Saturday 27 August

Ben calls early on Saturday morning.

He tells me to call him back from the treehouse, which means he has something private to discuss and he doesn’t want there to be even a chance that someone will overhear my end of the conversation.

I wrap a blanket around my pyjamas, and walk quietly past Clem, careful not to wake her. She looks like she’s smiling in her sleep, but I could be imagining it. Out the back door, down the front path, I veer left onto the grass, my bare feet dodging sticks and pebbles, I climb the old wooden ladder into the gum tree.

Magpies scatter as I settle in on the wooden platform. Dad built it big enough for Ben and me and a third person, which was Mum or Dad in the old days. Ben and I still come up here to look down at the world, hidden by leaves. There’s a view across the paddocks. I let myself enjoy the quiet, enjoy my breath, smoky white as it hits the air, and when I’ve soaked it all in, I call.

‘Okay, I’m in position,’ I tell him, leaning my back against the trunk.

‘Tell me about Clem,’ Ben says immediately.

This isn’t unexpected, but now that Ben says it aloud, it occurs to me how complicated this is and how it could end for him. ‘Tricky, ethically,’ I say, buying myself some time to figure out the right thing to say. I’m not sure about what I owe Ben and what I owe Clem in this situation.

‘No, not tricky, ethically,’ he says. ‘I was your friend prior to your friendship with Clem. The ethics are clear. Your allegiance is to me. In any case, I don’t want to know anything personal about her. I just want to know if you think it’s ridiculous that I’m thinking about thinking about her like that.’

‘Aren’t you already thinking about her like that?’

‘Kate,’ he says.

‘She was with someone,’ I say. ‘She’s not with him anymore, but it’s still a recent thing. A very recent thing. So you need to be careful.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re not going to be careful, are you?’

‘She’s worth the chance.’

‘You don’t take chances.’

‘That’s how much she’s worth it.’

‘Clem is great,’ I tell him. ‘Just know you might get hurt.’

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘And what of the world of Kate?’

I lean back against the trunk of the tree, feeling the reassuring weight and the oldness of it. I fill him in on the last developments that he’s missed. ‘I’m a disappointment to my parents, to Oliver, to all rebellious teenagers everywhere.’

‘You’re not a disappointment to me,’ he says.

‘Am I doing the right thing?’

‘Courage is how bad you want it,’ he says.

‘Muhammad Ali?’

‘Joe Frazier. Boxer. Known for his relentless attack. How bad do you want it?’ he asks.

That’s the question. The problem is the answer keeps changing.