MICHAEL THINKS ABOUT the sounds Rachel is making. Little whinnies like she’s losing motivation. Michael knows what that feels like. Even listening to her doesn’t really fuss him, not like it does Rory. Michael knows Rory’s committed presence on Friday nights is more about this other ritual than anything to do with drinking. Rory sitting there on the veranda, waiting, like a dog with his ear cocked all night to flat seven, never quite relaxing until the moans and squealing and slapping flesh settle in. Every time it happens Michael leans back and resigns himself to the re-run entertainment.

Rory always acts like it’s the first time. ‘Jesus, mate, do you reckon she’s really into it or what?’ Slapping his knee, going ‘Jesus, Jesus!’ a few more times under his breath.