“Yes?”

“Angie said she remembers seeing the three of you outside her flat. You’re not planning on stalking her, are you?”

Gemma felt the tips of her ears become mildly warm. “That was a one-off.”

“Good. Because she’s still my little sister. Even if she does stupid things.”

“Well. Yes.” A spark of embarrassed resentment.

She wore a pair of Charlie’s jeans for the ride up to North Head. At each set of lights he put one hand back and caressed her leg. She squeezed her thighs around his hips and the top of her helmet clunked romantically against his. At North Head they found a space among the crowds for their blanket and cheered as the ocean became a frothy highway of busily zigzagging yachts, their sails blossoming in the breeze.

“Doesn’t get better than this, does it?” said a man sitting next to them.

“Well, it could do,” began Gemma thoughtfully.

“No, mate, it doesn’t,” interrupted Charlie, and he put his hand across her mouth, like an elder brother. She’d always dreamed—somewhat incestuously—of a lovely, protective, bossy older brother.

Once the boats had disappeared off the horizon, they went for a snorkel on Shelley Beach. It was a glimmery, hazy hot day and the water was dappled green. They saw darting shoals of tiny, iridescent fish and sleepy cod slithering mysteriously in and out of rocky hiding places. The rhythmic kick of Charlie’s flippers created clouds of translucent bubbles and Gemma thought, At this particular moment, I am entirely happy. She felt his hand on her shoulder and lifted her head and trod water. He pulled his snorkel from his mouth and pointed downward, his animated face squashed by his mask, like a ten-year-old. “Giant stingray!” Then he shoved his snorkel back into his mouth and dived down deep to see it. Gemma followed him and swallowed a gigantic mouthful of salt water when she saw the size of the alien creature flapping its way along the sandy bottom.

Afterward, when they were making banana smoothies in the cool of Charlie’s kitchen, she said, “Have you always lived in Australia?”

“Apart from when I was twenty—I lived in Italy for nearly a year, with my mum’s family.” He scooped ice cream into the blender. “They come from a little village in the mountains on the east coast of Italy. I’ll take you there one day. My aunties will try and feed you up and my cousins will try and feel you up. Ha.”

He was always doing that—talking as if they had a future.

Gemma watched him press the button on his blender. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

“You know what’s funny about you?” she said suddenly. “It’s like you’re always on holiday. You’re like a tourist. A happy one.”

(When Charlie got dressed, he sort of jumped into his jeans or shorts. She didn’t tell him that. She didn’t want him to get self-conscious about it, or stop it.)

“That’s because I’m with you. That’s the effect you have on me.”

“No it’s not. I bet you’re always like that. I bet you were born like that. One of those fat, gurgly little babies. Baby Charlie!”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I wasn’t even called Charlie. My real name is Carluccio. It was my friend Paul who started calling me Charlie. Have I told you about him?”

Something about the expression on his face made Gemma think, Uh-oh, he’s about to share. It was lovely of course, but she had a terrible habit of laughing in the wrong places when boyfriends got profound.

She tried to look meaningful. “No. Tell me.”

Charlie handed her a tall frothy glass.

“He lived across the road from me. I don’t even remember meeting him, he was just always there. We did everything together. You know the sort of adventures kids have together. Going places on our bikes. Finding stuff. Building stuff. Anyway. When we were fifteen, Paul died.”

“Oh!” Gemma just managed to stop herself from dropping her smoothie. “Oh dear!”

“He died of an asthma attack in the middle of the night. His mum found him, with his inhaler still in hand. Teenage boys don’t handle grief very well. The day of his funeral I punched a hole in my bedroom wall. My knuckles bled. My dad plastered it up and gave me a little pat on the shoulder.”

“Poor, poor Charlie.” She could just imagine his shattered, boyish face.

“It’s O.K., no need for violins. Drink your smoothie, please. The thing about Paul was that he was always so enthusiastic about things. I was the laid-back one, the one who was hard to impress. He was always saying, Oh man, that’s so cool! He’d see a blue-tongued lizard and he’d be down on his hands and knees with his eyes bulging just like the Crocodile Hunter and I’d be like Yeah, yeah’, but secretly just as excited. When he was gone, I really missed that. So, one day, I decided, I’d pretend to be like Paul. When I saw a good movie or caught a great wave, I’d say to myself, Oh man, Charlie, that’s so cool! It was like I was wearing one of Paul’s old shirts. At first I was faking it, just to feel better. But then I wasn’t faking it anymore. It was like a habit. So, blame Paul. He gave me my name and my personality.”

“Lovely name. Lovely personality.”

Charlie drained his glass and peered at the bottom as if he was trying to find something.

“What about your fiancé who died?” he asked, without looking at her. “That must have been pretty bad.”

“Yes, it must have been,” said Gemma, imagining how Charlie must be imagining her, young, in love, devastated. “I mean, yes, it was.”