Paradise City

Book 0: The Paradise Series

by C.J. Duggan

Genres: Romance; Romance Anthologies & Collections; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

There's trouble waiting in Paradise. Quiet country-girl Lexie Atkinson is about to get an education she'll never forget. Sent from her family's remote rural property to live in the glittering beachside Paradise City for her final school year, she is plunged into a place where looks can kill and vicious rumours can make or break you. Lexie just wants to fly under the radar...until she meets Luke Ballantine. Impulsive and charming, one thing is clear: Luke is sexier than any guy she has ever known. Suddenly good girl Lexie is breaking all the rules - getting detention, sneaking out to late-night parties, hanging out with boys - and then rumours start swirling...about her! Everything changes fast and Lexie will soon find out if Luke Ballantine is going to be good for her...or very, very bad? A funny, sexy and romantic novel from the bestselling author of the Summer series. ' Paradise City is the same brand of feel good, fun and sexy romance that I have come to love from this author' - Book Briefs 'I love Duggan's writing and Paradise City was a hoot. I cannot wait for the next book! Is it August yet?' - Reading With ABC 'I loved this book - it's the perfect beach read.' - Flying Through Pages 'I loved every moment . . . C. J. is a born storyteller that breathes a realism into her characters and situations that we've all found ourselves in.' - Diva Book Nerd 'Duggan's writing is addictive, and I really didn't want to put this book down.' - Escape Into Words ' Paradise City is going to be on my mind until I can get my greedy eyes on Paradise Road. I need that book yesterday!' - Book Cat Pin 'A fast paced fun read with so many steamy situations.' - Dreamy Addictions 'Guaranteed her readers will come back for more.' - My Guilty Obsession 'Drama, deception, love and a little mystery . . . the ending left me hungry for the next book! I can't wait for Paradise Road!' - Paranormal Tendencies on Goodreads 'A bit of Home and Away meets Puberty Blues feel about the novel makes is a great read for older teens and YA. I will be desperately waiting for part 2 in September.' Samantha on Goodreads 'Again Ms Duggan had created a winner. Paradise City was a perfect introduction to the series and characters. I was left needing more and it had so much laugh-out-loud fun. This really did have everything from intrigue to addiction, realism of high school antics, steamy sizzles and fast paced readability. I am certainly hooked and desperately want more of all these characters. I highly recommend this to all new adult readers, fan-bloody-tastic!' - Turner's Antics 'This is my first taste of Duggan's work and it won't be the last ... It's a story that will have you coming back for more.' - Sassy Book Lovers 'convincing and authentic ... Perfect for fans of Abbi Glines and Anna Todd, Paradise City is a fun and exciting read about love, family and surviving high school.' - Fictional Thoughts

Release date: April 26, 2015

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 336

Sample

I dreamed of Paradise

If there is one thing I have learned in my short little life, it is to take advice from the least likely of sources.

‘Have low expectations, kid, and you’ll never be dis­appointed.’ My Uncle Eddie delivered his words of wisdom with a wink and a double-barrelled shooting finger.

At the time, I hadn’t taken it too seriously because, firstly, I was only nine and, secondly, he was wearing mission-brown stubbies with thongs. I mean, really? Sure, all those things could have very well been the reason why Uncle Eddie’s words didn’t sink in. But it was more the fact that after he had delivered his wise words, he then tripped backwards over his own esky, rolling like a human pinball down the front steps and landing, spread-eagled, on the lawn, wailing about soft tissue damage and needing an ambulance.

Eight years later, it was still one of the most talked about of Uncle Eddie’s drunken antics resulting in cringe-worthy accounts of public humiliation, not just limited to our front lawn.

Uncle Eddie, while at times hilarious, was also the resident drunk, who cycled his way around town on his punting, drinking expeditions sporting his crisscrossed fluoro safety vest (courtesy of Al, the local policeman). He would wear it even in the daytime – mortifying! He was almost like the town mascot, which pretty much paints an accurate picture of my hometown.

Red Hill.

The European explorers who named it obviously had a sense of humour because, unlike the name suggested, there was no hill in sight. Just a flat, desolate whole-lot-of-nothing. Well, that’s not exactly true. There were three pubs and a club, a Caltex petrol station, an IGA supermarket, a post office and a newsagent. And when you’re seventeen and trapped in a place nicknamed ‘Red Hole’, the only thing left to do is dream of a life less ordinary.

In my room I had a bookshelf that housed my entire Holy Grail collection: a crystal angel from my Aunty Deb, a jasmine-scented candle that was too pretty to use and a stack of penpal letters from around the world. I kept writing to my penpals vigilantly with the idea of scoring free accommodation when I travelled abroad someday. I stashed the truly sacred stuff on the top shelf, like the tattered postcard from my cousin Amanda. It was slightly frayed around the edges from the countless times I had picked it up and flipped the glossed square over in my hands, reading the exciting account of the new life she had found in a place nothing like Red Hole.

For the past year I had been set a challenge: maintain my good grades and Mum and Dad would ‘entertain’ the thought of me finishing my VCE in a real school, not one that involved a satellite connection to a virtual teacher. That’s right, Red Hole had three pubs and no school and I, for one, was not revelling in a future as an uneducated drunk, slurring my words and tripping over myself. No way.

I hoped it was just a matter of time before they would let me venture out to further my education. Whether they liked it or not, that change was what I needed to ‘experience’ the big bad world. And even though I had a long-standing wish that maybe it could be so, it was never anything more than a crazy pipe dream. So come the time we had the family roundtable discussion, never in my wildest dreams did I think it would come true.

Dad’s lips were pressed together in a grim line, his arms folded over his broad chest as he let Mum break it to me.

‘We’ve talked it over and if you agree,’ she said, smiling to herself as she traced her finger along the patterned wood grain of the tabletop, ‘we think –’ Dad coughed. ‘Okay, I think that straight A grades deserve nothing less than destination Paradise.’

My head snapped up, my eyes widening in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?’

Mum laughed. ‘I spoke to Aunty Karen, and they would love to have you.’

I flung myself against my parents, hugging the life out of them. Thanking all the gods in all the universe that my prayers had been answered. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’

A smile spread across my face as I re-read Amanda’s postcard; her elegant, cursive writing described how her life was all about sun, surf, sand and boys (shhhh), which wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to write on the back of a postcard. It was the first and only postcard she had sent, and four years had passed since I’d received it, but when you’re thirteen and a seed is planted, and you have no clear future other than becoming betrothed to one of the local farming boys, you take solace in alternative future possibilities. Glancing at the front of the postcard, I absorbed the beach landscape peppered with sky-high buildings along the foreshore, and an embossed golden font that read ‘Paradise City’.

Sorry, Uncle Eddie, but I ignored your advice. My expec­tations were as epic as those high-rises and, knowing my grades had earned me a ticket to the beach, to a real school, with real people, I was determined. Yes, I’d dreamed of Paradise City. From the day that postcard arrived I knew I was destined to be there.

And just as I thought the likes of Red Hill ironic in all its flat mundaneness, I came to realise you should never judge a place by its name.

Maybe Uncle Eddie was a genius?



Chapter One

‘Where’s Ballantine?’

That was the first time I heard his name. I was sitting outside the principal’s office, wedged between Mum and Dad, seeking an audience with Mr Fitzgibbons, the bow tie–wearing man with a balding head and high blood pressure, if his scarlet-tinged complexion was anything to go by.

His flushed face-off was with a woman sitting behind a desk in the opposite room. She had ‘Counsellor’ mounted in front of her, one of those removable plaques she probably popped into her handbag at the end of each day.

Mr Fitzgibbons’ fire-breathing question was met with a sigh and half-hearted shoulder shrug. Obviously not the answer he was looking for as he closed his eyes briefly – as if he was silently counting to three, or perhaps praying for strength. ‘That boy will be the death of me,’ he said to himself, before turning on his polished heel and heading back into his office, slamming the door so hard that the staff photos along the wall lifted with a violent jolt.

‘Geez, looks like someone needs to loosen his bow tie,’ murmured Dad from the side of his mouth, in that inconspicuous way people do, thinking no-one would suspect they were speaking at all. We giggled like naughty school kids until Mum elbowed me in the side, cutting us both a warning flash of her steel-blue eyes.

Mum leant forward. ‘Nice, Rick. Real nice. Remember, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.’

Poor Mum. She had been brushing off imaginary dust, picking at a loose thread on her cardigan, and fidgeting with a nervous anticipation I had rarely seen in her.

‘Relax, Mum, I’m in.’

‘Yeah. Relax, Jen, she’s in. And what school wouldn’t want someone with her grades?’ Dad slung his arm around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. I cringed away from his hug. I was grateful that Dad had warmed to the idea of me coming here, but seriously.

‘Cool it, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ I quickly looked up the hall, hoping no-one had seen. It was bad enough that I was going to have my orientation being walked around by the principal while my parents ooohed and ahhhed about the state-of-the-art facilities; I could have thought of less subtle ways to be tortured publicly. On our way to the principal’s office my dad had even commented on how impressive the touch-free drinking taps outside the boys’ toilets were. I pressed the back of my head against the wall with a sigh.

Yep, it was going to be a long day.

I’d had grand visions of walking through the school gates with my cousin Amanda, cool, calm and with an air of mystery as I sauntered under the ornate archway, while Destiny’s Child’s ‘Independent Women’ played softly in the background, perhaps with an industrial-strength fan blowing my hair back. A smoke machine would have been a bit much. I was all about keeping my fantasies real.

Mr Fitzgibbons’ door whooshed open, shunting me out of my daydream. I blinked into the here and now as he paused, clasping his hands with joy.

‘You must be Lexie.’ He beamed. ‘I am so happy to meet you,’ he said, stepping forward and shaking my hand in a series of shoulder-dislocating tugs. I peered past him into his empty office, wondering if this had been the same man from moments before.

Bald, coffee-stained teeth, hideous bow tie. Yep, this was him.

Another none-too-subtle elbow from my mum had me standing instantly to attention. ‘That’s me,’ I managed, smiling politely.

‘And you must be Mr and Mrs Atkinson.’

‘Oh, please. Call us Rick and Jen.’ My dad laughed. Mum laughed. Mr Fitzgibbons laughed – it was just an absolute riot.

‘Well, you can call me John, but just this once.’ He pointed, laughing at his own zany joke, while he ushered us inside his office and closed the door behind him. ‘Please, take a seat.’

I had imagined that the principal’s office would be like a luxury penthouse, with all the lurks and perks that come with the job. A large modern space with city views and your own parking spot. Instead, the room was cramped; three mismatched chairs had been wedged in where they didn’t fit, giving us barely enough room to awkwardly manoeuvre our way to sit without playing a form of musical chairs. Mr Fitzgibbons didn’t seem fazed in the slightest with his less-than-humble abode. I daresay the pot plant by the window and his own private kettle facilities in the corner – with a rather impressive selection of Cup a Soups – made him more than happy with his space, even if the walls were covered in seventies wood panelling and the desk was laminate. I could imagine how desperately my dad was trying to contain himself from stating the obvious.

Looks like they blew the budget on the drinking fountain.

But he behaved; he sat stoically straight, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and linking his fingers over his stomach. I would have relaxed too but my orange plastic bucket seat didn’t have arms. Another budget cut?

What I guessed were family photos stood on Mr Fitzgibbons’ desk, pointed away from us. My imagination started to wander. No doubt a picture of a pretty teenage daughter who was not a student at this school, probably privy to a spot as a foreign exchange student in France or something. A son on the brink of manhood, sporting a gleaming metallic grin and acne, most likely an interstate hockey champion. And then there would be a dowdy Mrs Fitzgibbons, who was probably a local tax attorney with sensible shoes and a not-too-sensible bob haircut.

I blinked out of my imaginary Fitzgibbons’ family character assessments when Mr Fitzgibbons knocked heavily and rather expectantly on the window of his office, scurrying to pull the blind up without taking an eye out.

‘Boys!’ He yelled a fine mist onto the glass as he gesticu­lated towards the yard at a group playing basketball. He pointed to his eyes and then back to the group – a rather threatening mime of ‘I’m watching you’.

The boys merely laughed, continuing their game. It was becoming obvious to me that Principal John Fitzgibbons wasn’t exactly a respected authority figure at Paradise High.

‘I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised when I received your application, Lexie,’ he said, picking up a manila folder from on top of his keyboard. He went to casually sit on the edge of his desk, opting for the laidback look. He soon leapt up when it was apparent his weight was too much for the flimsy frame, the desk shifting with a violent jolt that had us all flinching in horror.

He cleared his throat and moved to his chair as if nothing had happened, adjusting his bow tie.

My mum straightened nervously in her chair, as if she was dreading Dad or me losing it at any moment.

I bit my lip, suddenly finding my hands in my lap so incredibly interesting.

‘It’s certainly been a while since we’ve had a student of your calibre enrol here at Paradise High, and home schooled too? Simply amazing.’

‘We’re very proud of Lexie,’ said Mum, almost bursting with pride.

‘Yeah, she gets the brains from her mother and her devilish good looks from me.’

‘Dad,’ I whined in embarrassment.

Mr Fitzgibbons leaned back in his seat, his belly laughing so over the top that I could barely stop my brow from curving in disdain. He steepled his fingers like a Bond villain. ‘Well, we have an excellent curriculum here, and we need upstanding role models like you, Lexie. We have a healthy debate team, a maths club, drama society, and an SRC committee that I will put you forward for, straightaway.’

With every rattled-off program, committee and club, a little piece of me died. It was like I was no longer in the room. He had gone from addressing me solely to addressing my parents, who were smiling and nodding with glee.

It was almost like I was witnessing everything play out in slow motion as Mr Fitzgibbons jotted down notes into that manila folder with my name on it.

No-no-no-no . . .

I didn’t want to be a representative of any committee or a team leader of an inter-school debate. I just wanted to be normal, to blend in, to infiltrate the life of a local city slicker. Although I was pretty sure people in the city didn’t refer to themselves as city slickers.

‘Of course, there is good and bad in every school and there seems to be something rather alluring about the beach that has birthed a generation of delinquent, slacking beach bums,’ he said.

I straightened in my seat, finally interested in what he was saying.

‘That’s why we need leaders in academia, to show the way.’

Yeah, to improve your tertiary statistics, I thought bitterly.

Mr Fitzgibbons mercifully put down his pen, which was slowly destroying my life. He closed the folder, clasping his hands over the cover. ‘Now, with your permission, and Lexie’s, of course,’ he smiled, exposing his off-white teeth, ‘I think Lexie would benefit from some of our accelerated classes. From what I can see here, you are quite above the state average. I’m thinking Year Eleven might be a bit of a doddle.’

Dad’s chest puffed with pride. ‘Well, I guess it’s up to what Lexie wants to do, what she feels comfortable with. I mean, it’s going to be a bit of a culture shock at first.’

‘And as much as all that extra-curricular stuff sounds wonderful,’ added Mum, ‘I think we best just settle her into the final weeks of Year Eleven first; if all goes well, maybe we can look at those things next year when Lexie comes back for Year Twelve.’

Oh, how I loved my parents.

I saw the light in Mr Fitzgibbons’ eyes dim. His demeanour changed as he picked up his pen and clicked it in deep thought.

I cleared my throat. ‘I would be happy to do accelerated classes; I think it would really build my confidence to do other things.’ I smiled sweetly.

Mr Fitzgibbons doodled idly on the corner of my folder, taking in my words before lifting his gaze, a smile emerging, but not quite reaching his eyes. ‘So tell me, why Paradise High?’ he asked with interest. ‘You could have chosen St Sebastian’s or Noble Park High, for example. Why here?’

‘Lexie’s cousin is currently doing her Year Twelve here,’ said Mum, nodding her head in approval.

This finally had his attention, pushing him forward in his seat. ‘Really? And who might that be?’

‘Her name’s Amanda, my sister’s daughter,’ replied Mum.

I’d never seen a rabbit caught in headlights before, or the colour drain from someone’s face so quickly. I could actually see the bob of Mr Fitzgibbons’ Adam’s apple as he closed his mouth and swallowed, staring catatonically at my mum.

‘Amanda, Amanda Burnsteen?’ He repeated her name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

‘That’s her,’ said my dad cheerfully, clearly oblivious that this sudden revelation didn’t appear to be welcome news.

‘Well, what a small world we live in,’ Mr Fitzgibbons half-laughed as he casually opened my folder and scribbled a quick note on the inside.

I leant forward, trying to peer at his writing but he jotted the note of importance so fast and slammed the folder shut so quickly, it made me blink.

Mr Fitzgibbons was about to speak when he was cut off by the sudden sounding of the recess bell, ringing for students to return to their holding cells. Exercise time was over.

‘Ah, very good. I suggest that now is the time for you to have a look around, while all the students are settled in class.’ He grabbed the folder and stood, moving towards the door. ‘Forgive me for not showing you myself but I have to see to an urgent matter.’ He opened the door, sweeping his hand out to the hall.

Mum, Dad and I stood, throwing uncertain looks at one another as we exited the principal’s office. He shook Dad’s, mine, and then Mum’s hands quickly, smiling and thanking us for our time – good luck, goodbye. It was like Charlie had gone from inheriting the chocolate factory to being dismissed by Willy Wonka himself. We were dazed and confused by the change in Mr Fitzgibbons as he looked past us to make eye contact with the school counsellor, who simply shook her head.

He sighed heavily before returning to his office and closing the door.

We stood there for a long while, stunned, before Dad spoke. ‘Well, that went well.’

Mum and I looked at each other, laughing unsurely, as we headed down the hall, the bell drowning out our chatter with its second and final warning followed by a PA announcement as we descended the stairs.

‘Luke Ballantine, report to the principal’s office immediately.’

And with a small curve of my mouth, I laughed, thinking that Mr Fitzgibbons’ day was about to get a whole lot worse.



Chapter Two

Does anything say family better than rocking up with a bucket of KFC for dinner?

I don’t think so, and to make the deal even sweeter, yep, a giant tub of coleslaw; it was the least we could do, plus Aunty Karen was not known for her culinary skills.

The Best Western was not situated in the most prestigious of locations; a fence line of skip bins sat right outside our motel room, and there was an angry dog barking constantly in one of the suburban backyards we so charmingly overlooked. Still, it was the budget-savvy thing to do, even if there were probably chalked outlines of bodies on the pavement around the corner and yellow police tape cordoning off a part of the neighbourhood.

I watched on as Mum pumped hand sanitiser liberally in her palm for the hundredth time that day, and it didn’t escape my attention that Dad was clicking the central locking on our doors every time we hopped in the car.

I knew Mum and Dad were massively out of their comfort zone, and I had to admit this wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned as Dad cruised past the fibro-sheeted houses and another laneway, thick with coloured graffiti. It was gritty and lively, for sure, but seeing piled-up mattresses and TV sets on the nature strips for hard rubbish collection day – oh God, at least I hoped that’s what it was for – didn’t exactly scream Paradise. I quickly wiped the thought from my mind. This wasn’t Paradise City, this wasn’t the hub of my dreams, this was merely a suburb of the city itself: an unfortunate introduction because my parents were always a little tight with the purse strings.

I stretched forward from the back seat. ‘Tell me again, why aren’t we staying at Aunty Karen and Uncle Peter’s?’

‘There’s just not enough room for us all to stay there,’ insisted Mum, massaging the disinfectant into the back of her hands.

It was so great to finally be here, and to actually step foot in what was to be my school, but I was saving most of my excitement for seeing my cousin Amanda again. She was only a few months older than me, but I always had this kind of worshipping thing about Amanda. Before they moved to Paradise City, they only lived a three-hour drive from Red Hill in Sunnyvale, where we used to share birthdays and Christmas holidays. We would play Barbies, bruise our ribs sliding along the slip ’n’ slide in our backyard, become death-defying stuntmen by tipping our trampoline on its side before charging from across the yard, latching onto it and pushing it over to slam to the ground again. We used to host our own radio station by recording our voices on cassette tapes, or freak each other out by telling ghost stories with torches pressed up against our chins under the blankets. Amanda was the sister I never had. When her family moved away, it was like they had taken a piece of my childhood with them, and Red Hill suddenly became unbearable with no option of an escape. Aside from that first postcard she had sent and a few phone calls, Amanda had slowly drifted away from me. She was busy with her new friends in her new life, and why wouldn’t she be? I mean, they lived in Paradise, literally. I would often comment on her Myspace page, a window into her amazing existence of linked arms around friends and pouty pictures at the beach with heart-shaped glasses on. Long gone were the Barbie dolls and afternoons spent swooning over pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Amanda had moved on. Whereas I was just the same old Lexie. Until now.

‘So, how much longer?’ My insides flipped with giddy excitement.

‘Are you so eager to be rid of us?’ My mum looked at me pointedly in the rearview mirror.

‘Of course not,’ I lied. ‘But I start school on Monday and I need to get my bearings.’

As in, I needed to grill Amanda about who’s who and the dos and don’ts of real high school society. Having her as my wing woman would be an invaluable asset if I was going to fit in and furthermore convince my parents that I could live out my final high school year here.

‘You’ll have plenty of time,’ Mum said.

‘Time for what?’ asked Dad, as usual, coming in on the end of a conversation, while he tuned into the cricket on the radio.

‘Lexie’s worried her life is flashing before her eyes.’

‘Every day is a wasted day,’ I groaned, flinging myself back into my seat.

‘Don’t wish your life away, Lexie.’

Pfft, what life?

‘Well, I wouldn’t say today was a waste; you got to look around the school at least,’ said Mum.

I cringed at the memory.

My dad winking and jovially saying g’day to each student he passed in the corridor. More often than not, people would snigger with their friends or look back at him as if he was a mutant, or more accurately, some kind of country bumpkin. He might as well have been wearing a cowboy hat, chewing on a piece of straw. Disguising my mortification as starvation I cut the walk-around short, insisting that we please go . . . now!

Orientation: disaster.

I much preferred my chances with Amanda. I mean, I had to remain the mysterious new girl. I wanted my entrance to be, like my dad would say, bigger than Ben Hur. I sat in the back seat dreaming of slow-motion entrances, whispers and stares from hot surfer boys.

‘So, is Aunty Karen going to be home by the time we get there?’ I asked.

‘Ah, yes, she took the day off for us.’

‘Bloody hell, we’ll never hear the end of that,’ Dad said, rolling his eyes.

The fact that Mum and Dad had pulled the ‘we need our own space’ card when checking into our motel was not lost on me. And the fact they thought I was immune to their grown-up politics was, well, insulting. I’d innocently earwigged on enough conversations between Mum and Dad to know that there was a definite divide between Mum and her younger sister.

Nothing more telling than Mum’s admission. ‘They’re just trying to keep up with the Joneses.’

‘Joneses? They think they are the bloody Joneses,’ said Dad, laughing.

The differences were pretty clear.

Mum married a country boy.

Aunty Karen married a city boy.

Mum was asset rich but cash poor.

Aunty Karen was just rich.

Mum drove a Patrol.

Aunty Karen drove a Volvo.

Mum’s fingernails were chipped, broken from helping Dad on the farm.

Aunty Karen’s French-tipped nails dialled for a cleaner to clean her two-storey house.

Worlds apart and none of it had seemed so obvious until their big move to the coast.

‘Doesn’t Aunty Karen have some big high-flying government job?’ I asked with interest, causing Dad to nearly spit out his drink over the steering wheel as he looked at Mum.

‘Where did you hear that?’ Mum’s brows creased.

‘I heard Nan telling Mrs Muir at the supermarket.’

‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Dad shook his head.

‘Rick!’ Mum warned.

‘No, Jen. If Lexie is going to be immersed in this world she needs to know the truth. Aunty Karen works at the local shire council as a glorified receptionist answering phones and taking rates payments. She lives purely on credit that her long-suffering husband has to work seven days a week to pay for.’

Whoa, go Dad!

All this I had kind of gathered, but still, Dad always liked to tell it like it was, while Mum chose to live in the ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’ category.

I was somewhere in between, myself.

Mum sighed, clenching the bridge of her nose as if warding off a migraine. ‘I’m not doing this now, Rick,’ Mum warned.

And when Dad didn’t let it go, I took it as a sign to dig out my ear plugs, wedging one in each ear and pressing play, spinning one of my Triple J’s Hottest 100 CDs, circa 1995, to life. It was a wonder it still played at all considering the number of times I had listened to it over and over again. The chilling waves of Natalie Merchant’s ‘Carnival’ washed over me, just as the flashes of light from the setting sun over the city blinded me in patches through the buildings. Graffiti-clad fences morphed into bustling streets of Chinese takeaway and two-dollar shops, divided up with traffic lights on every block. The animated gestures of my parents as they continued to argue seemed to play out in slow motion compared to the fast-moving surrounds at peak hour. I pressed my temple against the window, gazing up at some palm trees, a long stretch of them dotted along a concrete jungle. Were we getting nearer to the ocean, I wondered? If we turned a corner would it suddenly be there on the horizon? With no real idea where we were headed or how far away we were, the city scene soon blended into a long stretch of industrial building sites. Long gone were the mystical, towering palm trees, and hello, Bunnings and tyre wholesalers.

The car interior smelt like Colonel Sanders and his secret herbs and spices, which were probably cementing their stench into my hair and clothes. I sniffed the fabric of my top. Impossible to tell. I wasn’t sure why a part of me was suddenly so nervous. This was family and we were going over for dinner, just like we had when I was little. But I was always amazed how quickly things changed, how people got older and time moved on, almost as fast as the ever-­changing neighbourhoods we drove through. I straightened with interest, noting the very obvious differences and feel of the area we were heading into.

Money.

Single fibro housing commission shacks were exchanged for actual bricks and mortar – some with their own strategically placed palm tre. . .