In lieu of having friends of my own to hang out with, I was invited to ‘Chick Flick Night’ with Mum, Maxine, Venn and Jessie – the girl who’d slept in my bed. I already knew she was blonde from the evidence she’d left behind, but when she walked through the front door I was stunned by the luminescence of her eyes, bluer than Plax^® mouthwash. She was super fit and tanned – the Northern Beaches ideal of female beauty. I couldn’t wipe the goofy grin off my face, so Venn did it for me.

‘Lincoln, this is my friend Jessie,’ she said. ‘She’s not a boy and she doesn’t suffer from alopecia. Jessie, meet my little brother Lincoln. He has a unique hobby of collecting hair.’

Jessie laughed. ‘Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed.’

‘Anytime.’ It was meant to sound hospitable but came out lech.

The night was balmy so we sat out on the deck. The women drank chilled rosé and I drank tap water, listening to Mum’s more embellished, juicier account of the launch incident wherein Lucy Seymour, society blogger, had got bollocked on champagne and was refused service for groping a waiter. Mum gave Maxine the Neroni handbag and said, ‘You can thank Lucy Lushington for that one.’

A gentle onshore breeze stirred, tickling the yachts’ rigging and carrying the heady scent of Valmay Harris’s monstera deliciosa up to our gathering. A ribbon of burning copper light broke through the western clouds, turning strands of Jessie’s hair into glowing filaments. For a brief moment, life was perfect. Then Roger Harris shattered the serenity by revving his outboard motor in Dougal’s washtub. Dougal went totally apeshit, barking and trying to catch the spray in his mouth. I visualised him getting too close and having his snout butchered by the spinning blades, and had to shake my head to get the resulting carnage out of my mind.

We moved inside to eat. After dinner I was keen on extending my time in Jessie’s presence, so I let the girls think they’d persuaded me into watching The Devil Wears Prada. Mum clucked with recognition at various scenes, saying things like, ‘Hello – that is so Morgan!’, but failed to identify Miranda Priestly’s megalomaniacal tendencies in herself.

Halfway through the movie, I left to refill my glass. A minute later, Jessie followed.

‘I’m not really into the girly stuff,’ she said.

‘Neither.’ I poured her a glass. ‘Venn told me you surf. What’s your favourite break?’

‘Definitely P-Pass at Pohnpei in Micronesia, north of New Guinea.’ She told me about her recent trip – the perfect barrels wrapping around the reef, her expedition to the island’s ancient ruins and snorkelling at Ant Atoll.

‘That’s my ultimate dream.’

Jessie crinkled her perfectly freckled nose. ‘You should come next time.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘That would be hectic!’

‘Nate’s already planning our next trip.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My boyfriend Nate is planning our next trip to the islands.’

‘Oh, cool.’ But absolutely not, because of course you have a boyfriend and you’re three years older than me and what was I even thinking? And I have this strange growth that you’d probably be repelled by, which recently expanded by three millimetres and is currently tingling to remind me that it’s still there.

‘Yeah, we actually met searching for coconut crabs, then we got talking and discovered we live only one kilometre apart and know lots of the same people.’

‘Six degrees and all that? I’d better get stuck into my homework.’

‘Aren’t you going to watch Beaches with us?’

‘You know it’s not a surf film, right?’

I went up to my room. Instead of reading My One Redeeming Affliction, because my own affliction was doing my head in, I continued with Dorian Gray. And though his unfailing beauty and eternal youth opened a world of untold thrills for him, I realised I didn’t need Jessie to take me surfing at Pohnpei. I didn’t even need Tom and Coops. Because one day I would escape from everything and go there on my own.

 

On Sunday morning I asked Mum if I could get a new surfboard, citing the difficulty of transporting my oldie from the city just for weekends. She immediately nixed the request and told me I should be more focused on homework than the beach.

‘First you drove away my friends,’ I said. ‘And now you’re treating me like a prisoner in my own home.’

‘Nonsense. I’m simply setting a few boundaries. Remember the time you jumped off the Warriewood Blowhole with Tom and Cooper, and the boy who followed you had to be airlifted out because he had spinal damage?’

‘Is that what all of this is about? That guy was a stupid tourist who’d never jumped before.’

‘I’m afraid that if you keep going along with the reckless choices they’re making, you’ll be the next one to end up in serious trouble. Your friends up here treat every day like it’s a beach holiday. They were exerting too much influence on you.’

‘So you sent me to Kings Cross, with its bars and strip clubs and brothels and junkies and dealers. Though Frank the concierge reckons the supervised injecting rooms have made it a much safer place now.’

‘Stop it, please,’ Mum said.

‘The other week yet another guy was punched in the head by a random, and he’s still in hospital. I really love living there.’

‘I’m sorry that you feel stuck between a rock and a hard place.’

‘The hard thing about this place is that I’ve got no friends here and I’m not allowed to surf. It’s barely worth making the two-hour journey to come over anymore.’

I saw a twitch in Mum’s face. ‘I think you’re being a bit melodramatic.’

‘I’m saying exactly what I think.’

‘Then I suggest you have a think about whether you want to keep coming over or not.’

‘There’s no need for that. I’ve already decided not to.’

‘The arrangement that your father and I have established isn’t negotiable.’

‘You should’ve considered that before offering me a choice.’

‘Lincoln, I don’t think you have any real understanding how difficult these past few months have been for me.’ She tucked some hair behind her ear, revealing white roots.

‘Or you me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To pack my stuff. I’m going back to the city.’

I went to my room and began stuffing clothes into my backpack. Mum stood in the doorway, looking almost desperate. Even in that moment I knew that I was taking all my frustration out on her because I couldn’t confront Dad. But now that I’d decided to act like a dick I was committed to the performance.

‘Leave those here,’ she said. ‘I’ll wash them for you.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve been managing on my own.’

I said goodbye and headed for the bus stop, expecting Mum to jump in the Volvo and drive alongside me until I surrendered – but she didn’t.

Riding home on the L90, I realised the Locke family had reached our lowest trough. We’d never been so divided. I tried to think of my happiest family memory and the clear winner was the first time we’d all walked from Mackerel to West Head. Venn, who was ten, spotted a magnificent red gum with twisting boughs reaching up to the sky. She told us it was the ‘Mother Tree’ and had us all take off our shoes, hold hands around her and recite an ad-libbed oath to respect and protect Mother Nature. Further on, at the Aboriginal rock carvings, she was mesmerised by the human and animal figures, and insisted we read all of the information panels before proceeding.

Remembering the knack Venn used to have for bringing the family together, I decided it was time to clear the air with Dad.

 

By the time I arrived back at T H E  E Y R I E, I’d formulated my opening sentence: I think we need to have a conversation about Maëlle. But I walked into the kitchen and found Steve packing an esky with beers. ‘How’s it hanging, champ?’ He winked.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Showing Sophie and Mandy the view. We’re taking Foxy Lady out. Why don’t you come with?’

‘Nah, but thanks.’

‘Perfect afternoon for it. We’ll find a beach, drop anchor, catch some rays.’

‘I’ve got a reading assignment. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Refusing to grow up.’ Now that my plan to speak to Dad had been thwarted, I detoured through the living room to avoid him, but one of the topnotch birds caught me as she came in from the balcony.

‘Ooh! You gave me a fright.’ She had pigtails, was wearing a singlet and cut-offs and smelt of coconut lotion.

‘What are you doing home already?’ Dad said from behind her.

‘I live here sometimes.’

He introduced the women then I excused myself to finish the book.

‘Dorian Gray,’ Steve said, and winked again.

Dad returned late that evening sunburnt and testy, demanding to know why I’d left Signal Bay earlier than usual. I told him about the argument with Mum and my decision to remain in the city on weekends. His response was all about respecting her wishes, making it clear he didn’t want me impinging on the new-found freedom he’d been enjoying, but I stood my ground. Despite having told me earlier that he had no interest in Mandy, you’d still think my father would have had a smidge of remorse after the Maëlle incident, and enough discretion to avoid socialising with women in their twenties. I could’ve used his merry jaunt on the high seas with the topnotch birds as a way into that conversation, but I was far too angry. I didn’t want to be the one telling him to start behaving himself. He was too old to be acting like freaking Dorian Gray.