Pictures of Lily

camera.
    Where did that thought come from? You don’t take pictures any more, remember?
    Why not?
    You just don’t!
    But why ?
    Because I knew you’d be disappointed. I think that’s the reason I stopped – to punish you. How stupid is that? How would you ever know? I’ve cut off my nose to spite my face and now I’m living with this disfigured regret, so to speak.
    I could have been a photographer, not a receptionist.
    Don’t be stupid, Lily. No, you couldn’t have.
    But Ben told me I could do anything.
    Well, Ben was wrong.
    My mum still has a box of my things from when we first moved here, before I got a job and a place of my own. My camera is buried deep inside. I should call her, see if she’s free tomorrow. Richard might even fancy a trip to Bondi.
    That’s where my mum lives: Bondi Beach, in a small flat with a distant view of the ocean. She works in a restaurant as a waitress-cum-manager. The customers seem to like her because she usually gets tips even though that’s not the done thing Down Under.
    The JetCat chugs into Manly and people start making their way to the front. I wonder if Richard fancies takeaway tonight? I could do with chilling out in front of the box. I still haven’t watched the last So You Think You Can Dance . I love that show. Richard loves it substantially less than me, but I might be able to persuade him to shoot some soldiers on one of his PlayStation games while I watch it.
    I walk along the ocean front past the tall apartment blocks overlooking the water and turn left up a residential street. I start the trek up the steep hill, but finally have to admit defeat and pause on the footpath as I rummage around in my bag for my flip-flops. Yes, I still call them flip-flops, even though I’ve lived in Australia for ten years. I can’t accept that thongs aren’t something that get stuck up the crack in your bum. I hop on one foot and undo the strap on my high heels, slide my left foot into my flip-flop and repeat the procedure with my right, breathing a sigh of welcome relief afterwards. Then I set off again up the hill, swinging my shoes from their straps. Fifteen minutes later I turn into our road.
    We live in a small, two-bedroom bungalow which Richard did up as one of his first projects with Nathan. Nathan had completed work on several similar rundown houses prior to that, but he and Lucy loved the last one so much that he never sold it on. They still live there now. The same thing happened with Richard and me. We’d only been together for a couple of months, so even though I adored the house and wanted to move into it with him, it was too soon to buy anything together.
    With his parents’ help, Richard bought the place. He’s already paid his mum and dad back. They didn’t ask for or particularly need the money, but I’m glad he cleared his debts. I already feel beholden to Richard by living in his house; I didn’t want to feel beholden to them too. Not that anyone makes me feel like that. His parents are very welcoming. But I’ve grown up to be fairly independent and I like it that way. I insist on paying the going rate for rent, even though it’s well over half what Richard pays on the mortgage. He wishes I wouldn’t, but I won’t budge.
    I push open the dusky green-painted wooden gate and flip-flop my way up the stone footpath, which is surrounded on both sides by leafy green ferns. Three wooden steps up and I’m at the matching green-painted front door. It’s still double-locked, which means Richard isn’t home yet. I push open the door and dump my heels in the tiny hall, then go into the kitchen. Being single-storey, our house has two bedrooms and a bathroom on the left, and an open-plan kitchen and living room on the right. The place was dark and gloomy when Richard and Nathan first started working on it, but they’ve opened it up and put skylights in so it feels light and airy despite its small size. There’s a garden out the back which has been decked and is enclosed within a high bamboo fence, and all the plants are leafy and tropical. It’s like a little oasis. I love it.
    I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of rosé that has been sitting in there since the weekend, pour myself a glass then wander to one of the cosy sofas and slump down, grabbing the remote control for the telly from the coffee table. Richard comes in halfway through a contemporary dance routine. I press pause.
    ‘Hello.’ I look over my shoulder at him.
    ‘Hey.’ He