1. KENNA
Hey, you!” A blonde woman holds a flyer in my direction. “Take one please!”
A slight accent: Dutch or Swedish or something.
I blink, dazzled by the sunlight after the shade of the train station. Why is it so bright? It feels like the middle of the night.
“Best Thai food!” shouts a young man.
“Looking for a room?” calls a girl with multiple facial piercings.
The touts stand there, holding their ground—or trying to—in the stream of people flooding from the station. Sydney may be on the other side of the world, but so far, arriving here is little different to arriving in London or Paris.
My heavy backpack makes me unsteady on my feet. The Thai restaurant guy tries to give me a flyer, but I have my travel card in one hand and my daypack in the other so I shrug in apology and step around him.
“Happy hour!” shouts another voice. “Six-dollar schooners.”
As I’m wondering what a schooner could be, a hand grips my wrist. The Dutch woman. She’s fiftyish with dark blonde hair and clear blue eyes. Pretty, or she would be if her face wasn’t taut and unsmiling. I want to pull free and walk on—ignore her like everyone else—but the desperation in her eyes stops me. I glance at her flyers.
MISSING! ELKE HARTMANN, GERMAN NATIONAL.
The photo shows a smiling blonde girl clutching a surfboard.
“My daughter.” The woman’s voice is raw.
Not Dutch then. I’m hopeless with accents. The tide of people divide and merge around us as I skim the flyer. Elke is twenty-nine—a year younger than me—and she’s been missing for six months. I offer a tight smile of sympathy. I hope the bus stop isn’t far because this backpack weighs a ton.
A briefcase bashes my calf. I spot the clock on the wall. Half past five: the evening rush hour. The realization makes my brain hurt. I can never sleep on planes. I’ve been awake for two whole days.
“Have you ever lost someone you love?” the woman asks.
I turn back to her. Because I have. Lost someone.
“She was backpacking here.” The woman nods at my bags. “Like you.”
I’m not backpacking, I want to tell her, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
“They’re in a foreign country and they don’t know anyone. If they disappear, it’s days before anyone notices. They’re easy targets.”
With the final word, her voice cracks. She lowers her head, shoulders shaking. I drape my arms awkwardly around her. My palms are damp; I don’t want to ruin her blouse. I need to get going, but I haven’t got the heart to leave her like this. Should I take her somewhere—buy her a cup of tea? But I want to get to Mikki’s place before it gets dark. I’ll give her a minute and hope she cries herself out.
Office workers file past. The women seem better groomed than their British counterparts: all glossy hair and tanned legs in heels and short skirts. The men wear their shirts with the sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone, suit jackets slung over their shoulders, ties nowhere in sight.
Sweat pools under my armpits. This sticky humidity, Mikki always moaned about it: Nearly as bad as Japan. It’s March, the Australian autumn, and I hadn’t expected it to be this hot.
I watch the touts handing out flyers. The Thai restaurant guy offers a flyer to anyone who’ll take one, but the others seem to be targeting backpackers. With their oversized backpacks and milk-white or sunburnt limbs, they stand out a mile. Easy targets.
Elke’s mother sniffs. “Sorry.” She hunts through her handbag and pulls out tissues.
“No problem,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She dabs her eyes, sheepish now. “I let you go. But you be careful, yes?”
“I will. And don’t worry about me. I’m not a backpacker. I’m here to visit a friend. She’s getting married.”
“Oh, my apologies. She’ll be expecting you.”
“Yes,” I say.
She isn’t, though.
2. KENNA
I’m going to kill you!” Mikki says.
I stand on her doorstep, hunched under the weight of my backpack. “I knew you’d be mad.”
Freckles pepper Mikki’s cheeks and forehead. Her long hair, previously glossy and black, is matted and burned brown by the Australian sun. The flowering tree beside her front door scents the night air with an exotic smell, highlighting the fact that I’m on the other side of the world.
She’s looking at me as though she can’t decide if she’s happy to see me or not. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
Because you told me not to come. But we won’t get into that yet. “I tried phoning, but you didn’t answer.”
“I told you, there’s no reception at the beach we go to.”
Her white Roxy top shows off her taut biceps and tan. As unobtrusively as I can, I look for bruises but don’t see any. I let out my breath a little. Here she is, apparently safe and well. My best friend.
She breaks into a smile. “Oh my God, Kenna! You’re really here!”
I smile too. Oh my God! is her catchphrase and I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard her say it—usually at the latest crazy thing I did.
She pulls me into a hug.
See? It’s all right. Best friends do stuff like this. If your intentions are good, it’s okay to overstep boundaries.
What is a friendship but a sum of the memories of the time you spent with someone? And the better the memories, the better the friendship. Memories of Mikki: me and her nude surfing one night when we were drunk; me push-starting her ancient Beetle down a narrow Cornish road above a cliff; a camping trip when she forgot to pack the tent so we chatted up the campers next-door and booted them out of one of their tents so we could borrow it.
All the hilarious things we got up to. And this will go down in our shared history as another of those things. The time I flew to Australia to pay her a surprise visit. At least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. She must have been surfing today—her hair is sticky with salt. I peel a strand from my mouth and pull back to look at her.
“I can’t believe you came all this way,” she says. “What if I wasn’t here?”
The thought had crossed my mind. “I’d have found a hotel.”
There’s a stiffness between us. It could be because we haven’t seen each other for over a year, yet it feels like more than that.
“Come on in,” she says.
I remove my shoes before I enter. Mikki hasn’t lived in Japan since she was six, but she’s acquired many of its customs from her parents. Dumping my bags, I glance around. Wooden floorboards, junk store furniture. Is her fiancé in? I hope not.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Um. I don’t know.”
She laughs.
“My body clock’s all messed up. What time is it?”
She checks her watch. “Nearly seven.”
“Seriously?” I strain to think. “It’s eight a.m. in England.”
“I’m making nikujaga. A monster batch.”
I follow her into the kitchen, where a rich and meaty smell hangs in the air, and realize I am hungry. My skin is slick with sweat. The windows are open, the back door too, but the draft coming through the flyscreen is as warm as the air in the room, and the ceiling fan only circulates the heat.
Mikki fans her face as she stirs the pan on the stove. Now that she’s got over her shock, she seems happy to see me, but you never can tell with Mikki. She comes from a culture of politeness before all else. I, on the other hand, have one of those faces that shows every emotion so I keep my gaze firmly on the surroundings.
Dishes are piled high in the sink; ants crawl over the worksurface. Strange. Mikki’s a neat-freak—used to be, anyway—and the place I shared with her in Cornwall was always spotless. She sees me looking and squashes ants with her finger.
My head throbs with a mixture of dehydration, tiredness, and jetlag. “Can I have some water?”
She fills a glass from the water dispenser on the fridge. I slosh ice water over my fingers and T-shirt in my hurry to get it to my mouth, but it feels so good I’m tempted to pour the whole lot over me.
Mikki mops her brow. She looks leaner and stronger than I’ve ever seen her, even when she was competing. Below her denim cut-offs, her feet are bare, nails glossy with black polish.
“You look amazing,” I say.
“Thanks. So do you.”
“Don’t lie. Especially after that flight. No wonder you don’t want to come back to the UK. Who’d want to experience that flight again?” I’m trying my hardest to shift the tension, but it’s still there.
“Your hair.” She reaches out to touch it. “It’s so—”
“Boring?” Since we met in the last year of primary school, my hair has been every color of the rainbow except its natural mousy brown.
She laughs. “I was going to say normal.”
I laugh too, even though “normal” is probably not a compliment in her book—or mine.
Mikki spoons casserole onto plates. As she sets them on the breakfast bar, I spot the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. “What is that?” I say.
She glances at it like it’s no big deal.
We talked about tattoos before I got mine—a bird in flight that she designed for me, on my shoulder blade—and I told her she should get one.
“No way,” she’d told me. “My parents would kill me. A lot of Japanese people think tattoos are dirty. You can’t go in a gym or public swimming pool if you have them.”
“Still?”
“Yeah. Or you have to cover them. Many companies won’t employ you if you have tattoos. It’s not good for their image.”
So I couldn’t be more shocked to see the ink on her wrist. “Let me see,” I say now.
Mikki tilts her arm to show me. It’s a butterfly in shades of black and brown with a stripy fat body and horned antennae. I should say something—tell her I like it. But I don’t. It’s horrible.
We pull up stools. There are so many things I want to ask her. Not yet, though. I don’t want to kill the mood altogether.
It’s weird to eat nikujaga in this poky overheated kitchen. We ate it so many times in our drafty, cold kitchen in Cornwall, shivering after a surf.
“How’s the big smoke?” she asks.
I turned thirty recently, and my birthday passed almost unnoticed. My new colleagues didn’t know it was my birthday and I didn’t tell them. Mum sent a card and a handful of friends texted or phoned, but that was it. “I’m loving it. I’ve met a nice bunch of people there already.”
“And how’s work?”
“Yeah, good. Busy. My clients smash themselves up on a regular basis.”
She looks disbelieving. “In London?”
“Yeah. Rugby, yoga classes, stuff like that.” This at least is true. I tell her about some of the injuries I’ve treated recently, but she seems like she’s only half-listening. “What about you? Are you still working at that nightclub?”
“No, I quit ages ago.”
Mikki must have inherited a small fortune when her granddad died because she’s mentioned she wants to buy a place here.
“So what are you doing?” I ask.
“Oh, this and that.” She swipes a flyer off the table (McMorris surfboards: handcrafted boards for those who know the difference) and fans herself with it. “Fuck, it’s hot.”
“Since when did you learn to swear?”
She smiles. “Blame the Aussies.”
I smile too, teeth clamped together so hard it hurts my jaw.
All the things I want to say are rising up my throat, threatening to burst out.
3. KENNA
Is he abusive, Mikki? Does he hurt you?
I hope I’m wrong, but there were so many red flags in our calls. How do I bring it up? Do I just come out and say it? She might get all defensive and deny it, so I wait for an opening as we chat about mutual friends, our parents, and the Brazilian Maya Gabeira surfing the biggest wave ever ridden by a woman.
There’s a jingle of keys and a guy walks in, tall, blond, and athletic-looking.
Mikki seems flustered. “Um, this is Jack. Jack, this is Kenna.”
I’m on my guard immediately. So this is him. I glimpsed him during some of our FaceTime calls and heard his voice in the background but never properly saw his face.
He grips my hand with a confident smile. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
The intense way he’s looking at me makes me flush. I take in his strong frame, sizing him up. Nobody threatens my best friend and gets away with it. Calm down, Kenna. You don’t know that.But I sure as hell intend to find out.
He shoots an amused look at Mikki. “Did you know she was coming?”
Mikki’s smile seems forced. “No.”
He turns back to me. “First time in Australia?”
“Yeah.” I absolutely do not want to fancy this guy, but he’s ridiculously good-looking. From his tan and the way his hair is bleached almost white in places, it’s obvious he spends a lot of time outdoors. Clean-shaven with a strong jaw and a cleft in his chin, broad shoulders packing out a Quiksilver T-shirt, he could have stepped off the set of Home and Away.
“Never been to England,” he says. “Too cold and all that. One of me mates went out there for a year and froze his nuts off. Imagine surfing in gloves and a balaclava. And that’s in summer, hey?”
“How was work?” Mikki asks.
“It was all right.” Jack dishes himself a plate of casserole. He didn’t kiss her, or even hug her—although who am I to judge how long-term couples should greet each other?
“You finished early.” There’s an accusing note in Mikki’s voice and I add this to my tally of black marks.
“Yep.” Jack peels off his T-shirt and slings it into a corner, then takes a beer from the fridge. “Want one, Kenna?”
I battle to keep my eyes on his face, not his chest. “Better not or I’ll fall asleep.” And I need to keep my focus.
Jack sits beside me and takes a long drink. I’m torn between hating him and fancying him. I can’t deny that they look great together. He: blond and athletic. She: dark and a full head shorter. And they have a major interest—surfing—in common. But in our calls Mikki hardly mentioned him. If she was truly into him, she wouldn’t be able to stop talking about him, surely?
From the way she moved in with him right after she met him, and their rapid engagement, you’d think they were head-over-heels, but watching them now, I don’t see it. She seems mildly irritated by him; he seems good-naturedly tolerant of her. Mikki’s always been reserved when it comes to showing emotions, plus they’ve been together nearly a year, so the fire might have died down to a slow and steady flame. But her evasiveness about him suggests something is off.
The little I know about him I’ve had to drag out of her. He isn’t working much—he has back problems—so she’s “helping him out” with the rent, and she’s abandoned her plans to travel around Australia, because Jack’s shown her “the best beach.” He sounds way too controlling for my liking.
Her wedding announcement had slipped out when we spoke last week, as though she hadn’t intended to tell me. It was the final straw.
“I’ll fly out,” I said immediately.
“No, no. We don’t want a fuss. It’s not a big deal.” Her tone was one of weary resignation—sadness almost.
“Are you pregnant?”
I heard her splutter. “No!”
So why, then? But she didn’t explain. I was worried enough that I booked a flight as soon as the call ended. It meant taking a month off work, which wasn’t ideal, but I work for myself so I can take holiday whenever I want, and besides, I’ve done nothing except work for the past eighteen months. I’ve been a rubbish friend, too caught up in my own misery for too long. Mikki was there for me two years ago when I needed her, so I owe it to her to help her now.
Before I left, I phoned her parents to say I was going to visit and sound them out. I didn’t mention the wedding and neither did they, which suggested they didn’t know about it: another red flag.
I’m worried Jack’s pushing her into marriage because he’s after her money. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s been taken advantage of. Mikki gets taken in by every sob story going. You know the sort: people who ask for money in the street because they lost their wallet and they need two-pound fifty for a bus home, then you see them the next day doing the exact same thing. Mikki gives them two-pound fifty, every damn time. She’s the most kindhearted person I know, but she never seems fully equipped for the adult world.
Does Jack know her family owns a chain of successful surf stores? Even if she hasn’t told him, he could have googled her.
He clasps a large hand over Mikki’s lower arm. “Paperwork all done?”
I stiffen immediately.
“Yep,” Mikki says.
There’s no sign of fear in her body language but it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
“Two weeks today, hey?” Jack says.
Oh shit. They must be talking about the wedding. I had no idea it was that soon. So I have fourteen days to convince her to change her mind. I check her finger for an engagement ring, but her hand is bare. Which shouldn’t surprise me, I guess, if Jack is skint. I don’t imagine the lack of a ring bothers Mikki. She may be well-off, but she’s the most unmaterialistic person you could imagine.
I watch Jack eat. Her fiancé. I still can’t get my head around it. In all the time I’ve known her, Mikki never had a serious boyfriend. She dated a guy briefly in high school and a few more since, but they never lasted long. For a while I wondered if she preferred women, but she didn’t seem into them either. Perhaps surfing is enough for her, her one true passion.
Jack is nothing like the guys she’s dated in the past—creative types mostly, bearded, with long hair and hippyish clothes. Jack’s more . . . wholesome and athletic. Hotter. Not a helpful thought, Kenna.
His tattoos are the other weird thing. He’s covered with them. Ornate sea creatures and mystical beasts, a snake curled round his wrist like a bracelet. Is that why she hasn’t told her parents about the marriage—because they wouldn’t approve?
Jack’s staring at me again and it’s creeping me out. I need to get Mikki alone and find out more about him. He collects the empty plates. At least he’s house-trained. While he washes the dishes, I open my backpack and pull gifts out: bags of English chocolate—Minstrels and Revels—because Mikki mentioned missing them; books; a cute pair of Havaianas with a Japanese Manga girl on them.
Mikki slips her toes into them. “Oh, I love them!”
“And . . .” Feeling shy, I pull out makeup—all the brands she used to love when we lived together. “I didn’t know if you can get them out here. Or if you still wear it.”
She pops the top off the lippy and goes to the mirror in the living area to slick some on. “You can, but thank you.”
Pink lips gleaming, Mikki gives me another hug and sits back down. There’s still a weird tension between us, but at least she looks more like herself.
“How’s Tim?” she asks.
I’m impressed she even remembered his name. “We only went out a few times. I broke up with him ages ago. Didn’t I tell you?”
“Good. He sounded super boring.”
I laugh. She knows me so well. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”
She laughs too. “I wanted to.”
For a moment it’s like old times. Me and her, best friends forever. I don’t have a sister—only an older brother I’m not that close to—but Mikki’s the next best thing.
“Was he too nice?” she asks.
“Not exactly.” I puzzle over her choice of question. Does it reveal something about her and Jack? “Just . . . My heart wasn’t in it.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone?” Mikki asks.
Jack glances over his shoulder at me and I feel self-conscious. “No.”
Drying his hands on a tea towel, he comes over. “Lucky you arrived when you did, Kenna, because we’re off up the coast tomorrow.”
I look at Mikki for confirmation. Her sheepish expression cuts me deep. I flew all the way out here to see her for a few hours?
“You got plans?” Jack asks.
“Um.” Hang out with my best friend. Find out about this dodgy Aussie guy she intends to marry. Talk sense into her and bring her home. “Not really.”
“You should come along,” Jack says.
Mikki’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t notice. She’s giving off all kinds of weird vibes. Until she catches me looking at her and rearranges her expression. “Yeah, you should totally come.”
“I wouldn’t want to get in the way if it’s just the two of you,” I say.
“Nah, there’s six of us,” Jack says.
I tense. Mikki hasn’t mentioned much about the group she surfs with, but I don’t like what I’ve heard. I play for time. “Where are you going?”
“Just a beach.” Jack grins, but it’s a joke I’m not in on.
I turn to Mikki. “Is it the surf beach you mentioned? The one with hardly anyone there?”
“Yeah.” Something passes between Mikki and Jack. She’s flushing.
“How long are you planning to stay?” I ask.
“As long as possible,” Jack says. “Right, Mikki?”
I wait for one of them to mention the wedding, but they don’t. “And you’re camping?”
“Yep,” Jack says. “You surf, right?”
“I used to but not anymore.”
“How come?”
I don’t want to get into this. ...
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