Lucy in the Sky

the walls of the great pyramid-shaped glasshouse. He uses the truck for work and I’m lucky it’s not raining, otherwise my clothes would get drenched.
    We hit the Expressway, Sam zipping in and out of traffic, honking his horn like a madman. ‘It’s so weird seeing you driving,’ I say. ‘I never thought you’d end up being such a nutcase behind the wheel.’
    ‘It’s not me, it’s everyone else that’s the problem.’ He grins.
    I glance at Molly and bare my teeth in fake horror.
    She rolls her eyes at me. ‘This is nothing. You should see him in rush hour.’
    We enter a tunnel and when we come out the other side the city is upon us, jagged skyline stretching up into the clear blue sky. The golden top of Sydney Tower glints in the morning sunlight.
    ‘Do you want to go over the bridge, Lucy? Or shall we tunnel it?’ Sam asks after a minute.
    ‘Bridge! Bridge!’ I bleat excitedly.
    Sam and Molly live in Manly, one of Sydney’s northern suburbs. You can access it by ferry from Circular Quay, but we’re doing the journey by car across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
    Moments later the huge steel arch of the bridge looms in front of us. Two Australian flags fly high atop it and I can just make out little figures not so much scarpering like ants as straining to complete the bridge’s strenuous climb. I look back over Sam’s shoulder and glimpse a view of the ocean. The Sydney Opera House shines like a white beacon and the water in the harbour sparkles and glimmers like billions of tiny crystals.
    Across the bridge we take a right towards Mosman and Manly. Car dealerships, shops, chemists, delis, newsagents, funeral homesand coffee shops whizz past and soon we’re approaching the Spit where hundreds of different-coloured apartment blocks and houses step down the cliff face overlooking the bay. Palm trees and pines line the waterfront and the grass is yellow and dry.
    ‘Hot summer?’ I enquire.
    ‘Very,’ Sam answers. ‘Terrible for the garden.’
    Terrible for the garden, good for me, I think. I hope it stays that way for the next couple of weeks, and for the wedding of course.
    Molly winds down her window and I breathe in the ocean air. I’m beginning to feel more like myself with every minute.
    ‘So how’s James?’ Molly asks, as Sam drives right up the backside of a silver Suzuki.
    ‘Urgh.’ I tell them a condensed version of my sorry story.
    ‘Blimey,’ Molly says when I finish. ‘Do you believe him?’
    ‘I don’t know. I think so. I just don’t know.’
    At that moment I make a decision not to let what happened with James bring me down. I’ve saved up for months for this holiday; it’s the first time I’ve been back to Australia in almost a decade, and I absolutely, resolutely, will not let him spoil it. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I do.
    ‘Get a move on, woman!’ Sam breaks the silence by honking his horn.
    After a few minutes we take a left down a pretty tree-lined street full of houses with red-tiled roofs. Before I know it we’re pulling up in front of a two-storey wood-panelled green and cream house. A hammock hangs out on the porch and a fragrant frangipani tree is in full bloom in the front garden.
    I’ve been to Sam and Molly’s house plenty of times, back when it was Sam’s family home. Shortly after I left Australia, Sam’s parents, Joan and Michael, died in a boating accident. Their bodieswere never found. Sam and his younger brother, Nathan, alerted the authorities when their parents still hadn’t returned late at night after a whole day sailing. The boat was eventually discovered empty a couple of days later, drifting way out in the Pacific Ocean. The most popular theory was that Joan had fallen overboard and Michael had jumped in trying to rescue her, forgetting to put the anchor down. The boat had drifted and they’d both drowned or had been taken by sharks. Some speculated that they’d done a runner or been kidnapped. And there were even terrible whisperings that maybe Michael had murdered his wife and then killed himself. But anyone who’d ever met them knew that wasn’t true. They were a wonderful, warm couple, their house always filled with Joan’s infectious laughter. I was devastated when I found out. They’d always joined in with us ‘kids’ and we felt comfortable around them. Michael was a good-looking man with slightly-too-long-for-his-age dark hair and rough stubble, while Joan was tall, slim and elegant with short blonde