She couldn’t give Cat that miscarriage book. She’d sneer at her. Make some contemptuous remark. Make her feel like an idiot. The other day when she asked, “Who’s got Maddie?” her eyes were so hard and hate-filled, Lyn had felt herself flinch.

Dan. Something wasn’t right there. It didn’t matter what Gemma said, he was still seeing that girl. She could see it in his face. He looked right through them all. The Kettles didn’t matter to him anymore.

Around and around she went. The “exit” signs disappeared completely to be replaced by cheerful “more parking this way” arrows.

Gemma looping her hair around her finger. They all laughed at Gemma but—well, was she normal? At school she was the smartest of the three of them. “Gemma is extremely bright,” Sister Mary told Maxine, who had looked quite baffled. “Gemma?” And now Gemma seemed to be frittering away her entire life like a sunny Saturday morning.

NO EXIT. STOP. GO BACK.

This had to be a joke. There was no way to get out of this shopping center. Was there a hidden camera somewhere with some manic presenter about to jump out and shove a microphone in her face? Because it wasn’t funny. “That wasn’t funny,” she’d say.

She backed up and started driving again. Around and around.

Frank and Maxine on Christmas Day. That shiny, smug expression on Dad’s face. Mum all sweetly girly and stupid, stupid, stupid.

EXIT THIS WAY. O.K., fine. If you so say so. She swung the wheel.

Bloody, bloody hell. She’d forgotten cockroach spray. Maxine had suggested a promisingly murderous-sounding brand called “Lure & Kill.” This morning one had scuttled evilly across the pure white expanse of her fridge door.

NO ENTRY.

Fuuuuck!

She slammed on the brake.

And that’s when it happened.

She forgot how to breathe.

One second she was breathing like a normal person, the next she was making strange choking sounds, crazily gasping for air, her hands clammy and cold against the steering wheel, her heart hammering impossibly fast.

My God, I’m having a heart attack. Maddie. Car. Have to stop.

With stupidly shaking hands she turned off the car engine.

Pop Kettle died of a heart attack. Dropped dead in the backyard giving Ken from next door a tip on the doggies.

Now Lyn was going to drop dead in Chatswood Shopping Center. It would be in the papers. Women across Australia would all secretly ask, What sort of irresponsible mother drops dead with a toddler in the backseat?

Unadulterated panic pumped through her body. Her chest heaved, and her hands fluttered uselessly in the air.

She couldn’t breathe.

Droplets of moisture slid down her back.

Why couldn’t she breathe?

And just when she thought, O.K. this is it, this is the end, somehow, someway, she began to breathe again.

The relief was ecstasy. Of course she could breathe. Her heartbeat slowed more and more until it was almost back to its normal quiet, unobtrusive rhythm.

Limp with relief, she turned around to check Maddie. She was deeply, soundly asleep, her thumb still in her mouth, her head lolling trustfully against the side of her car seat.

Lyn turned back on the ignition and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at herself. Her face looked back at her perfectly calmly, her lipstick was still perfect.

She pushed the mirror back into position and drove straight out of the parking lot.

When Michael arrived home that night, Maddie went rocketing into his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Daddy!” She gave his head an extra happy, pleased-with-him pat.

“Hello, my precious.”

“She hasn’t exactly been precious today.” Lyn kept chopping garlic and tilted her cheek to be kissed.

“Hello, my other precious. I thought I said I’d cook tonight.”

“I’m just doing a quick stir-fry.”

“You wanted to get your accounts done today.”

“This won’t take me long.”

“I did say.”

The unspoken accusation—Lyn-the-Martyr. She’d been hearing it all her life. If she just gave people a chance, they would get around to doing things. If she would just relax, chill out, loosen up.

“Feet, Daddy!”

Michael balanced Maddie’s bare feet on top of his own black business shoes and, holding on to her hands, he began to walk around the kitchen with exaggerated lifted knees.

“So what did our Ms. Madeline get up to today?”

“There was a little baby in the bookshop who reached out for Maddie’s book. So she backhanded her with it.”

“Ah.”

“So I smacked her.”

“Ah.”

Lyn turned around from the chopping board to look at him. He was grinning down at Maddie, who was dimpling up at him, her eyes shining. With their curly black hair, they looked like a perfect Daddy and daughter in a movie. Lyn had a sudden memory of Cat standing on Frank’s shoes in exactly the same way, except Frank was whirling her around the room in a crazy, dizzy waltz and Cat was pink-faced and shrieking, “Faster, Daddy, faster!” while Maxine yelled, “Slower, Frank, slower!”

Relax, Mum, they used to tell her. Poor Mum.

“I smacked her quite hard.”

“I expect she deserved it. You know what this proves?”

“What?” Lyn had gone back to the chopping board. So much for shared parenting values.

“It’s time for us to breed again! She’s ready for a sister or brother.”