SUSAN SENT US an invitation to lunch via email, and we accepted. At the appropriate time on the designated Sunday I put on a newish cotton dress and Paul cut the tag off an unworn polo shirt. As we got in the car I realised I’d forgotten the bottle of champagne I bought as a house-warming gift. I went back into the house for it, shoved it into an insulated cooler bag and returned to the car. Paul drove.

I knew of the suburb where Greg and Susan had spent the past three years constructing their dream house. It was north of the city, where the beaches were white and the ocean glittered with seafood and sharks. The beachside cafés were always packed with tanned, morning ocean-swimmer types, sipping their almond-milk flat whites and devouring locally made yoghurt sprinkled with açai berries or flaxseed or chia or whatever superfood was trending that particular second.