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of lights. They had entered during the last hour of daylight and the street outside
was growing dark. Again Marie recognised items from her past — a mushroom-shaped lamp with orange head and white stalk; others on stands sprouting lights at intervals, like lilies. One of
those would come in handy. She was again confused by similarities with furniture from the history of her home, as though her home had only ever been a retail outlet. The air became progressively
still and muggy. Susan began to fan herself with a catalogue. The catalogue whirred louder and louder, inside Marie’s ears a giddy thrumming, then she was tripping over an electrical cord,
grabbing on to a lamp, on her hands and knees, skirt up her thighs and Susan was saying, ‘Oh god, Marie, oh god,’ and the assistant was rushing towards them as Marie vomited her lunch
of Pinot Grigio and scampi linguine across the floor.
    When she looked up, she saw Susan scarlet-faced, tearing tissues from a small packet. Marie struggled to her feet and wiped her face, clouded with shame. But in the distance glimmered a feeling
of levity, even exultation. The man in beige chinos looked at her in horror then left the shop, steering his woman in front of him. The assistant was frozen, hand over mouth. Desire for the lounge
suite slaked Marie: she couldn’t imagine leaving the shop without it. Her house would be empty, bereft, and she would have nowhere to rest.
    Susan fluttered some tissues over the winey vomit. ‘Don’t worry about the lamp,’ she was saying to the assistant. ‘I’ll pay for the lamp.’
    Marie got out her Visa card and walked towards him determinedly. ‘I’ll sign for that lounge suite now.’
    ‘And then,’ Susan whispered, ‘I’m putting you straight into a taxi.’
    It was Saturday night out there. She was fifty-nine, divorced, with money in her wallet, and she had never been out alone on a Saturday night. She told the taxi driver to head
back up to the Cross instead of over the bridge. She had gone to a bar there years ago, on top of a building, with a view across the city and harbour. She was angry, bored, and her mouth was dry.
Marie needed a drink.
    Halfway up William Street, the traffic slowed to a crawl and Marie looked out the window, fascinated by the gaudy scene. A woman as big as a man stood near a building’s entrance like a
fruit vendor, offering her enormous breasts to the passing cars. A prostitute half her age and size teetered past in spike heels to a companion propped against a pylon, head lolling. They leant
against one another, slivers of cardboard with fluff for hair, trying not to blow over in the wind. Part of the road had been torn up and construction barriers lined each block. A group of English
boys lurched down the footpath, shouting drunken songs. All of this had to be endured like a thicket of lantana grown across the path. The taxi struggled onwards. The rawness of the street, not two
blocks from that sumptuous bar with deep chocolate lounges and tinkling piano, amazed Marie. As the taxi paused at a red light, some Aborigines sauntered up from Woolloomooloo screaming with
laughter, then stopped to stare directly through the window at her.
    Inside the bar, safely seated before the million-dollar view, Marie ordered a glass of Cape Mentelle. It was hours since her last drink. She swallowed the wine quickly and ordered another, then
noticed a man at the bar staring at her. Tall and slim with thick grey hair, he was picking peanuts out of a dish and tossing them into his mouth with languid precision. Marie sat facing the
window, watching his reflection in the glass. She turned to catch the waiter’s eye, meeting those of the man at the bar in the elegant suit.
    He turned away to exchange a word with the barman. She hoped he was ordering another drink; he could have been paying for hers. She was the only single woman over here; a party of loud shiny
Americans and Australians spread across the couches