you sure you don’t want to wait here? It’s so hot.’

‘Felipe can wait,’ Alessa called, declaratively. ‘The toilet’s flooded.’

‘Oh God,’ Helena groaned, putting her face in her hands.

‘Jesus,’ Cressida said, and turned off the car.

‘Plus I need Cressida’s laptop,’ her sister added.

Cressida sighed and hauled her bag from the back seat of the car, collected the vegetables and the backpack while Helena took the duffel, and mounted the steps to greet her sister.

‘Alessa,’ she said, leaning in to kiss the cheek held out to her. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘And you.’

With its high ceilings and tall windows cloaked in heavy curtains, the three-storey Federation was always an oasis of cool in hot weather. Helena had just had most of its six-bedroom expanse repainted in Santorini colours, all Mediterranean blue and blinding white, but in the lounge off the entranceway, everything was still her mother’s: the pale walls and muted grey carpet, the metal and porcelain fittings and accessories, the Gauguin print over the couch. It made Cressida feel serene just being near the things Peggy had chosen. Even Alessa wasn’t going to make her feel tense today, she decided. That was the game they always played with each other anyway – who could be the more offhand, the more detached, the more smoothly critical of the other, while affecting a demeanour of total innocence. To date it was a game that Alessa always seemed to win.

Looking in at the marble ground-floor bathroom though, Cressida felt anything but serene. Thankfully there was no actual physical contents in the toilet bowl, but the water was up to the rim. Did plumbing fail during a blackout?

‘I’ll deal with that when I get back,’ she said. ‘Helena, it’s really better if I go get Felipe on my own. Alessa, how was your flight?’

‘It was a flight,’ said Alessa with flat humour, subsiding into the white reproduction Eames chair next to the kitchen. The lushly upholstered fifties icon with its moulded plywood framework and matching Ottoman, on which her sister’s mauve painted toenails currently reclined, had been her father’s favourite, and Cressida was surprised to feel a fizz of resentment to see her sister sitting in it. It didn’t help that the chair’s curved white headrest was reminiscent of the fancy Partner chair Cressida had seen in Alessa’s office when she’d videocalled her at work in Singapore.

‘They even had a decent wine list,’ Alessa was saying, scrolling distractedly through her phone. ‘Of course you never know with Qantas. I always fly Emirates, but they’ve cut their direct to Sydney. Not a big enough market in Australia apparently.’

‘How tiresome for you,’ Cressida said, finding two glasses in the cupboard. ‘You know I’d turn that off if you want it charged when you need it. Helena, sit down and I’ll make you a drink. Oh. Does anyone realise there’s a pond around the refrigerator?’

‘Oh!’ said Helena. ‘I cleared it out last night! Must be from the freezer defrosting. Damn …’

‘It’s alright, I’ve got it.’

Cressida found two towels in the pool ensuite and threw them on the floor to soak up the water. ‘Helena, have you got any fruit? Oh.’ Beside the kettle was a thick, textured envelope, an ampersand brand name scored on one corner in pale, embossed lettering. ‘The samples arrived.’

‘Yes!’ Helena said, smiling. ‘I thought I’d leave that for you to open.’

Cressida glanced at Alessa, weighing it up. To open them now and risk her sister’s reaction, or hold on until later when she could open them in private? She swallowed. ‘You got the esky out,’ she continued, picking up a bottle of soda and opening it with a fizz. ‘What a good idea.’ She poured two glasses and added ice.

‘I know, can you believe it? I got the last bag of ice at the service station this morning,’ Helena said, getting up. ‘It was bedlam. People were queuing for petrol halfway down the block. Quick, open it.’ She grinned, with clear excitement. ‘I want to see them.’

‘See what?’ said Alessa, still looking at her phone.

‘Cressida’s …’ Helena began, but Cressida silenced her with a look.

‘Just some paperwork,’ said Cressida, delivering the drinks. Alessa eyed her for a moment, but returned to the screen in her hand. Back at the kettle, with careful nonchalance Cressia sliced open the envelope and tipped it up. The contents fell out successively into her hand: invitation, wishing well insert, RSVP, place card, bridal registry card. All white with wide pink stripes, layered with embossed black print and a silver love-heart motif. The sample invitation was triple folded and sealed with a double layer of real wax. So crisp and flawless. Expensive. Behind her Helena had come to stand at her shoulder. On seeing them she let out a sigh.

‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘They’re lovely.’

They were. Brimming with the promise of all things sought for. Perfection. Love. Wealth. Children. Despite what she’d said to the Partners, and even Felipe. Cressida glanced behind at Helena and saw that her eyes were damp.

‘This would never happen in Singapore,’ Alessa was saying. ‘There are blackouts all the time and people just cope. Cressida, your laptop?’ she said, getting up. ‘I have to send an email before 10am.’

‘It’s in my bag,’ Cressida said. ‘Don’t you have a spare battery?’

Too late though. Alessa was at her shoulder.

‘Yes, I have a spare battery. Yes, it’s also flat. Oh God, Cressida, pink. That’s so two years ago.’ She returned to her seat. ‘It’s all Tahitian seafoam at the moment, didn’t your wedding stylist tell you? God I’m parched. I can’t cope with this dry air.’ She held her face up to spritz on something from a small silver canister, then fanned her face with the boarding pass.

‘I’m surprised to hear you know anything about it,’ Cressida said, quietly. ‘I don’t see you getting married any time soon.’

Alessa looked at her, deadpan, and Cressida held her gaze.

‘Cress …’ said Helena.

‘And what the hell is Tahitian seafoam, anyway?’

‘You know, blue. Bluey green,’ Alessa said, eyes still locked on Cress’s. ‘Tiffany colour.’ She sighed, then looked down at the phone again. ‘You do have a wedding stylist, don’t you?’

A stylist? thought Cressida. It’s eighteen months out from the wedding and I don’t even have a dress. Her stepmother kept making jokes about her getting cold feet. It wasn’t that; there just hadn’t been time to look at designs, much less get one made. It was a crucial decision. At least the honeymoon was sorted. She’d finally managed to persuade Felipe to do something a bit interesting – he’d wanted a month in Europe looking at architecture, followed by skiing in Switzerland, but she’d convinced him to build in two weeks in Fiji. There was an orphanage Helena helped sponsor there and she was going to volunteer. She was really looking forward to that part, at least.

‘Alessa, hush,’ Helena said, giving Cressida’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘They’re lovely. Cressida, you wanted fruit? There’s some on the sideboard. Don’t you think it’s just awful?’ she said to Alessa, perching on the Lexington two-seater opposite. ‘What were these people thinking? Oh thank you, what’s this?’ She took the canister from Alessa. ‘Elderflower water. What, do I just spray it on like this?’ She squirted it cautiously, then laughed as some landed in her eye. ‘Cressida, here, have some of this, it’s wonderful!’

‘No thanks,’ Cressida said, wrestling the laptop out of its bag. ‘Here you go,’ she said, dumping it on Alessa’s lap. She inspected the bowl of fruit on the table. Of what was there, apples were the lowest GI. She took one and bit into it, closing her eyes and savouring the crunch. Fibre really had something going for it, she thought, wishing she didn’t let Alessa get her so riled.

‘Where’s the “on” button?’ Alessa said, peering at the keyboard.

‘Oh sorry,’ said Cressida, flicking it. ‘I thought you’d know.’

‘Mine has biometrics.’

‘Oh you two, it’s too hot,’ Helena said, flapping her hand in front of her face and holding the drink to her cheek.

Cressida flipped open her backpack, pulled out the transistor radio from the top and turned it on. Still music. I guess they can only say the same thing so many times, she thought.

‘Alessa, what are you doing sending an email anyway?’ Helena continued. ‘You’re meant to be on holiday.’

‘Yeah tell that to the Americans,’ Alessa said, rolling her eyes and finding the wireless hotspot function on her phone. ‘We’re doing the carve-out of Weibo in an IPO and I’ve got to get this to the board of directors before they meet at ten.’

‘The what of what? Hey I don’t think the internet’s working, you know.’

Alessa rolled her eyes. ‘What’s known as a corporate float to you. Of course, I left all this with Antonio,’ she said, airily. Presumably that was some minor underling at her firm, Cressida thought; she’d heard her mention him before. A ‘minor underling’ Senior Associate, same pay rate as her. ‘But you never know with those boys,’ Alessa continued. ‘I like to keep an eye on them. Cat’s away and rats playing and all that. And it’s, you know, a multi-billion-dollar deal, so it has to be done exactly right.’ She sighed, smiling blandly.

‘I thought that was what they were paying you for,’ Cressida said. ‘To get it right.’

Alessa looked at her. ‘I’m sorry? They are, and that’s why I just said I’m keeping an eye on them. What, aren’t I allowed to have a couple of weeks off once a year?’

‘No, I’m not saying that,’ Cressida said with a sigh. ‘I just mean, it just seems a bit unfair to leave a junior doing all the work and not giving them any recognition for it.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Alessa said flatly. ‘That’s the way the system works. You work like a demon for fifteen years – or in my case, eight,’ she said, ‘make pots of money for the firm and see hardly any of it, and then you get rewarded. That’s what Dad did, that’s what I’m doing, and so, by the way, is Antonio. Just on that,’ – she paused to sip her drink – ‘how are your partnership aspirations going? Getting a bit long in the tooth for an SA, aren’t you? Having a bit of trouble making the grade?’

Cressida bristled, inwardly counting to ten.

‘Yeah well,’ she began, ‘it’s easier for people at outer Alpha Centauri, like you. Where there’re no other contenders.’

Alessa opened her mouth to respond, but Helena cut in.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ her stepmother said, smiling and shaking her head at them both with frank admiration. ‘Both of you. All I have to manage every day is a handful of sweet little children, and that’s enough to send me spare. Oh,’ she sighed, looking out to the backyard, ‘we were meant to be going to the pool on Monday. I’ll have to put a sign up. They’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. Do you think they’ll have the power back on by then? How will they cope in this heat, without the air conditioning?’

‘Same way we are, I guess,’ Cressida said, dropping her gaze from Alessa, who returned hers to the computer screen. ‘With a lot of ice cubes.’